Todd spends another evening marooned on the shore of existential dread. Savage gusts of age erode his hairline and batter his once youthful looks. His social life is shipwrecked on the reef of mid-30s and the only siren songs he’s hearing are from dugongs lurking in the depths of his past mistakes.
Sure, he could grab the bull of ageing gracefully by the horn and find peace. Alternatively, he could just buy a sports bike and try in vain to milk that bull for any remaining street cred he can get. Needless to say, he decides to become the nightrider.
He redirects some rainy day savings towards a second hand Kawasaki Ninja 400, riding leathers and a brand-spankin’ helmet. He walks around his apartment kitted out for most of the night. He’s back, baby.
It remains a mystery to this day how Todd managed to pass his motorcycle test given he has the coordination of a moth at a Rockingham lightbulb party. Nevertheless, he now fancies himself the Casey Stoner of R-E class licence holders. Watch out, everyone.
Todd’s first mistake was rocking up to work the next day in his riding gear. With his helmet firmly under his arm, he decides to make that office his catwalk. He shoots a wink at the receptionist who has turned him down 3 consecutive Christmas parties in a row, “I’ve got a second helmet any time you want to ride, babe”. OOOF.
He makes sure he doesn’t get changed until everyone in the office have laid witness to the rebirth of his sickcuntery. Everyone tries to ignore the early mid-life crisis and get on with their day. This wasn’t the rockstar entrance Todd expected.
Not to worry, Todd knows he’ll get the attention he craves on his first-weekend bike cruise. Cruising down the freeway he passes a carload of P-Platers. Some cool looking dudes with a couple of babes in the back. Todd rides alongside them before hitting em with the razzle-dazzle.
Like a man wanting to give away his organs, he gives them a nod and then accelerates rapidly away. He looks back in his mirror to see if they’ve taken off their shirts and are leaning out the window in admiration of his daredevilry. They are not.
He continues to indulge his boy racer fantasy with reckless weaving, unnecessary tyre warming and lane filtering with the finesse of elephant trying to give a meerkat a greased up trunk job. Amazingly, he has no idea why everyone keeps calling him a fuck’n idiot. He’s doing the nod and everything!
After a decent run on the freeway, Todd decides it’s time to take his tripod to the foreshore and get a bad boy photo shoot happening. If he’s not getting the respect he’s due in real life, he’ll damn sure get it on social media.
He uploads several photos of himself looking like a threat. Not only a threat to your heart but a threat to the flora on median strips all over Perth on account of his inability to take a corner at the speed he thinks he can.
He finishes his day by uploading some GoPro footage looking for vindication that he was in the right and all the motorists he encountered were wrong. Unfortunately, he spends the night copping the lot from both the bike and motoring communities.
It’s a long way to the top if you want to pose and roll.