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#21
Introduce Yourself Here / Re: Saying hi
Last post by ZigZag - Feb 18, 2026, 10:19 AMG'day windii, there is a list of upcoming rides in the All Events Calendar thread if you want to join us some time. We usually get a group of 6 to 8 at a meet up.
As Biggles says, there is a Far Treasure in Victoria somewhere if you're keen to go looking.
Look forward to meeting you at a meet up.
As Biggles says, there is a Far Treasure in Victoria somewhere if you're keen to go looking.
Look forward to meeting you at a meet up.
#22
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 18, 2026, 01:05 AMAs we headed further up the coast the next morning, I found myself riding behind Jabba. It was both oily and hilarious. Sitting just behind him coming into Taree, I noticed that every few kays his bike's exhaust note would change. Apparently, one of its leads kept falling off. Not wishing to annoy us any further by stopping to fix it, Jabba would simply reach down and plug it back in. This would send massive spasms of pain shooting through his already road-battered body, as 35,000 volts coursed through him, causing him to swerve wildly across the road as he fought to regain control of the Triumph and his twitching limbs. I was laughing, but I also wondered just how much more of this abuse he could take.
We stopped in Taree tor breakfast, which gave Jabba a chance to forage through some nearby rubbish bins for more cardboard. He also asked each of us in turn if we had any spare foam handlebar grips. When I giggled at him, he held up two very dirty and badly swollen hands. The bike's inherent vibration, amplified by the fact the motor was missing two head steadies, was causing the solidly mounted handlebars to buzz with crippling intensity. The swelling of his hands got worse the further up the coast we got. By Port Macquarie, Jabba was no longer gripping the handlebars. He was operating the throttle by pushing the heel of his right hand against it and moaning. His left hand would only go to the bars when he was forced to reach down and reconnect the plug lead with his right.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p143-4
We stopped in Taree tor breakfast, which gave Jabba a chance to forage through some nearby rubbish bins for more cardboard. He also asked each of us in turn if we had any spare foam handlebar grips. When I giggled at him, he held up two very dirty and badly swollen hands. The bike's inherent vibration, amplified by the fact the motor was missing two head steadies, was causing the solidly mounted handlebars to buzz with crippling intensity. The swelling of his hands got worse the further up the coast we got. By Port Macquarie, Jabba was no longer gripping the handlebars. He was operating the throttle by pushing the heel of his right hand against it and moaning. His left hand would only go to the bars when he was forced to reach down and reconnect the plug lead with his right.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p143-4
#23
General Discussion / Re: From Beyond the Library
Last post by Taffey - Feb 17, 2026, 10:48 PMCHAPTER SEVEN
The Old Paths, the Healers' Fire, and the Moment Constance Refuses to Step Back
Morning came thin and pale, the Andes holding their breath beneath a sky the colour of brushed steel. Constance woke early, Noraly's Dutch book resting on her bedside table like a secret she hadn't yet learned how to read.
Down in the courtyard, Tom Briggs was already preparing the mules.
"You really mean to come?" he asked when she approached.
"Yes," she said simply.
Sir Archibald emerged moments later, hat askew and enthusiasm fully restored.
"Excellent! Expeditionary morale restored! We shall recover the map, observe frogs, and possibly apologise to indigenous mystics if necessary."
Tom handed Constance a small leather satchel.
"Water. And something sweet in case the altitude bites."
She accepted it with a small smile. The familiarity of the gesture warmed her more than the rising sun.
They left the hacienda and climbed toward the narrow trails Tom had mentioned — old healer routes that curved through valleys like whispered secrets. The land felt different here: quieter, older, as though each stone remembered footsteps from centuries before.
By midday they reached a ridge overlooking a small basin where a thin column of smoke rose from a hidden camp.
Tom stopped.
"The Kallawaya," he said softly.
Sir Archibald swallowed. "Right. Yes. Well. Cultural exchange, then."
They approached slowly.
A small group of figures sat around a low fire — robes woven in deep earth colours, faces calm and unreadable. One elder rose, eyes settling first on Tom, then on Constance.
Not on Archibald.
That told her everything.
Tom spoke quietly in Spanish, his voice respectful. The elder listened, then nodded toward Constance.
She stepped forward.
The elder gestured to the Dutch book under her arm.
"You travel with many paths," he said.
Constance blinked. "I suppose I do."
He held out a folded piece of parchment.
The missing map.
