I'm An Individual - Yeah, Right!
The Age
Thursday January 30, 2003
Motorbike riders, just like their tin-top brethren, are easily categorised, writes David Morley.
Last year, Drive took a sideways glance at this country's socioeconomic groups and the cars they own.
OK, so it was a series of generalisations aimed more at extracting a giggle than forming the basis for a PhD, but we've rarely received so many letters on a subject.
So this time we thought we'd tackle Australia's motorcycle riders and see once and for all if there's a theme when it comes to riders choosing a bike.
The result is every bit as tongue in cheek as our effort on drivers. So, according to research we just made up, here goes:
The Brit-bike enthusiast
For the Brit-bike rider, motorcycling's clock stopped ticking about the late 1960s. In fact, they'll tell you that time stopped on the very day Honda launched the CB750 Four, the bike that rewrote the book on two-wheeled reliability and performance.
For true Brit enthusiasts, only a bike bearing a Brit badge will do, and while they'll admit some merit in bikes with a big single-cylinder engine, the parallel twin still rules.
Two of Britain's most revered brands, Triumph and Norton, both produced big road bikes with parallel twin engines, where both cylinders are lined up like half a four-cylinder and both pistons rise and fall together.
Subsequently, a parallel twin vibrates like a jackhammer on heat and while Norton eventually resorted to mounting the engine in a rubber hammock, Triumph was content to let its product loosen the fillings of several generations of owners.
The Brit-bike owner can be spotted by one leg of his jeans and one boot being completely covered in oil, because as well as vibrating, Pommy twins also had an aversion to keeping their lubricant to themselves.
The rider's home is likely to be a shrine to the model of choice and the workshop (without one, the rider must walk) will be full of weird tools and spanners that fit nothing else besides a British bike.
Babyblades
A few generations down the track are the kids on L-plates and P-plates riding a bike known colloquially as a Babyblade.
Its real name is a Honda CBR250RR, and it's essentially a scaled-down Honda Fireblade (hence the nickname) right down to the highly tuned 250cc engine and race-track handling.
The beautiful thing about a Babyblade is that you can ride them flat out through the gears and not break the speed limit.
Combine that with a shrieking, 19,000rpm redline and getting to the posted limit involves lots of revs and lots of noise. Most Babyblade owners fit an aftermarket exhaust that makes the bike even noisier, if not actually faster.
A Babyblade is odds-on to have at least one piece of bodywork either held on, or constructed from, race-tape. And when they are crashed, they stay so because insurance premiums for learner-riders are frightening.
A Babyblade is actually a pretty good learner bike since it is light, develops its power gently and offers superb handling and brakes. If only it didn't make the little blighters think they were Mick Doohan
The courier
You'll have to be quick to see them, but the bike courier is also a readily definable quantity.
Since they generally get paid by the job, they move fast, park anywhere and often leave the engine running while they dash in and deliver the parcel.
So how come their bikes don't get stolen? Nobody would want an ex-courier bike, that's why. They're usually some form of Japanese sports bike, but exactly what make or model is hard to tell because the whole bike will be encrusted in layers of road filth, chain lubricant, brake-pad dust, mud and blood. A courier bike wouldn't recognise a sponge if it saw one (which it wouldn't anyway).
What's left of the bodywork will be scraped and tatty because most courier bikes older than a week or so will have had more hits than the Sopranos, and the tell-tale big, waterproof box on the rear seat will be covered in grease and radio-station stickers.
Roger and Betty
For many, the allure of a motorcycle is that it's a great way to spend some time inside your own head. With only your thoughts for company, riding a long distance is a great salve for the soul. For some, anyway.
For others, biking is a husband-and-wife activity and those long trips just wouldn't be the same without the better half riding pillion.
You'll spot the mum and dad teams by their big touring bike complete with matched luggage in the form of panniers and a topbox.
But the true Roger-and-Betty team will also have matching leathers or touring suits, matching helmets and, in extreme cases, the helmets will be signwritten with the wearer's first name (to avoid confusion when suiting up each morning, probably).
And just in case the hour or two between fuel stops is too much solitude, Roger and Betty will often have their helmets wired with an intercom so they can share the journey just that little bit more.
Presumably, the topic of conversation rarely strays into "are we there yet?" territory.
The lowliner
The history of motorcycling has its roots in the concept of cheap transport. And while biking has evolved into a pastime for many riders, for some, the original idea still justifies the activity.
You'll spot the lowliner pretty easily; he'll be the one with the tattered, faded all-weather jacket and grungy jeans tucked into his old fashioned bike boots that are now equal parts leather and race-tape. His helmet will be one of those old fashioned, bucket-with-a-slit kinds and his gloves are probably cheap rigging gloves rather than proper bike gloves.
Essentially, the lowliner just hates spending money generally, and on his bike or riding kit particularly, so both eventually end up looking like something the cat dragged in.
The bike is likely to be an ancient Japanese multi-cylinder thing because they tend to go for years with minimal maintenance (oil costs money, y'know) and is a fair bet to be covered in grime, have brake discs thinner than a CD and a chain dragging on the ground.
None of this will be of any consequence to the lowliner who will happily tell you he hasn't had to spend a cent on his machine for years. And boy, doesn't it show?
© 2003 The Age