Strange, isn’t it? It was just a tiny blue light flickering in the Road King’s mirror, but I felt my guts drop to the ground. I indicated, but took my time pulling over into a garage driveway. He might like sitting out in the traffic but he’s in a car that he doesn’t own. The rest of us have to play it safe...

Rooth: Pulled Up

The car was plain clothes but the copper wasn’t. Then I noticed the boots. Cops wearing motorcycle boots with no motorcycle usually favour the pearl­handled Glock and listen to old Hitler speeches when they’re porking the hausfrau. These are the guys who joined the force because the other kids laughed at them. The ones who figured a good Saturday meant burning out a few ants’ nests and torturing the neighbour’s cat.

Line up the gypsies, and bring back the ovens!

“Yes; of course, officer,” I said, smiling like a dentist under the open face. “Here it is, all present and correct!”

Look at that licence, mate. It’s older than you! I’m licensed to drive bloody everything from heavy transport to school buses. There’s a lifetime’s worth of riding, driving and testing vehicles of all sorts hot-wrapped on that piece of cardboard.

Look at my age, child. Do you know how hard it is to stay alive out here exposed to all this beep-beep shit for all those years?

“Yes, officer. Nineteenth of the ninth, mumble grumble, and I live at B52 Bluetooth Street now. That’s the old address on the front, the new one’s on the back.”

Gawd, got a quick one here. How’d you get this job, mate? Had to pass some sort of a fitness test, no doubt? I mean physical, no-one with eyes so close together could possibly have passed any other sort of test. Or maybe you’ve laced those boots up too high and your arse is squeezing your brain.

Nice to know you can read, just. Watch out for the big words. That one says “Queensland”. It’s where we live. Oh! Looky there! It’s the same as the big word on your badge!

“No, surely not. It must be a bulb failure or something. Officer, after 40 years of riding bikes I indicate everywhere, every time! It helps keep a bloke alive,” I said, turning the ignition back on and fingering the indicator.

“Damn, you’re right officer. The left front turn signal isn’t flashing at all! Look, the light’s flashing on the dash, the rear one’s working but there’s nothing up front. That’s a problem with these old Harleys, a bloke can’t see the front flashers during the day. It must have blown this morning,” I said, lying through my teeth.

The bloody thing’s been buggered for a month at least, but how do I explain to this twat that I’ve been riding to compensate for it? That anyone who’s survived this long on motorcycles isn’t that bothered signalling intentions to drivers who don’t notice and don’t care? That living on a motorcycle means treating every other road user as if you’re the Invisible Man? Indicators are just another formality, something else for the dim-witted dodgem-car disabled to put their feeble trust in.

“Thank heavens you pointed that out before it caused an accident, officer. I’ve got some tools in the saddlebag, I’ll just go and grab a bulb from that servo … “

He’s got the book out but I reckon this might work. Step away, go on, head for the car with a “no worries” wave.

“Failing to indicate officer? But how could I, it’s broken. Oh, I see. Perfectly understandable. Does it attract a fine?”

I know a bit about fines. I’ve had plenty of the bloody things. Now this useless bastard is going to peel enough for a new set of fancy cowboy boots off me just for one teeny, weensy little transgression.

Good God man! We live in a state where the Premier is openly selling off all our public resources — all the ones that turn a profit anyway, leaving us taxpayers with the shit — and who can’t wait to get kicked out of office so she can start collecting for her efforts. We’ve got a Prime Minister who’s permanently overseas drumming up more immigration to our overstressed cities, an environment minister whose stupidity has killed four people in the past year and an entire cabinet who know they’ll be voted out next election anyway so they’ve milking it for all it’s worth.

Not bad enough for you? What about the real crimes? The poor old Murray River, being strangled by the cotton­farming crooks upstream. The national parks, true places of the people but slowly being turned into money-making franchises that only overseas tourists can afford.

How about the bloated bureaucracies, where terminal-bound public servants out number the nurses and the teachers doing the real work?

You want genuine crime? Look at the bloody banks! The bastards set up a system that’s daily raping and plundering honest people across the country. Fees, fines, foe and up your bum — that’s their motto …

But you’re not interested in real crime are you? You’re not interested in bagging the genuine crooks. You’re not hanging around a public toilet block waiting to arrest another judge on soliciting charges, are you? You just want to wear some tough boots and go kick some public butt, don’t you?

“Thanks, officer. I’ll push the bike over there and change that bulb straight away. Have a good day!”

Turd.

By John Rooth, Two Wheels, April 2010

Groff: On Courting

Dum de dum dum … shit! I’ve put my coffee mug down too hard on the kitchen bench and spilled some over the side. It will make a little ring when I lift the mug up. Where’s the dish cloth? Please Jesus, I haven’t accidentally put it in the dishwasher again. There’s nothing quite like 15 litres of soapy water emptying itself onto the kitchen floor when you least expect it. I’ll get a clean cloth from under the sink. What’s in all these old containers? What the hell is “Ziff”?

The excitement is interrupted by the choof­-choof-choof of the postman making a delivery outside on his mighty Honda CT110.

