Random Lines: New Chum Learns the Hard Way
Things have been quiet in the office for getting on an hour, ever since the Iced VoVos ran out. Only the incessant whirr of Boggles’ nicotine-stained fingers punching out news stories on his VDT keyboard softens my feelings of cheap loneliness.
I take another look at the press blurb on the new GVZ400ESL-II, make a quick check on the mountain of press releases beneath it, decide the intro angle should include the snappy paint update and the two extra warning lamps, and begin to dream of The Open Road. Alas, this is now little more than a distant memory. I’m mindlessly perusing Kel Wearne’s “Behind Bars”, hoping to regain some taste of what things are really like, when suddenly something happens. KNOCK, KNOCK on the door. Boggles’ head jerks up from behind his machine with eyes of terror. I hide the Two Wheels. KNOCK, KNOCK!
“Who’s there?” says Boggles feebly. A young lad with a glue-on beard appears in the doorway: “Excuse me, but is this the Editorial Office?”
Now, entertainment is not something that presents itself often in motorcycle magazines. Basically there’s no time for it, let alone space. Occasionally you’ll get a contributor charging in with a bike chain or gun or something, demanding long-overdue payment for services foolishly rendered. If you’re lucky you’ll score a bike accident between deadlines, or perhaps fry a clutch at the dragstrip. But best of all is when some young big achiever arrives and attempts to join the Wonderful World of Motorcycle Journalism by giving us the 15-mlnute performance he’s been working on for years. Such moments are to be savoured . . .
“What do you mean by THAT?” demands Boggles. The young hopeful’s fake beard begins to quiver.
“Umm . . . I’m Mark Jerkins and I’m really interested in becoming one of the staff. I ride really well and I’ve got a good sense of humour. I really like the mag — read every issue — but I’ve got some really good ideas on how to really improve it. More 250 comparos, for one thing; more dirt stuff; maybe half the mag road and the other half dirt, but with one half printed upside down so the road riders don’t have to read the dirt stuff and the dirt riders don’t have to read the road stuff.”
“You don’t look short enough to be a motorcycle journalist, Jerkins,” cautions Boggles. “How far can you stick your knee out in corners? — that’s important for photographs and for maintaining credibility with other bike writers, you know.”
“Really far, sir,” he says, demonstrating. “I’ve been practising for years. Excuse me, but is this your $20 note dropped on the floor?”
“Yes, and while you’re down there perhaps you might care to give my Sidis a quick once-over. So you’re interested in motorcycle journalism, are you?”
“Terrifically interested, sir. I’d do anything to be part of it all.”
“Well, that’s a start, I suppose,” says Boggles, turning the other boot.
“It’s the glamour and excitement which attracts me; that and all the perks,” the New Chum continues. “The thrill of trying out exciting new motorcycles and telling the world how good they are. I can only dream of those looks of sheer envy and respect on my friends’ faces when I roll up on the brand new XYZ1100-NDX-III when they’re still only on the late model XYZ1100-NDX-II without the trick new stickers and the modified anti-dive compression damping and the simulated handlebar vibration unit. And you must meet such interesting people!”
By this stage that little warning device inside of me begins to rumble alert. I haven’t had a hit of coffee for getting on twenty minutes, and the news story I’ve been working on is making as much sense as one of Boggles’ editorials.
“Boggles,” I cautiously start. “Isn’t it your turn for the coffees?”
“Of course it isn’t. It’s your turn.”
Hmmm. Belligerent old bastard. This will require delicate negotiation: “Rubbish, you filthy scumbag! I bloody got the last lot!”
Boggles struggles to his feet. “Leggo my leg, you rotter!” he snarls at the snivelling young sycophant before turning his unbridled wrath towards me. “You miserable skite! You’re a piker, that’s what you are. Admit it: you’ll do anything to avoid going down to the snack bar and being forced to engage in pleasant conversation about the weather with the sandwich hand.”
“I am not,” I lie. “I want to get out of this dump by midnight, you know. Anyway, I fetched the last lot. You’re the bloody piker!”
“I’ll buy the coffees,” perks young Jerkins. “I’m good at that. And I ride an XYZ1100 with Mishies and a Megacycle and Cycle Style and . . .”
“You keep out of this!” I yell at him. “And don’t drop your stinking cigarette ash on the floor. Use the cold pizza.”
“I’m warning you, Farraday!” snaps Boggles. “You’ll regret this. I’ll force you to test a Honda 100.”
“Excuse me,” young Jerkins interrupts, addressing that swine across the desk. “But you’re Bob Boggles, aren’t you?”
Boggles runs a preening hand through his greasy hair: “That is correct.”
“Right,” says Jerkins. “Excuse me, but why are those strings attached to your arms, legs, and head?”
