They are out there. And you are nanoseconds away from decorating their bonnet, or being turned into organ-jam under their axles. Since your well-being as a motorcyclist on the roads is your responsibility, you would do well to be responsibly aware of the following road-users. Or learn to like hospital food…
MOTHER UBER ALLES
More deadly than NATO airstrike and more vacuous than a Kardashian, your chances of ending your days under the wheels of the vast four-wheel-driven rescue vehicle her husband bought her are very high. After all, hubby bought her the UltraCruiserGrandPrado truck precisely because she can’t actually drive. His reasoning was sound. He needs a mother for his children. Not a Bathurst 1000 contender. So given she is unable to drive, it was best for her not to be able to drive a five-tonne crash-barred behemoth, so that when she hurled it into another vehicle/shopping centre/tree/wall/river/skyscraper, she would probably survive the impact. Who and what she kills or maims when this happens is not his concern, and there are lawyers he can hire to keep it that way.
WHAT YOU MUST DO: Make your peace with God. You are not even safe on the footpath, let alone behind, in front or beside her. Not only will she casually drive over you/into you, it’s likely she will then reverse over your twitching remains in blind panic after maybe hearing the impact. Or she will just drive blithely on, not even aware you’re bleeding out behind her or that your motorcycle has welded itself to her bullbar.
FULLY BABELICIOUS
Her candy-coloured hatchback is not actually a vehicle as far as she’s concerned. It’s just a smartphone charging-station that is also pretty darn useful as a make-up mirror and shopping-transport facility. So she’s not, like, even seriously driving, OK? She might be on the road and in various stages of contact with the steering wheel and pedals, but what’s going on in her hatchback is not driving. She cannot see you because that would mean she would have to stop updating her Instagram account, and oh my god, that is just not going to happen. Like, seriously?
WHAT YOU MUST DO: Pound on her window when she is texting. Smile beguilingly when she opens it, then grab her phone out of her hands and throw it as hard as you can under a passing bus. Then ask her out. You have nothing to lose at this stage.
PANTECHNICONS OF DESTRUCTION
While there are many semi-trailers on our roads, the problematic ones are not the interstate ones with federal registrations. They are, by and large, operated by professional drivers, after all. It’s the urban ones you have to be afraid of. These are not driven by professional truckies. They are driven by just about anyone the company that owns the truck can sneak past Dutton’s Border Patrol and plonk onto the seat. It’s a bonus if the driver can read a GPS. It is also a bonus if the driver remembers how tall his truck is and doesn’t drive it into an overpass, destroying not only crucial road infrastructure, but also everything behind him, then swimming back to Asia as fast as he can paddle.
THE HIGHWAY PATROL
They hate you and want you to be unhappy.
Carry lube if you’re going to interact with them.
WHAT YOU MUST DO: Not get pulled over. But when that happens (there are no ifs about this), ask them if they are ready to accept Jesus Christ as their Saviour.
BUT IT’S A BENZ
It used to be Volvo drivers. Now it’s Mercedes-Benz drivers. And they are much worse than Volvo drivers because they are self-entitled rich people who think their Merc is electronically proofed against accidents and drive accordingly. The self-entitlement extends to their belief that everyone must and will always give way to them because only the very best people drive Mercs, and only low-income dirtbags don’t understand they are obliged to give way to the very best people all the time. They don’t even register motorcycles. They don’t know what they are, cannot imagine human beings actually ride them, and rely totally on their Merc’s computer to deal with them.
WHAT YOU MUST DO: Stick a shiv into the tyres of every parked Merc you see. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
THE STICKER STORY
Beware of any vehicle with patriotic or cutsie stickers. These people love Australia or themselves far too much to ever learn how to drive. Anyone who plasters a Eureka-flagged, gun-wielding Ned Kelly on the back of their ute window cleans that same window with his tongue and so cannot be expected to drive like a human being. Likewise any car you see with ‘Total Bitch’, ‘Horny Devil’, or references to Hell being taken over by the driver because Heaven won’t have them, cannot be expected to function ethically on our roads. SUVs that advise the following vehicle via a sticker that there is something ‘On Board’, like a baby, a hot babe, or some kind of dog, are being driven by people who are less evolved than society would like. They are only given licences because the Mental Health Act thinks it might be good for them to get out of their shelters from time to time.
WHAT YOU MUST DO: Follow them home. When they get out of the car tell them now that you know what kind of car their baby is driven in, it would be cool to see where the baby sleeps. People with Ned Kelly, Eureka Flag, Southern Cross, and or Australia Love It Or Leave It stickers do like to fight, so when you follow them home make sure you’re up for a few rounds.
Words by Boris Mihailovic