Hmmm … a letter from a crowd called Civic Compliance. You know how letters sometimes contain sections in red to highlight something important? This letter is entirely in red. Speed camera offence. A speed in excess of 45km/h over the posted limit. Automatic loss of licence for 12 months.

Fine of $500. Loss of eight points (eight!) to be applied to my licence after the 12 months suspension. I’m already on four points, so when l get my licence back, I’ll lose it again immediately for another three months. Fifteen months without riding.

The coffee mug ring is still on the kitchen bench when I go inside but suddenly it doesn’t seem important.

“Could have been worse.”

My barrister is leafing casually through the paperwork.

I can’t imagine how, but I ask anyway. “If it had been a copper with a hair­dryer instead of a fixed speed camera, your licence would have been taken immediately and your bike would have been impounded under the anti-hoon legislation. You would also have been breath and drug tested … “

As awful as the prospect was, I’d been on the verge of just paying the fine and coming to terms with the vagaries of public transport but, having collected the speed camera picture (and having no memory of committing the offence in the first place), I’d decided to fork out the $250 and get some legal advice. This barrister has a website which suggested I may have to cop the points and fine, but my licence might be saved.

“It’s a loophole in the wording of the Act. They’ll change it eventually but, in the meantime, I’m winning cases on it.”

It was still a difficult decision, not the least because the barrister’s fee for appearing on my behalf was $2500, less the initial consultation fee. What tipped me over the edge of paying up was the news that, if l took it to court, a decision could take up to a year and, in that time, l would keep my licence. It would certainly give me time to plan for a life on foot.

My bike gang was only moderately supportive. They inspected the speed camera photo and declared it didn’t look like the R100RS was 45km/h-plus over the limit. They also noted that the bike was in line with a car going in the opposite direction.

“He was speeding, not you. The camera got the wrong villain.”

It was possible, but the barrister told me a defence based on questioning the speed detection technology would cost in the vicinity of 20 grand. If I went with the loophole and was successful, justice might still have been done, after a fashion.

The barrister appeared and, because of the nature of the plea, the case was adjourned, as expected, for about nine months. I can’t say the thought of it didn’t distract me while l was waiting. A worst-case scenario was losing the case outright, having to pay court costs on top of the original fine, blowing the money on the barrister (“I never promised a positive result”) and spending around a year-and-a­half without riding.

I’d forget how. I’d spend the rest of my life without friends or pleasure. If I went back to riding it would be on a geek-commuter and I’d be doing hand signals and dabbing in corners.

When the case finally came up in late February this year, I wasn’t allowed to attend.

“Why not?”

“I’m relying on the prosecution not having any evidence of who was actually riding the bike. If you’re there, you might be called and questioned. That’s the loophole: since you own the bike, you get the points and the fine, but to take your licence away, the prosecution has to establish it was actually you who was riding.”

I spent the morning of the case pacing the kitchen floor waiting for the telephone to ring. By about 11.30am, l couldn’t stand it any more and poured myself a glass of red. I banged the tumbler down so hard on the kitchen bench that some of the grape juice spilled over the top and formed a ring around the base. There are so many rings on the bench now it looks like a promotion for the London Olympics.

The ‘phone rang at 11.40am.

“The prosecution’s screwed up. They don’t have the form from VicRoads establishing that you own the bike. The magistrate’s adjourned the proceedings until after lunch. How would you feel if I did a deal with them to drop the charges in exchange for you not prosecuting for legal expenses?”

I didn’t really know what he was talking about, but approved anyway. As it turned out, they wouldn’t buy it and the next call was around 2.30pm to tell me the magistrate had thrown the whole thing out. Apparently, owner-onus is fine, but you have to be able to prove who the owner is, which the prosecution failed to do.

My barrister acknowledged the prosecution had a magnificent case against somebody, but what did it have to do with his client? No loss of licence, no fine and no points.

I rang the good news through to members of the Lemmings, who were polite but reserved. It took three or four calls to work out that they were actually a little resentful. They wouldn’t be so lucky so how come I should get off? How come we always get punished for our stupidity but you don’t?

It turns out this is what most people I’ve told the story to think as well so, after you’ve read this, I’m not going to talk about it again. Was it justice? I consider it such but, as I say, after a fashion. It wasn’t cheap but, certainly, it’s another chance to stay in the game.

I finished the bottle of red with my feet on the telephone table and, afterwards, as penance for my sins, I cleaned the entire kitchen bench without even having to be asked.

By Grant Roff, Two Wheels, June 2009

Mr Smith: Get Nicked

Well, folks, I guess I had better address my poor and growing poorer by the minute self to the current Close to the Vital Smith Pumping Organ (no Freddie . .. the one in my chest) Problem of what I should do about the huge quantity of fines I have accumulated over the years.

You see, the Laws Of The Land state that if one defaults on the payment of a legally imposed fine then one must hand one’s poor body over to the (here in newsouthwales) Department of Corruptive (I may have accidentally spelt that incorrectly. How remiss of me.) Services in order to do a tad of time in lieu. Or maybe in Cessnock.

