Rooth: Question Time
“Ah, it’s those pricks again. Quick, John, chuck this sheet over ya bike.”
Mid-stroke the coffee cup got diverted to the bike lift as I stood up and flicked the old bedspread Brian threw my way. He’d chucked one over the fat-wheeled Harley in the corner too.
“Which pricks?” I asked, retrieving the coffee. Brian chucked me a ‘Shut Up’ look as he said: “G’day fellas, what’s it to be this time?”
The light from the open door gave them a halo effect but there was no mistaking the uniformed look. The boots were the kicker. Tight, black leather, almost to the knee. Two pairs, wrapped around uniform pants.
They came in the door like ferrets into a hole, sniffing around and looking from side to side. A couple of uniformed blokes, but a strange sort of khaki colour, as if all the other tough colours had been taken already.
Now I’m not averse to people dressing up. If you want to wear a cape and jump off garbage bins, fair enough; but these goons were dressed like neo-Nazis from Wollongong or something. Let’s get it straight – long tight boots are for riding bikes. Anybody else who hops out of a car wearing long tight boots is getting ready for kinky sex. Even if it is a ute with stickers on the door.
But these knobs had a reason to look intimidating. Their badges said they were from the Department of Transport.
The men from the government were here to help.
Now Brian — that’s not his real name but I can’t spell Fazwheedledook — has been on the spanners for almost 40 years. He’s the best bike mechanic in town, his rego checks are the toughest anywhere in the state and his reputation for picking on safety issues is well known.
Blokes don’t go there for a two-carton inspection, they go to find out of a motorcycle is safe and legal. He picks brake lines starting to rub on a swingarms and wiring that can rub through. Loose spoke? No ticket. No oil in the forks? No ticket. You don’t get to ride out of the shop until he’s checked your tyres.
“Where’s the rego book?” said one of the goons, taking a photo of a stock looking GSX-R750 on the lift for an oil change. “You know they can’t be chopped down like that,” he said, fingering the mudguard extension.
“Yeah, that’s why the bloke bought it in,” lied Brian. “To get it fixed. Here’s the book,” and he passed over a clipboard loaded with A4 sheets.
Then Brian, who’s usually pretty quiet, started asking questions.
“I’m glad you’ve dropped in. Wondered how you were going with these new Harley tail lights?” he said.
“According to my reading of it, doing away with the tail light and running tail, light and stop all through two small lights the size of indicators doesn’t fit the ADRs.”
“There’ll be a ruling on that,” said Goon One. “It’ll be up on our web page … “
“You’ll let me know? I don’t want to be passing a standard bike for rego if it’s not legal. Blah, blah, blah, blah … “
Brian burbled on like a BSA Bantam working up a hill. I’d never heard him say so many words, one after the other and all. I thought he could only talk motorcycle parts and valve clearances.
“And how’s the 10 per cent wheel size rule work when you’re running a 275/15 on a Bagwort Spudworthy?” rattled Brian. “Surely that can’t be legal?”
Turning to the other goon, Brian piled on the questions his way too.
“How long is a vehicle considered covered by a roadworthy certificate then? I mean, the basic safety certificate lasts, what, three months or 1000km for a dealer sale, doesn’t it? Yet the other blokes who were here told me that the vehicle is only legal on the day of the roadworthy. Obviously this makes a difference because … blah, blah, blah… “
I was getting bored. The uniforms were getting bored. Brian was piling it on.
“We have to go,” said Goon Two, looking like a 10-year-old flunking a maths test. “Look, just check the website, you’ll find that information there … “
“But while you’re here, I mean what’s the…”
“Mate, I told you last time. It’s not our job to tell you, it’s up to you to find out.” And with that, the two goons goose-stepped out of the shop.
“Jesus, Brian, what the hell was all that about?” I asked, taking a sip of cold coffee.
“Those bloody idiots. Last time they checked my rego book I copped a $350 fine. I missed one tick on a roadworthy form! Fair dinkum, yet the bloody tossers haven’t got a clue about the rules or the ADRs or any of the stuff they’re supposed to enforce. So I just do what I do when the missus starts asking too many questions — answer them with another question, only bloody chance a bloke’s got of getting any peace.”
As the Transport ute left there was a grinding noise and Mango popped over the gutter on his dilapidated day bike, a Triumph Trident with more oil leaks than the Exxon Valdez and a headlight hanging over the front mudguard by its wires.
And no rego…
By John Rooth. Two Wheels, June 2011.
Following his time at Two Wheels, John went on to become a brand in his own right, Roothy, specialising in 4×4 adventure touring across print, digital (Facebook and You Tube) and TV.