Sir Archibald gasped audibly.
The elder spoke again. "It was taken without asking. But the mountain returned it."
Constance took the map gently.
"Thank you," she said. "It belongs with you."
The elder smiled faintly.
"You are not like the others," he said.
Behind her, Archibald looked mildly offended.
A silence settled — deep, calm, almost sacred. The fire crackled softly.
Tom watched her carefully.
She realised, with sudden clarity, that she was standing at a crossroads — not of geography, but of identity. She could hand the map back to Archibald and resume her old role.
Or she could choose differently.
She folded the parchment and held it out — not to her husband, but to the elder.
"It should never have been taken," she said. "Please keep it safe."
Sir Archibald sputtered. "Constance! Scientific progress—"
"Doesn't require theft," she replied gently, although her expression to him said more.
The elder nodded once — approval without ceremony.
Something inside her settled.
She had refused to step back.
And the mountains seemed to approve.
And for once, Archibald remained silent.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Night Ride, the Lantern Festival, and the Song That Changes Everything
Returning to Hacienda Buenaventura at dusk, the sky burning copper behind the ridgeline, Constance felt the change settle within her — not in the air, not in the mountains, but in herself after the healers' fire.
She walked beside Tom in quiet confidence, the Dutch book tucked beneath her arm. Sir Archibald followed a few steps behind, subdued in a way that was appropriate. He said nothing about the map.
That alone felt monumental.
The courtyard came into view glowing with lantern light. Ribbons swayed from the beams. Someone had lit braziers along the walls, and villagers moved easily between tables, carrying bowls of food and instruments polished to a soft shine.
Heinrich stood near the well attempting to demonstrate yodelling techniques to a deeply confused audience.
Tom exhaled. "Looks like we're expected."
Constance paused at the gate. For the first time since arriving in the Andes, she didn't feel like a visitor. She felt... placed.
Sir Archibald stepped beside her.
"Constance," he said, not loudly, not theatrically — simply her name.
She turned.
"I may," he began, then stopped, searching for language that did not come easily to him. His hat shifted slightly in his hands. "Well. You handled the situation... correctly."
It was not an apology. Not yet.
But it was an acknowledgement.
She inclined her head. "Thank you."
Nothing more needed to be said.
Music began — soft flutes, a steady drumbeat that echoed gently through the courtyard. The Altar Llama stood beneath a lantern wearing fresh ribbons, watching the proceedings with the solemn gravity of a minor deity who had accepted an administrative role.
Heinrich attempted a dance step that nearly collided with a table.
Tom moved to Constance's side, but there was a subtle difference now. He did not reach for her immediately. He waited — allowing her to choose the moment.
"You look lighter," he said quietly.
"I feel... aligned," she replied.
"With yourself?"
"With everything," she said, surprising even herself with the truth of it.
The frogs had begun their strange harmonies in the paddocks beyond the walls — no longer eerie, simply part of the night's rhythm.
Sir Archibald watched from a distance, glass in hand. There was curiosity in his gaze now rather than ownership, and it softened something in her she had not realised was still tense.
Tom extended a hand. "Dance?"
She looked at it, then at him.
"Yes."
They moved slowly at first, the rhythm unfamiliar but forgiving. Lantern light warmed Tom's features, softening the edges of the man she had first met repairing fences in the sun.
"You changed the story today," he said.
"I changed my place in it," she replied.
He nodded, accepting that distinction.
Across the courtyard, Archibald spoke quietly with the housekeeper, listening more than instructing — an unfamiliar posture that caught Constance's attention. She realised she was no longer bracing herself for his disapproval.
That, too, felt new.
The music deepened. The lanterns swayed overhead. Tom's hand rested lightly at her waist — present, careful, unassuming.
For a moment, everything narrowed: breath, movement, shared silence.
Then came the sound.
An engine.
Rougher than Noraly's smooth arrival. Louder than Charlie and Ewan's electric hum. A rebellious roar that rolled across the valley before bursting through the courtyard gate.
A motorcycle skidded to a halt, dust spiralling around it like a theatrical curtain. A young woman swung off the bike, helmet under one arm, laughter in her eyes.
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything important!" she called.
Heinrich applauded enthusiastically. "Ah! Another traveller from the mysterious tomorrow!"
Sir Archibald stared skyward. "I must speak to someone about the scheduling of these temporal intrusions."
