Balmy summer nights
and the sound of...
stitches.
by Roger Moroney
A
hh it is the season of
summer, if the weather
does decide to actually
play ball, which means
the bike can be rolled
out into clement airs
and dry surfaces. Unless you’re
one of those offroad chaps
who pursue a landscape which
is, shall we say, challenging.
I have tried the offroad adventure
on a couple of occasions, but came
to the conclusion that the curve of
bitumen with the white markings
down the centre was more my cup
of tea. Especially after it took about
a fortnight for the wounds upon the
old posterior to finally clear up.
On this note, it has to be pointed
out that if one is to embark on a dash
along a river bank on a mate’s barking
two-stroke 250 enduro bike then
one should be suitably clad. A light
pair of jeans and a T-shirt doesn’t
do it. Mind you I had the good sense
to wear the helmet of course, and
was also (for some bizarre reason)
wearing gloves... despite the fact
my arms were otherwise bare.
Which brings me to the point of
this tale. For it is the season of the
summer, which means in some
cases it will become the season of
the “ouch”. The season of the ill-
dressed riders. Scantily clad pilots
who, in many cases, will end up
sharing their scar-filled war stories
a decade or so down the track.
Which I have foolishly partaken in.
Yep, ‘twas the season of the
“ouch” back there in the summer
70 KIWI RIDER
Photo: Geoff Osborne
We’d not suggest this level of kit to pop to
the dairy, but cover it to keep it...