“He’s the editor,” I assist. “Look, Jerkins: mine’s straight white, Boggles’ is white with seven sugars. And bring us back some chocky biscuits.”
Suddenly there’s silence as a figure thrusts its large, prying head into the crowded room. I resume typing immediately.
“Don’t deny it! There were voices coming from this room! You’re all fired,” booms Mr Big. There is an expectant pause. Young Jerkins is motionless except for the awe-struck slobber dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
“I was just on the phone,” Big continues, “arranging new tyres for my huge brace of personal investments in return for a small four-page write-up which I shall do while smashed and watching telly — or maybe you guys can do it — when a terrible vision of reality overcame me. Which one of you despicable pawns secretly thinks my wife applies her cosmetics with a trowel?”
I casually lift my eyes from the VDT terminal. “Sorry, what’s the paper’s line on 16-inch front wheels?”
“They’re good for the industry,” Mr Big replies, then hesitates, staring blankly at the wall. “Well, that’s all — and if anyone phones, I’m out.”
Jerkins turns towards me. He’s clearly moved by the experience. “Was that who it seemed to be?”
“Who knows,” I reply, showing the early, cynical signs of a magazine columnist in the making.
“Well if he’s Boggles, and that was what it seemed to be, then this must make you Jeff Fereday, the famous road tester,” Jerkins postulates. “I think your articles are really keen, although I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Yes,” I say. “Well, let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? Out with your drugs!”
“I’ve only one question to ask you, Sir, and that’s this: Why is the editor wearing that Honda Racing Team bag over his head?”
“Shhhhhhhh!” I chasten. “Not so loud. Look, there’s one thing you’ve got to get straight around here right from the get go: and that’s a secret. Besides, that bag is a rather sensitive matter with our friend Boggles. Best not to mention it.”
I despatch Jerkins to fetch coffees. Soon enough he’s been assigned to perform cleaning and chain adjustments to the brace of personal investments in the backyard. Mr Big obviously mistook him for a layout artist.
After wading through a wad of unintelligible despatches from the northern colonies, I notice that the crude, lascivious gurgling from Boggles’ ulcerated constitution has grown unbearably loud. Young Jerkins is cajoled into shouting lunch at Pooncey’s Bistro. The New Chum is clearly flattered by our generous invitation and responds by treating us to his motorcycling worldview. Which only supports that saying about free lunches.
“Essentially I believe motorcycling is, well, to me personally, centred more or less overwhelmingly around Mankind’s — and Womankind’s too, ha ha — basic primordial urge for individual struggle against the elements. When we put on our battle-scarred leathers and don our helmets and mount our huge, menacing thoroughbred machines, we are solitary individuals — men making a tough personal stand against a world of safe mediocrity, men asserting their right to stand out from the crowd and not drive bland, anonymous Japanese four cylinder motor cars around unless it’s raining. Motorcycling, you see, is more than just motorcycles. It’s a lifestyle. Take rallies, for instance . . .”
Boggles appears to be enjoying his Lobster Thermidor. A piece of claw has wedged its way into his beard. As for my Fettuccini Marinara, “Excellent” is a word that springs immediately to mind.
“Rallies are the epitome of the motorcycling lifestyle, if you want my opinion. Well, perhaps one of the many, varied epitomes that motorcycling has to offer. Sure, some might disagree, but that’s their problem. They’re probably new to the game. Ride the wrong kind of bike or something. It’s a good feeling sitting around a campfire out in the Donga somewhere talking about touring or the last rally or the next rally or inventing chummy names for your mates. Telling those old jokes about that time the tin of baked beans exploded in the hot coals. Or just talking about your bike or your mates’ bikes and drinkin’ good old Stones Green Ginger, that classic rallyists’ drink, and then getting up and hopping on your good old bike and revving the tits off the bastard and dumping the clutch and doing donuts and shit for the hell of it and then spinning out from all the Stones Green Ginger and all the donuts and then dropping the bike and then picking the old fugger up again and giving it a real big serve ‘cos your mates are lookin’ at yer pissin’ themselves and eggin’ you on and shit. Shit yeah. What a rage, eh.”
I’m a tad concerned for old Boggles. He’s taking an unnatural interest in the crayfish shell.
“Of course Bathurst is always a good bash. Chance to cut loose, make the papers. Usually get too shitfaced to watch the races. In fact, to tell the truth, this year I got so drunk on the good old Stones — geez, woz I pissed — I crashed out by five a bloody clock and missed all the hill action. Slept right through it. Me mates reckon they never seen me so pissed. Had a ripper bloody hangover next day, I tell ya . . .”
Things have taken a turn for the worse. Boggles has pilfered three of the snails from Jerkins’ plate. He’s been pondering them for five minutes now.