This is where we come upon a conundrum which will appear surprisingly familiar to those among you who are either of Danish descent or who have made serious study of the Bard Of Avon, as follows:

“To Pay Or Not To Pay . . . That is the question.

Whether it be safer in the pocket

To pay up the cash

A sea of roubles, in fact,

Or by lobbing into the slot,

Avoiding same and getting my head bent

By the turnkeys. Probably.”

Well, it’s not precisely as the famed Bearded Bard would have written it, but I’m sure he would have been in there typing something similar with his quill.

That’s my current problem and I’m not real sure of what to do. I reckon we’d best work through this one together, class, so turn to a fresh page, pick up your blue pens and eyes on the board while we follow the reasoning.

In our example, Mr Smith works as a Senior Puppy Sander and Goldfish Taster for a large company on a take-home wage of $300 a week.

His boss, Mr Scotland, can see no way of letting our hero have any holidays in order to visit the aforementioned House Of Whacks for a period of 16 days (as proclaimed by law . . . and, by “law” here we really mean “regulation” and I’ll go into all that with you at a later date) which means he’ll have to take the dreaded Leave Without Pay.

This leaves our currently financially embarrassed protagonist in a, to quote the great Mississippi Delta Blues guitarist Robert Johnson, “bad condition” (and, if anyone in the history of mankind ever knew what that was, then he did) since he will be further in the financial poo to the tune of $900 (three weeks being needed, so says the local Law Enforcer, to accommodate those 16 days).

So, it would stand to reason that it would be better to pay the fines and stay out of the slammer for financial reasons alone. I’m afraid that, as the Chinese greengrocer said to the complaining customer, this is “Not Messy Celery” the case.

The fines themselves (and costs) amount to a shade over $900 so it looks as if we’re breaking even on the money side of the problem. And, if the Smithic gremlin takes the law-enforced vacation as well as saving the fine, then he’ll actually end up leaving Da Joint with some money left over after all the house payments and other regular expenses have been paid. After all, our Mr Smith is just another regular member of Oz society like unto just about everyone else.

Well, he is much shorter and very much fatter.

If there’s a financial advantage in going to the Big Stone House then there must be some more subjective arguments against going in. There are, indeed, several. So let’s run through ’em and we’ll tick ’em off as we go, class!

The acquisition of a record is a pretty good argument not to go to the Big Boys Borstal in the first place, but that base has already been touched, so it doesn’t even rate a mention in this particular case.

Loss of freedom is a baddie and should be a major disincentive but, once again, it proves not to be so. You see, Mr Smith has spent large amounts of his time deprived of his freedom already. His freedom to speak has been curtailed in the past, also his freedom to go where he wished. His freedom to walk was removed for nearly four years. Being confined to an institution, or a building within it, or a room within that building is nothing to him when he was confined to a bed for two years; and three months of that was spent with him in total or partial paralysis, which means that he was confined to the inside of his own head, his mind still idling along quite adequately.

Besides, our Giftzwerg (look it up, it’s German) has read Thoreau and he can quote that “In an unjust society the only place for the truly just man is a prison cell.”

So, no problems.

What about the baddies in the slammer? No contest on that point either, since Mr Smith has spent some 20 years of his life almost exclusively in the company of those scum known as “Bikies”.

Besides, Mr Smith has, in the past, expressed respect and even admiration for some members of Good Old Oz’s prison population. Not that he reckons that they’re all little angels and innocents. Oh no.

Mr Smith is no idiot despite the results of the psych tests but he does reckon that the prison system leaves a hell of a lot to be desired – which, surprisingly enough, is the way most of the prison officers he’s spoken to over the years feel about it and, even more surprisingly, they seem to agree with many of his suggested reforms.

Anyhow, Mr Smith reckons that if the inmates can put up with him being in there with them then he can put up with them being in there with him.

The last argument in our list is the clincher. If Mr Smith goes to gaol then the Government will have to keep him.

Instead of him paying them $900 to stay out, they will have to spend $1600 ($100 per day, so they tell me) to keep him in.

Plus he will not be paying $300 in Federal Income Tax which means that his tax return will be marginally higher.

He will not be spending hours travelling on crowded public transport. He will not be walking in streets patrolled by gun-totin’, beer-drinkin’ piglets (they’re mostly younger than Mr Smith) who have been educated by their superiors that Mr Smith’s appearance presents evidence of his basic, inate criminality.

He will not be out being menaced by drunk footy players who went to school with the sergeant’s son or by the well-dressed young lads who started slashing the train seats after the guard got off.

There are also a few other pluses. He will not have to cook his own meals, provide his own clothing or be concerned about his hectic and crowded schedule. He won’t have to get out of bed to turn out the light. He’ll be certain of getting up on time and he’ll suffer no hangovers. He’ll have some time to sit in the sun.

Well now, class, that’s the end of the lesson and, if you all got the same answer that is shown in the textbook then I’ll see you down at the cop shop when I give myself up.

Cop you later. In about 16 days…

By Peter Smith, Two Wheels, August 1986