The rider caught Constance's eye — a brief, knowing look between women who recognised movement as a form of freedom. She gave a small nod, then kicked the bike into life again and rode back into the dark as abruptly as she had arrived.
The villagers barely reacted.
Tom shook his head, smiling faintly. "The mountains like surprises."
"They do," Constance said.
The music softened into a slower tune. Lantern light shimmered against the walls. Somewhere nearby, the Altar Llama snorted in approval.
Across the courtyard, Sir Archibald raised his glass slightly toward her — not possessive, not wounded. Simply acknowledging.
She returned the gesture.
Tom noticed but said nothing.
The song came to an end. Applause drifted through the courtyard. Constance felt the quiet certainty of a woman standing at the centre of her own life rather than orbiting someone else's.
Above them, the Andes stretched vast and silent, holding the promise of paths not yet taken.
And for the first time, she did not wonder whether she belonged among them.
She knew she did.
The Old Paths, the Healers' Fire, and the Moment Constance Refuses to Step Back
Morning came thin and pale, the Andes holding their breath beneath a sky the colour of brushed steel. Constance woke early, Noraly's Dutch book resting on her bedside table like a secret she hadn't yet learned how to read.
Down in the courtyard, Tom Briggs was already preparing the mules.
"You really mean to come?" he asked when she approached.
"Yes," she said simply.
Sir Archibald emerged moments later, hat askew and enthusiasm fully restored.
"Excellent! Expeditionary morale restored! We shall recover the map, observe frogs, and possibly apologise to indigenous mystics if necessary."
Tom handed Constance a small leather satchel.
"Water. And something sweet in case the altitude bites."
She accepted it with a small smile. The familiarity of the gesture warmed her more than the rising sun.
They left the hacienda and climbed toward the narrow trails Tom had mentioned — old healer routes that curved through valleys like whispered secrets. The land felt different here: quieter, older, as though each stone remembered footsteps from centuries before.
By midday they reached a ridge overlooking a small basin where a thin column of smoke rose from a hidden camp.
Tom stopped.
"The Kallawaya," he said softly.
Sir Archibald swallowed. "Right. Yes. Well. Cultural exchange, then."
They approached slowly.
A small group of figures sat around a low fire — robes woven in deep earth colours, faces calm and unreadable. One elder rose, eyes settling first on Tom, then on Constance.
Not on Archibald.
That told her everything.
Tom spoke quietly in Spanish, his voice respectful. The elder listened, then nodded toward Constance.
She stepped forward.
The elder gestured to the Dutch book under her arm.
"You travel with many paths," he said.
Constance blinked. "I suppose I do."
He held out a folded piece of parchment.
The missing map.
Sir Archibald gasped audibly.
The elder spoke again. "It was taken without asking. But the mountain returned it."
Constance took the map gently.
"Thank you," she said. "It belongs with you."
The elder smiled faintly.
"You are not like the others," he said.
Behind her, Archibald looked mildly offended.
A silence settled — deep, calm, almost sacred. The fire crackled softly.
Tom watched her carefully.
She realised, with sudden clarity, that she was standing at a crossroads — not of geography, but of identity. She could hand the map back to Archibald and resume her old role.
Or she could choose differently.
She folded the parchment and held it out — not to her husband, but to the elder.
"It should never have been taken," she said. "Please keep it safe."
Sir Archibald sputtered. "Constance! Scientific progress—"
"Doesn't require theft," she replied gently, although her expression to him said more.
The elder nodded once — approval without ceremony.
Something inside her settled.
She had refused to step back.
And the mountains seemed to approve.
And for once, Archibald remained silent.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Night Ride, the Lantern Festival, and the Song That Changes Everything
Returning to Hacienda Buenaventura at dusk, the sky burning copper behind the ridgeline, Constance felt the change settle within her — not in the air, not in the mountains, but in herself after the healers' fire.
She walked beside Tom in quiet confidence, the Dutch book tucked beneath her arm. Sir Archibald followed a few steps behind, subdued in a way that was appropriate. He said nothing about the map.
That alone felt monumental.
The courtyard came into view glowing with lantern light. Ribbons swayed from the beams. Someone had lit braziers along the walls, and villagers moved easily between tables, carrying bowls of food and instruments polished to a soft shine.
Heinrich stood near the well attempting to demonstrate yodelling techniques to a deeply confused audience.
Tom exhaled. "Looks like we're expected."
