Groff: On History
“What are you doing?” I’m trying to concentrate – that’s what I’m doing. “Why are you fixing those old boots? Doesn’t TW pay you enough for a new pair every couple of years?”
I’d dismiss her with my steely glare but I’m too far gone in the repair process to look up. I can’t see exactly how far back between the sole and the upper I need to spread the glue. It’s dark in there and I’m trying to hold the bits apart and squeeze out just the right amount of adhesive at the same time.
“This shed’s full of junk. What do you actually do with your money?” It’s not a question of money; it’s a question of what I choose to keep rather than throw out.
“What about that jacket? You haven’t worn it for years.” Pity Jesus. Can’t she just leave me alone? “Oh yuck, there’s a dead Huntsman on the collar. The coat’s probably infested with spiders.”
The Dri-Rider was, in fact, a gift from the people I worked with when I was dishonourably discharged from my last professional writing job. It was a management issue – all my managers were shitheads. My workmates were okay, though, and chucked in for a present they knew I’d really appreciate. It replaced an even older Dri-Rider and, despite this one’s current condition, I still refer to it as my “new” jacket.
I’ve kept it because it’s still a bit waterproof. I’ve also kept it because we’ve had many adventures together and its presence on the wall of the shed reminds me of them. I tried to dry it one night beside a rally fire and burnt the end off the left sleeve. The burn marks give it character. It was the wettest rally I’ve ever attended. How am I supposed to remember this stuff if I don’t keep the evidence?
Geez, there’s glue leaking out the back of the heel. I’ve used too much of the stuff. As I press the upper to the sole the adhesive bubbles and splutters out the sides. So much for a “thin smear on both surfaces”. It’s all over my hands and running down the clamps I’d planned to use. Maybe I can wipe some of it off with a rag.
“Isn’t that one of our tea towels? What’s it doing out here? You’ll ruin it!”
Well, yes, possibly, but since I never planned to collect tea towels to remind me of my years of mindless domestic servitude, I can’t see that it matters.
It doesn’t work anyway. All I succeed in doing is smearing glue over the top of one of the boots. Perhaps if I just fill them with tools to weigh them down and sit them on the flat surface of the floor, I can file the glue dags off when they dry.
“And what about those bikes? None of them work anymore. Why do you keep them?”
I briefly run through their histories: the step-thru I used for years in Newcastle, which got me to university and transported me and my mandolin to a thousand band gigs; the daily use Suzuki GS1000G which has been to more rallies than the Ulysses Club has members; the SR500 which allows me to be a member of the best bike club in Australia; the dismantled Commando and the Titan I actually courted her on. How could I get rid of any of them?
“Photographs – that’s what normal people do; they take pictures of things they think are important. Just because you got pissed with your mates once under the Sydney Harbour Bridge doesn’t mean you have to keep the bloody thing in your garage.”
I’ve got pictures, as it happens – an old winebox full. Every one is significant and, some nights, I sit on the shed floor and go through them. There’s one of Phil Irving. He was half way through saying “Don’t take my picture” when I pressed the shutter. There’s one of Mr Smith on the steps of a guesthouse in Mudgee taken a thousand years ago. He’s relatively slim and has dark hair and a dark beard. There are a few of Broadford, quite a few of bike trips and a couple of people like Wombat who, to the despair of his friends, has been gone these past 10 years.
Slides used to be popular but you can’t flick through them the way you can with prints. I’ve got some of them anyway – mostly from the University of New England Motorcycle Club. Anyone who wants a tranny of Rooth in flared pants should get in touch. There are slides of my first Japanese bike, too: the original RI, a 350 two-stroke.
Not everyone remembers their past in the same way. Moot used to buy a decorative teaspoon from every town he visited. I know a bloke with more than 100 caps and another bloke with a collection of bike event T-shirts he never wears. I sort of do that too except I wear mine. The most treasured is a screenprinted job from my first bike gang. It’s 35 years old. Surely that’s some kind of record. I know you have to be a bit selective but we also have to be mindful of recording our personal histories appropriately.
Courtesy of being interrupted while I was trying to repair the boots I was wearing when Mick Doohan crashed at Phillip Island at turn one, I now have a new monument in the shed.
The Rossis seem to be permanently glued to the floor. Who’d have thought adhesive from the two-dollar shop would be that effective? I suppose I could get the angle-grinder onto them but they’re not really in the way and I have other kit I can use. The Rossis can become the boots I wear when I’m just standing still. They can regularly remind me of the great feet of endurance my motorcycling life has been so far.
By Grant Roff, Two Wheels October 2002
