motorbikin'

I used to bicycle home from a particular job, down one of Cambridge's traffic-clogged streets. One day, I'm riding home, and see that most of the road is cordoned off, police cars, flashing lights, etc... In the middle of the road, a huge puddle of blood and some shattered bits of plastic from lights, mirrors, etc. Some brilliant motorcyclist, 'filtering' through the traffic, ran head-on into an oncoming car. The score- motorist: 1, motorcyclist: dead. It took weeks before the dried blood washed off that road. 'Death machines', I like to call motorcycles, and you won't catch me riding one anywhere where there are other fast-moving vehicles.

One f' chicken. Bikers are wally's. Gotta stick to the rules of the road; they're there for a reason. Hero! HED KEEQUAI

Mind you, my Great Love had a motorcycle, and he looked effin' gorgeous in those leathers, straddling that big beast of a machine. And he was a sensible rider, specialist training and such, but tch! those leathers! Mmm mmm mm!

Leather is made from the hides of dead animals. I reckon *that* isn't so sexy, is it, hmmmm? Motorcyles are the bomb. I own two. I'm not dead yet. That may have something to do with my faaaaavourite potion I imbibe with regularity...