Constance paused at the gate. For the first time since arriving in the Andes, she didn't feel like a visitor. She felt... placed.
Sir Archibald stepped beside her.
"Constance," he said, not loudly, not theatrically — simply her name.
She turned.
"I may," he began, then stopped, searching for language that did not come easily to him. His hat shifted slightly in his hands. "Well. You handled the situation... correctly."
It was not an apology. Not yet.
But it was an acknowledgement.
She inclined her head. "Thank you."
Nothing more needed to be said.
Music began — soft flutes, a steady drumbeat that echoed gently through the courtyard. The Altar Llama stood beneath a lantern wearing fresh ribbons, watching the proceedings with the solemn gravity of a minor deity who had accepted an administrative role.
Heinrich attempted a dance step that nearly collided with a table.
Tom moved to Constance's side, but there was a subtle difference now. He did not reach for her immediately. He waited — allowing her to choose the moment.
"You look lighter," he said quietly.
"I feel... aligned," she replied.
"With yourself?"
"With everything," she said, surprising even herself with the truth of it.
The frogs had begun their strange harmonies in the paddocks beyond the walls — no longer eerie, simply part of the night's rhythm.
Sir Archibald watched from a distance, glass in hand. There was curiosity in his gaze now rather than ownership, and it softened something in her she had not realised was still tense.
Tom extended a hand. "Dance?"
She looked at it, then at him.
"Yes."
They moved slowly at first, the rhythm unfamiliar but forgiving. Lantern light warmed Tom's features, softening the edges of the man she had first met repairing fences in the sun.
"You changed the story today," he said.
"I changed my place in it," she replied.
He nodded, accepting that distinction.
Across the courtyard, Archibald spoke quietly with the housekeeper, listening more than instructing — an unfamiliar posture that caught Constance's attention. She realised she was no longer bracing herself for his disapproval.
That, too, felt new.
The music deepened. The lanterns swayed overhead. Tom's hand rested lightly at her waist — present, careful, unassuming.
For a moment, everything narrowed: breath, movement, shared silence.
Then came the sound.
An engine.
Rougher than Noraly's smooth arrival. Louder than Charlie and Ewan's electric hum. A rebellious roar that rolled across the valley before bursting through the courtyard gate.
A motorcycle skidded to a halt, dust spiralling around it like a theatrical curtain. A young woman swung off the bike, helmet under one arm, laughter in her eyes.
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything important!" she called.
Heinrich applauded enthusiastically. "Ah! Another traveller from the mysterious tomorrow!"
Sir Archibald stared skyward. "I must speak to someone about the scheduling of these temporal intrusions."
The rider caught Constance's eye — a brief, knowing look between women who recognised movement as a form of freedom. She gave a small nod, then kicked the bike into life again and rode back into the dark as abruptly as she had arrived.
The villagers barely reacted.
Tom shook his head, smiling faintly. "The mountains like surprises."
"They do," Constance said.
The music softened into a slower tune. Lantern light shimmered against the walls. Somewhere nearby, the Altar Llama snorted in approval.
Across the courtyard, Sir Archibald raised his glass slightly toward her — not possessive, not wounded. Simply acknowledging.
She returned the gesture.
Tom noticed but said nothing.
The song came to an end. Applause drifted through the courtyard. Constance felt the quiet certainty of a woman standing at the centre of her own life rather than orbiting someone else's.
Above them, the Andes stretched vast and silent, holding the promise of paths not yet taken.
And for the first time, she did not wonder whether she belonged among them.
She knew she did.
#24
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 17, 2026, 02:28 AMRadiant dealerships full of embossed leather duds, piratical bandannas and faux Nazi helmets were still some way off as I began doing time with My Shovelhead.
And what a time it was! We were nothing if not busy, that's for sure. I spent more time with that bike than with any other bike I have had before or since. And a lot of that time was spent on the side of the road in places as diverse as inner-city Melbourne and the table drain on the Hay Plain eighty-five kilometres from Balranald. I've sheltered beside it in pouring rain outside of Murray Bridge and cursed it from the shade of a solitary tree near Coonamble. I would have put in, and observed the departure of, at least 10,000 litres of 20W-50 Pennzoil, smeared a billion metres of Silastic around its ever-leaking primary and wondered how, by all that is holy, anyone could build a bike using self-tapping wood screws to hold the headlight in its nacelle. A nacelle, I might add, I had obsessively rubbed some sixty kilograms of Autosol alloy polish into over the time I owned the bike.