” . . . Of course the best thing about motorcycling is the Freedom. You know — you and your bike. That kind of Freedom. You’re out there. On your bike. Wind in your face. Just imagine it: You’re Riding. Fast. The loud bark of your four-into-one as you hammer down the gears and scream on the brakes and crank the beast hard into the tight left-hand corner, three times the posted speed. The undercarriage scrapes sparks on bitumen, your knee skims the hard road surface, you hit the gas with a vengeance, you pull out to the double line, change up, the scenery whistles past, but it’s only as you spare a moment to glance down at the instruments that you realise just how fast you’re travelling and think, ‘Corr, I must be crazy’ and say a little thank you to the manufacturer for building you such a fine-handling machine . . .”
Disturbing developments on the Escargot front: Boggles is prying around inside the snail shells with a toothpick. He’s removed the remaining slug part is now attempting to rebuild the thing with a leftover scallop.
“. . . it’s the Freedom that makes motorcycling such a buzz, that’s for sure. You can choose Honda, Yamaha, Suzuki, or Kawasaki. If you’re fat you can choose Harley-Davidson. If you’re scared of riding fast and smoke Benson & Hedges or Drum, you might choose BMW. If you like an element of uncertainty in life, you could go British or Italian. There’s a model to suit everyone. Your choice is limited only by your desire and your finance company. Still, my opinion — and you may quote me, I’m not afraid to say it — is that the future of motorcycling rests well and truly in little Japanese hands . . .”
“Damned cunning, aren’t they,” says Boggles, poking the end of his tie into a snail shell. “So small, so compact, so efficient, so safe.”
“Precisely,” says Jerkins. “Those are quite pertinent points. And of course the Japanese never fail to surprise us with their supreme mastery of electronic technology, not to mention their engine development, which is unsurpassed. And their styling is nothing if not imaginative.”
As Jerkins foots the bill, I refuse to acknowledge Boggles discreetly hiding the three snail shells in his Honda bag. Suddenly Mr Big appears at the table.
“You’re all fired! You’ve spent 15 minutes eating lunch, and I have it on good authority that you, Mr Fereday, had an ambiguous expression on your face as you walked past my wife on the way out. Don’t try hiding it. You’ve been planning my downfall, haven’t you? Conspiring to seize my hard-earned wealth, to steal office biros for use at home. I’ve had to sack two layout artists today for exactly that reason. It’s impossible to run a newspaper with conditions like this!”
“How forgetful of me!” I interrupt. “I’ve neglected to introduce young Jerkins to you. Mark wants to be a motorcycle journalist. He has some interesting ideas, as I’m sure he’ll tell you . . . Anyway, must fly, the news waits for no one . . .”
Where’s Boggles? No sign of him in the office, only his Honda bag on his chair. Can’t be far away. Jeez, what has he got in there?
I begin typing a meaningless story about the state of the Queensland motorcycle market in the September quarter. Next is the speedway stuff. Where the hell is Boggles? — typesetter machine’s just broken down.
“WHO’S AFRAID OF THE BIG, BAD WOLF?” Did I hear that? It’s singing.
“. . . THE BIG, BAD WOLF! THE BIG, BAD WOLF!”
It’s bloody Boggles’ voice . . .
“WHO’S AFRAID OF THE BIG, BAD WOLF?” Coming from the . . .
“. . . TRA-LA-LA-LA-LARRR-LA!”
. . . the bloody Honda bag!
The afternoon proves quieter. Mr Big comes in about two with Mark in tow.
“Hey, fellas, I’ve had a great idea.” This shuts us up. “I’ve been thinking maybe we’ll have half the mag road and the other half dirt, but with the road riders half printed upside down so the riders don’t have to read the dirt stuff and dirt half printed back to front so the dirt riders don’t have to read at all.”
“What about dual-purpose bikes?” I suggest.
“Work that one out when you get to it. By the way, meet Mark Jerkins, the new addition to our staff. He’s filled with enthusiasm and has some terrific ideas. We save 27 cents a week by buying plain crackers instead of the creams. Mark’s bringing his own chair and perhaps he can sit with you, Jeff, to learn the ropes before you leave. Mark, here’s a pile of press releases you can bash into news stories. But first could you print these photos. And there’s a test bike to be collected from across town immediately. And you’ll have to look after the layout until we find a replacement artist. Oh, and could you look after the phones for a couple of hours – I have an appointment with my stockbroker. Good. Bye.”
A look of slight bewilderment is already beginning to creep over Jerkins’ face. I think he’ll shape up fine.
By Jeff Fereday. Two Wheels, July 1985
Copyright: Estate of Jeff Fereday.
In 2013, Jeff’s wife Susan published the complete collection of Random Lines in a book of the same name. Priced at $35, you can order a copy here.
