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There’s a Caltex petrol station in Heathcote that serves as a meeting place for bikies. If you stop here on a sunny day, you’ll find that all the parking spaces are filled with motorcycles, and the grounds with leather and denim-clad people just loitering. Then they take off in big groups, bike after bike pulling out into the street and taking over the road, weaving around cars, overtaking on the wrong side, terrorising other road-users. They ride great big machines like luxury cruise ships with loud throbbing engines and comfy padded leather seats. You know the type, probably packing weapons, planning gang wars and selling drugs to babies.

Fucking bikies.

So this morning Brad and I pulled up at Heathcote and the other bikies were all “You guys are late” and we were all “Hey, you would be too if you had a four-week old baby at home” and they were all “What, you couldn’t just put him in the saddle bags?” and we were all “We just left him sleeping. We’ll be back in time for his next feed” and they were all “Nice parenting, guys” and we were all “Nice land yacht – is that seat a recliner? Does it come with cup-holders?” and they were all “Don’t get mouthy” and we were all silent because bikies are scary, you know.

Then we all got back on our motorcycles and rode off, a great pack of bikes roaring down the road. We cruised through the National Park, enjoying the bendy bits and the wind in our hair helmets and the beautiful weather and gorgeous view. Brad’s parents have one of those luxury models with the built in stereo where the volume control is in sync with the throttle, getting louder as the revs get higher. It’s perfect for obnoxiously blasting bikie tunes by Meatloaf or Bon Jovi at undeserving fellow road-users. But that would be absurd – why would a pack of motorcyclists out for a relaxing weekend ride want to listen to music like that? They had their radio tuned in to ABC Classic FM, listening to romantic piano concertos. Like elevator music for your motorcycle, while you fly through the Kiama bends at 140km/hr.

It wasn’t even Wagner.

I know, right?

Movies would have us believe that a bikie run involves a gang of big scary dudes riding along desert roads into the sunset, finding some bikie tavern to drink in, starting a bar-room brawl and then getting thrown out the window by another local bikie who’s even bigger and scarier than they are.  Actually I suspect some of the people we ride with have done exactly that in the past, but it isn’t the 70s anymore, and these guys are grandparents now, and their children frown upon that kind of behaviour. So, no bar fights for us. We stopped at a cute little vineyard near Gerroa. Then we drank tea. And ate scones. With jam and cream.

 Because we are that hardcore.