Turbo time. 12/30/2006
I was coming home, late last night, from the regular Friday night bike club meet. It must have been 2 a.m. or something, and the roads were nice and clear. I was riding along, minding my own business, and came up to the traffic lights. I stood there, waiting for the lights to change. And a car rolled up behind me.
I heard the rumble of the stupid trashcan exhaust, and I looked in the mirrors. Oh yes, another boy racer, with his souped up little hatchback, and neon lights, and thumpa-thumpa sound system. I was planted right in the middle of the lane, just before the white line. And this idiot started creeping up to my back wheel, revving his engine. I could hear the blow off valve whistling as he did so. Obviously he had some sort of transplanted engine under the hood.
I got a little irritated, and waited for the green light to come on. When the lights turned, boy racer behind was probably expecting me to blast off. Which I didn’t. I took my time about getting into gear, and letting the clutch out. I did a sedate take off, and boy racer lost his cool. He started revving up the engine, and trying to shunt me. I waited till I got into third gear, and then I looked behind.
Readers of this blog will know about my encounters with boy racers, and that I have little to no respect for them. Not because they’re stupid, but because they do not know who to, and not to, taunt on the road. Picking a traffic light drag race with another car is normal. Picking a fight with a superbike is plain idoicy on the boy racer’s part. I turned back, flipped him the bird, and slammed my visor down. I turned my head towards the front, giving him full view of the row of skulls decorating the back of my helmet.
And turned on warp speed.
I was at the next set of lights, which were red, and I could see boy racer far, far behind. I must have taken him by surprise. He was trying to catch up because I could hear him revving the tits of his engine, and the turbo whistling. He drew up alongside me at the lights. I didn’t even look at him, but extended my left hand, and gave him another middle finger, just as the lights turned green.
He was really excited now, and as the lights turned, I did another sedate take off, expecting him to spin his wheels. He didn’t do that, but matched my speed. He obviously wanted to show me that his car could take my bike in a roll on. I was so sorry that I really had to show him that my bike could trash his car any day, any time, any where. Actually, that’s not quite true. I wasn’t sorry at all. I wanted to teach this punk a lesson.
We were running side by side, at something like 100 km/h, and then I did the starship Enterprise thing again. He went for it. I kept pace with him. He kept pace with me. I looked at him. He was looking at me. Then I waved my left hand at him in a “come on” gesture, and I simultaneously whacked the throttle open with my right.
The front wheel lifted, and I still looked at him. He tried putting the pedal to the metal, and overtaking me. But it was all over. I gave him him a flash of brake lights, and another finger, as I took the turn off for home.
I’d like to meet up with this clueless boy racer one day, and tell him that last night, I wasn’t even riding the fastest bike I have.