Groff: Inside the Helmet
“What did you think about during the ride?”
Guido and I are finally sitting on the verandah of the Tintaldra Pub after seven hours of more-or-less constant road time. He uses ear plugs and I don’t so I can often still hear the engine roar long after the ignition key has been removed. I probably shouted the question. Riding with earplugs makes me feel like I’m doing drugs: there’s stuff happening around me but I can’t experience it as I should. Guido ponders the question for what seems like five minutes before he answers.
“Nothing.”
Nothing? How can you spend seven hours inside your own head and not think about anything? Perhaps I didn’t shout the question loudly enough. It’s finally calm and we can hear the young magpies in the trees begging for food and the dull gurgle of what’s left of the Murray River as it slides past the pub. Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk.
I nearly got collected by a truck just out of Melbourne and spend some time pondering my mortality. I will die eventually – everyone does. Geeze, I’ve been to some awful funerals. I wonder who’ll speak at mine? How many people will turn up? I should put a thousand bucks aside somewhere and make a prior arrangement to have it deposited on the bar of the Elphinston pub. It would be nice to shout one last round but what if only half a dozen people go to the wake? They’ll have enough to drink and the barman will say, “There’s still $920 in the kitty – what do you want me to do with it?” People will laugh and the story will spread.
“Who did he think he was? There’d probably have been change out of $50!”
I’ve upset a few people over the years I suppose. I’ve lost touch with some of them without rebuilding the bridges.
“Did you hear Groff was killed in a motorcycle crash? Pity it didn’t happen earlier.”
We passed a girl as we rode through Yea who looked like my first girlfriend, Robyn. She might come to the funeral. She might have one of those ‘What if’ moments. I wonder where she is now? I stumbled on a way to make contact with her a few years ago – someone who knew her brother – but I didn’t follow it up. It’s not too late. I wonder does she ever think of me? I should do one of those rides where you visit all your ex-girlfriends.
I’ve put on a bit of weight – must do something about that which doesn’t involve less red wine, red meat or more exercise. I wonder what it was that made us like each other? Mostly physical attraction, I suppose – like in that Rod Stewart song. “You’re in my heart, you’re in my soul, you’ll be my strength when I grow old.” Hmm, that sounds pretty good when I sing it in my helmet but something’s going wrong. I don’t want to keep singing it but I can’t seem to think of any other song. Actually, I don’t even like Rod Stewart. ‘Mandolin Wind’ was okay – “no mandolin wind, couldn’t change a thing…”
I can hear a faint whine in the gearbox. Change back to fifth – it goes away. Change up to sixth. I can’t hear it anymore. Wait – I think I can hear it again. Maybe it’s not gearbox whine but just the wind noise because I’m going faster.
Jesus, I hope I win that Bisley work clothes competition. A 4WD with a boat on a trailer, a camper-trailer and another trailer with two trail bikes on it. There are some jet skis too, but I’d sell them.
Some people probably enter a thousand times. Somebody must win. The dice might fall my way. What if they make me go on TV and say, “I always wear Bisley work clothes”? There goes your credibility. It would be easier to win Tattslotto. You can keep it secret. I’d give some of the money to my brothers so they could pay off their mortgages and I wouldn’t be ostentatious with rest. Might get a new bike, though – something that doesn’t whine in sixth gear and with a more comfortable seat. That’d fix Robyn up if I turned up on a GoldWing with a million bucks in my back pocket. So much for, “You’ll never amount to anything.”
I hope work doesn’t ring up to see if I’m really sick. I should have briefed the bloody kids. “No, Groff’s fine. He’s gone on a bike ride with his mates.”
“You are my lover, you’re my best friend, you’re in my soul…” Merciful Jesus, – some other song, please.
Hmm, Guido’s upping the pace. I wonder does he really think I’m as fast as him? I’ll have to try to keep up. If he sees me often enough in his rear view mirror he might conclude I’m just tooling along and could pass him anytime I like. He looks so relaxed. Geez, he’s getting away. Maybe I should stop and see if my sleeping bag is still attached. Good excuse.
I should do an advanced riding course but someone told me they grade you. Everyone thinks I can ride fast already. What if they put me in the yellow group? It’s too late to be honest about anything in my life but it would be nice not to be under so much pressure. I should cut down on my drinking – that might help. Wouldn’t mind a beer right now, though. We used to always stop at pubs but now everyone seems to stop at cafes. I wonder where my old hip flask is? Jenny gave it to me – she got it in Russia and it has an image of Lenin on it. She obviously liked me but we didn’t play the beast with two backs. I wanted to but maybe it was for the better although I can’t think why. She used to wear those low-cut dresses and I remember once when I dropped my bike keys and she leaned down…
Guido finally breaks the silence on the verandah.
“What did you think about?”
I adjust my testicles so that I’m no longer sitting on them and spend 10 seconds or so staring at the gum tree with the magpies in it before answering.
“Umm – nothing…”
By Grant Roff. Two Wheels.