My Shovelhead never stopped leaking oil - though it did vary the amounts from a few drops to 'How the hell am I gonna get home now?' And it never failed to excite me when it barked its unmuffled hatred at the world. Except that one time when I ran into the back of a stationary car while admiring my tattooed he-glory in a shop window. Then it kinda pissed me off.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p96
And what a time it was! We were nothing if not busy, that's for sure. I spent more time with that bike than with any other bike I have had before or since. And a lot of that time was spent on the side of the road in places as diverse as inner-city Melbourne and the table drain on the Hay Plain eighty-five kilometres from Balranald. I've sheltered beside it in pouring rain outside of Murray Bridge and cursed it from the shade of a solitary tree near Coonamble. I would have put in, and observed the departure of, at least 10,000 litres of 20W-50 Pennzoil, smeared a billion metres of Silastic around its ever-leaking primary and wondered how, by all that is holy, anyone could build a bike using self-tapping wood screws to hold the headlight in its nacelle. A nacelle, I might add, I had obsessively rubbed some sixty kilograms of Autosol alloy polish into over the time I owned the bike.
My Shovelhead never stopped leaking oil - though it did vary the amounts from a few drops to 'How the hell am I gonna get home now?' And it never failed to excite me when it barked its unmuffled hatred at the world. Except that one time when I ran into the back of a stationary car while admiring my tattooed he-glory in a shop window. Then it kinda pissed me off.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p96
#25
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 16, 2026, 01:49 AM"What's that stinkin smell?" Terry groaned as we stood beside a heater inside the Holbrook truck-stop at some obscene and frigid hour of the night.
"It's piss," I hissed.
"What piss?" Terry asked, his nostrils twitching and his head swivelling from side to side due to his recently acquired blindness.
"My piss," I said through clenched teeth. "I thought we were dead when you ran off the road. I didn't see any point holding it in."
That was a lie. I could no more have held in that wee than I could have turned the tide. When Terry's bike left the road and started tankslapping along the verge, my bladder unilaterally emptied, clearly of the opinion I should arrive at the Throne of Jesus with a freshly flushed urethra.
"Why's the back of my pants wet?" Terry gasped in horror as his hands patted the arse of his jeans, which were steaming as they dried in front of the heater.
"Please don't make me tell you," I grated.
"AARRGGHH," Terry moaned, wincing in revulsion as my fright-wee dried on his body and made his skin prickle.
It was too cold to go outside and wash our clothes in the toilet, and in any case our more immediate concern was Terry's blindness and how that would impact on the fact that we had to be in Albury to get my bike off the train in three hours.
"How blind are you?" I asked him.
"What?" he keened, his head radaring from side to side as it locked onto my voice.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p43-4
"It's piss," I hissed.
"What piss?" Terry asked, his nostrils twitching and his head swivelling from side to side due to his recently acquired blindness.
"My piss," I said through clenched teeth. "I thought we were dead when you ran off the road. I didn't see any point holding it in."
That was a lie. I could no more have held in that wee than I could have turned the tide. When Terry's bike left the road and started tankslapping along the verge, my bladder unilaterally emptied, clearly of the opinion I should arrive at the Throne of Jesus with a freshly flushed urethra.
"Why's the back of my pants wet?" Terry gasped in horror as his hands patted the arse of his jeans, which were steaming as they dried in front of the heater.
"Please don't make me tell you," I grated.
"AARRGGHH," Terry moaned, wincing in revulsion as my fright-wee dried on his body and made his skin prickle.
It was too cold to go outside and wash our clothes in the toilet, and in any case our more immediate concern was Terry's blindness and how that would impact on the fact that we had to be in Albury to get my bike off the train in three hours.
"How blind are you?" I asked him.
"What?" he keened, his head radaring from side to side as it locked onto my voice.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p43-4
#26
Introduce Yourself Here / Re: Saying hi
Last post by Biggles - Feb 16, 2026, 01:45 AMQuote from: windi on Feb 16, 2026, 01:03 AMMornings
Quick hello to all and thank you for letting me join. I was a FarRider and I think my number was #965. Still riding my Ducati Multi but need to get out and about a tad more. Did a few Fr's and a number of Treasure hunts. Will try and get out again to try my luck in finding it.
