with my head. At 130 ks I chop into top. A cop car buzzes past on the opposite side of the motorway at 150. I’m gone at 170. I’m invincible, whipping past cars as though they were bolted to the highway. My eyes are streaming and I’m straining to see through slits. I see the green exit sign up ahead and begin the rapid clunk down through the gears. When my feet touch the ground at the lights they are numb with the tension and vibration, but my whole body is awash with adrenaline. I feel like a god wandering through mere mortals….
Riding that big old British cruiser had blown away the shame and the failure that had been sticking to me like a bad smell ever since Karen’s place. All that really mattered was keeping in the power band and choosing the right line for the corner. A lesson for me, I thought.
Back at Mrs Jacques’, I sat on the verandah staring at the Norton where it stood majestically on the front lawn. It was a beautiful object; no car combined such delicacy with such power. Some peasant had painted it all with matt grey paint. The first thing I’d have to do would be to get it resprayed in its original colours. It needed a wash so I attacked it with a bucket of water and dishwashing detergent. As I was scrubbing away at the layers of hardened crud on the tank I found the grey paint came offtoo. Underneath it was shiny iridescent red: the original colour. They had sprayed over a perfectly good paint job! An hour of hard scrubbing and careful scratching with my fingernail revealed the Atlas in its original glory. Crimson tank and chrome mudguards: a 200 kilo thunder machine, from the days when Brit bikes ruled.
When Devon returned he was amused that the bike had changed colour.
‘A lot of Rebel’s vehicles are matt grey,’ he said. ‘He must like the colour. Maybe it reminds him of the SS.’
‘You don’t think it could be stolen?’
‘Stolen? Rebel? No! No, Trace! How could you? You ingrate!’ Then he burst into laughter.
‘Well, it’s all right for you, Devon. I don’t want to be riding around on a stolen bike.’
Devon held his hands out in the
calm down, calm down
mode. ‘It’s cool! My car’s a Rebel car. I’ve been stopped heaps. He knows what he’s doing, Trace. You got to have a bit of faith, man.’ He sang a few lines. ‘I’ll get you a warrant and reg next time I see Martin.’
‘Why does he call you Jig, Devon?’
‘Nickname. Short for Jiggaboo.’
‘Jiggaboo?’
‘Yeah, you know, nigger.’
‘No.’
‘Rebel and the guys he hangs about with hate blacks, eh. It’s like one of their articles of faith. See a black by himself and they’ll smash him. No questions asked.’
‘You mean Māori?’
‘Yeah. What do you think I meant? Nee grow?’ he said with big emphasis.
‘So he thinks you’re Māori?’
‘Maybe, he’s not sure … so it’s just Jig … to remind me … like I have a question mark hanging over me.’
‘Are you?’
‘My people are from Spain. Santos. That’s a Spanish name, eh?’
‘Oh. I assumed you were Māori, I guess.’
Devon’s tone changed. ‘Yeah, well I’m not. OK?’
It was one of those disappointing moments when you try to look past some major flaw in someone you admire. Try to pretend they didn’t have it.
‘Jesus, Devon. I’ve Māori on my mother’s side. What’s the big deal man?’
‘Yeah, well with skin your colour people don’t assume stuff, you know. It gives me the shits. I put up with Jig from Rebel, he’s a mad bastard … and he’s useful, but I get it a lot, and I’m sick of it.’
I put my hands up to say, ‘Chill Bro!’ I’d stumbled on some sort of big issue and I didn’t want to pursue it. I didn’t want anything to prick my little bubble of happiness. Somehow in the course of half an hour he had got me this glistening dream machine. I learned that day that there were two things you didn’t question with Devon; the other one was money. It was always trade or payback. Cash in
Riding that big old British cruiser had blown away the shame and the failure that had been sticking to me like a bad smell ever since Karen’s place. All that really mattered was keeping in the power band and choosing the right line for the corner. A lesson for me, I thought.
Back at Mrs Jacques’, I sat on the verandah staring at the Norton where it stood majestically on the front lawn. It was a beautiful object; no car combined such delicacy with such power. Some peasant had painted it all with matt grey paint. The first thing I’d have to do would be to get it resprayed in its original colours. It needed a wash so I attacked it with a bucket of water and dishwashing detergent. As I was scrubbing away at the layers of hardened crud on the tank I found the grey paint came offtoo. Underneath it was shiny iridescent red: the original colour. They had sprayed over a perfectly good paint job! An hour of hard scrubbing and careful scratching with my fingernail revealed the Atlas in its original glory. Crimson tank and chrome mudguards: a 200 kilo thunder machine, from the days when Brit bikes ruled.
When Devon returned he was amused that the bike had changed colour.
‘A lot of Rebel’s vehicles are matt grey,’ he said. ‘He must like the colour. Maybe it reminds him of the SS.’
‘You don’t think it could be stolen?’
‘Stolen? Rebel? No! No, Trace! How could you? You ingrate!’ Then he burst into laughter.
‘Well, it’s all right for you, Devon. I don’t want to be riding around on a stolen bike.’
Devon held his hands out in the
calm down, calm down
mode. ‘It’s cool! My car’s a Rebel car. I’ve been stopped heaps. He knows what he’s doing, Trace. You got to have a bit of faith, man.’ He sang a few lines. ‘I’ll get you a warrant and reg next time I see Martin.’
‘Why does he call you Jig, Devon?’
‘Nickname. Short for Jiggaboo.’
‘Jiggaboo?’
‘Yeah, you know, nigger.’
‘No.’
‘Rebel and the guys he hangs about with hate blacks, eh. It’s like one of their articles of faith. See a black by himself and they’ll smash him. No questions asked.’
‘You mean Māori?’
‘Yeah. What do you think I meant? Nee grow?’ he said with big emphasis.
‘So he thinks you’re Māori?’
‘Maybe, he’s not sure … so it’s just Jig … to remind me … like I have a question mark hanging over me.’
‘Are you?’
‘My people are from Spain. Santos. That’s a Spanish name, eh?’
‘Oh. I assumed you were Māori, I guess.’
Devon’s tone changed. ‘Yeah, well I’m not. OK?’
It was one of those disappointing moments when you try to look past some major flaw in someone you admire. Try to pretend they didn’t have it.
‘Jesus, Devon. I’ve Māori on my mother’s side. What’s the big deal man?’
‘Yeah, well with skin your colour people don’t assume stuff, you know. It gives me the shits. I put up with Jig from Rebel, he’s a mad bastard … and he’s useful, but I get it a lot, and I’m sick of it.’
I put my hands up to say, ‘Chill Bro!’ I’d stumbled on some sort of big issue and I didn’t want to pursue it. I didn’t want anything to prick my little bubble of happiness. Somehow in the course of half an hour he had got me this glistening dream machine. I learned that day that there were two things you didn’t question with Devon; the other one was money. It was always trade or payback. Cash in
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