Cheers windi
Great to see you here mate! Yes, we played the Treasure Hunt game a few times way back then. It has been revived a bit here, but it's down in Victoria out of my reach and there's extremely little interest by anyone for pursuing it, or much else for that matter. There's only a couple of posters. There's actually more going on with IBA Oz and SCDR. Kwaka's attempt to breathe life into the murdered FarRiders hasn't been taken up with the enthusiasm many of us would have liked to have seen.
#27
Introduce Yourself Here / Saying hi
Last post by windi - Feb 16, 2026, 01:03 AMMornings
Quick hello to all and thank you for letting me join. I was a FarRider and I think my number was #965. Still riding my Ducati Multi but need to get out and about a tad more. Did a few Fr's and a number of Treasure hunts. Will try and get out again to try my luck in finding it.
Cheers windi
Quick hello to all and thank you for letting me join. I was a FarRider and I think my number was #965. Still riding my Ducati Multi but need to get out and about a tad more. Did a few Fr's and a number of Treasure hunts. Will try and get out again to try my luck in finding it.
Cheers windi
#28
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 15, 2026, 03:04 AMI discovered true fear by riding the track at night, the wrong way around, which meant going up Conrod Straight in the other direction - back when it was a real straight and not the effete chicane-shamed atrocity it is today. I can still taste the acerbic tang of pure dread as I hammered up that long, long straight at almost 190 km per hour behind one of the Laverdas, then leaned my bike into the sharp, totally blind uphill right of Forrest's Elbow, followed by the even blinder and steeper uphill horror of the Dipper. This feat was made all the more memorable because people were actually riding the other way at the time.
Oh, and we were drunk. So that helped.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p35-6
Oh, and we were drunk. So that helped.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p35-6
#29
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 14, 2026, 02:23 AMI nodded, kicked the bike into life and roared off. It took me thirty seconds before I successfully slotted the Honda into second gear.
My heart sang and I must have been grinning and gurning like a fat chick eating biscuits. I subsequently found third and fourth and ultimately fifth, whereupon the bike stalled violently and slammed my balls hard into the petrol tank as I slowed to make a U-turn.
Obviously, there was more to this gear-selection caper than my spray-painted mate had revealed. It took me the best part of the next hour to work out that one must be judicious in one's gear selection by picking the gear most suitable for the speed at which one is travelling. The price for failure was pulped testicles. I was also quickly discovering that motorcycling is a cruel, Darwinian mistress.
But as I worked the gears and felt the bike responding with even greater speed as I careened up and down Cardigan Lane, motorcycling held me ever tighter in its grip and bound me ever closer to its bosom.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p14
My heart sang and I must have been grinning and gurning like a fat chick eating biscuits. I subsequently found third and fourth and ultimately fifth, whereupon the bike stalled violently and slammed my balls hard into the petrol tank as I slowed to make a U-turn.
Obviously, there was more to this gear-selection caper than my spray-painted mate had revealed. It took me the best part of the next hour to work out that one must be judicious in one's gear selection by picking the gear most suitable for the speed at which one is travelling. The price for failure was pulped testicles. I was also quickly discovering that motorcycling is a cruel, Darwinian mistress.
But as I worked the gears and felt the bike responding with even greater speed as I careened up and down Cardigan Lane, motorcycling held me ever tighter in its grip and bound me ever closer to its bosom.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p14
#30
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 13, 2026, 01:22 AMRight then I was about as thrilled as a fifteen-year-old boy could be without bursting spontaneously into flames. All of this excitement stemmed directly from the fact that I was at the controls of a proper motorcycle for the second time in my life and I hadn't the vaguest idea what I was doing.
I understood that a horrible outcome awaited me if I crashed. I wasn't precisely sure what it would be, but I was sure it would be horrible on a scale yet unimagined by me. Interestingly, I did not even consider the physical implications of hitting the road at 80kms per hour dressed in a school uniform. I was more concerned about how I would explain riding and crashing bikes to my father, who was delusional enough to imagine his only son was at school being taught to read and write and hate quadratic equations.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p12
I understood that a horrible outcome awaited me if I crashed. I wasn't precisely sure what it would be, but I was sure it would be horrible on a scale yet unimagined by me. Interestingly, I did not even consider the physical implications of hitting the road at 80kms per hour dressed in a school uniform. I was more concerned about how I would explain riding and crashing bikes to my father, who was delusional enough to imagine his only son was at school being taught to read and write and hate quadratic equations.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p12