I've been standing here looking casual and relaxed with my eyes focused on a light on the horizon though the dark-tinted visor of my helmet so I can keep my head stationary whilst I concentrate on controlling the muscles in my neck and shoulders, carefully measuring my breaths to hold my lungs at 50(+/-20)% capacity using the same technique a sniper might to steady their aim, and I used to use to maintain position in the water when riding the current during drift-dives, to minimise the movement of my chest so that I could remain absolutely still for the last 6 seconds. In another 4 seconds I need to move as quickly as possible one half-pace left and three fast steps left again in... 2... 1... go.
Safely out of shot, I flip the dark visor of my helmet up and take off my gloves as I count 3 seconds... 5... then give it another 3 to be sure before walking back over to the Triumph, check the app on my phone mounted to the headstock which is linked by wifi to the camera sitting on a tripod 3.1m away, and see how the shot came out:
I nod to myself, finally satisfied after the 4 or 5 previous attempts hadn't quite worked, take my helmet off and pull the thumb-sized torch off my keyring to try some light-painting. :
When I got home some time after midnight I sifted through and culled the dozens of setup- and test-shots I'd taken, ran the two that had come out the way I wanted them through a quick colour-correction, and posted them to Instagram with the caption:
"Been ghosted so much, sometimes it feels like you can see right through me..."
knowing that She'd probably never see them.
Phase 5 Opening Theme: Pendulum - Cartagena
2 days later I was sitting on the balcony watching the rain clear up and decided to go see if I could find some puddles with nice reflections in them to take photos of. I picked a tshirt which sent a different message to my last photo session, loaded backpack with camera gear, and hit the road. I spent 45min or so covering 29km without moving further south than Parliament House scouting out spots that might have nice angles, eventually winding up at the far-end of the Museum to play with the colour-shifting lights on the braille-wall, but nothing the camera caught was grabbing me. No one was hanging around Mirrors on my way out, so I gunned it up Lawson Cres at my now-typical 100-ish-kph when I glimpsed the lights of the foreshore at Henry Rolland Park where I'd been taking photos with Dropbear and Ruby 10 days beforehand, so I headed over there. It took longer to find a spot where the lightpoles and benches were spaced out and the curve of the embankment angled just the way I wanted it, then adjusting the Triumph's parked position a few millimetres forward and an inch or two to the right, and work out my body position, spent an hour or so taking photos, and after only 26 takes eventually I got one in 2-esposure-stop HDR just the way I wanted it:
Jason was dubious when I shared it with him - he's still checking in when he hasn't heard from me in 4 or more days, and I've made a game of making sure he never has to. By then I'd kept the streak going for over a month.
"You'll probably know better than me but those street/path lights not doing you any favours"
"Using what I got. I'm practicing, so using the environment that's there...
"The light was tricky, but look at how I lined up the shot with some guide lines added:"
"Wow
"That's pretty cool
"I wouldn't even take those into consideration"
<s'ok, I don't really expect anyone to> I thought, any more than I'd expected anyone to be paying attention to the specific 30-sec snip from the last track of the new Pendulum album which had been playing in my helmet throughout the photo shoot, and I'd tagged in the Instagram post I put up later that evening with the caption:
"On my own playing around with light in darkness"
3 days later I received a message and screenshot from Gorgeous George:
"You're loved apparently 😂😊"
And just like that, on Xmas Eve, after months of sitting around the Dairy Farmer's Hill Carpark, chatting with random strangers, helping people who really should have been wearing their P plates adjust their grips and levers, occasionally exchanging contact details, and riding around on my streetfighter more and more like a fucking hooligan whilst wearing a helmet with a bloodstained-chainsaw grin, I realised that I'd been accepted into the Canberra street-riding community.
But that's not where any of this started, not really. 4:32PM on Friday November 7th isn't really where either, but it'll do for now because that was when I met Dropbear.
Wednesday and Sunday afternoons were times I'd decided would be my Regular Arbo Times, usually from ~4 - 6:30PM - in September/October it was late-afternoon, leading up towards sunset, around the time people would wander up after work, but a time which I knew would be Safe because unless She'd changed her schedule She'd knock off at 5:00PM and head home, take Millie for her walk at 5:30PM, get back around 6:30PM, get her shit together by 6:50PM, and fang it up Parkes Way to arrive around 7:15PM, so if I was gone by then I had a window of opportunity to exist, and connect, and not tread on Her turf. "She doesn't own rider hangouts, and it's a Public Space, so I'm allowed to be here, right?" I figured, "This is one spot out of many, and word will get around pretty fast that I've been hanging around here so if She wants to avoid me it'll be easy..." plus it was picturesque and a fantastic piece of track to practice my cornering. I was adding Friday afternoons to the list because I was trying to spend less time at Peacemaker, but I could still catch the tail-end of Happy Hour if I was moving by 5:48PM.
When I pulled up there were cars in most of the spaces, but there was plenty of room to reverse in next to a 2001 Triumph Speed Triple 955i, plonk myself down next to its owner, and join him in staring into the distance.
"Nice 'busa."
"Thanks man, sweet Speed - fucking classic streetfighter right there..."
The conversation rolled on like 160kph from 80 in 4th gear; I'd had mine for 15 years and counting, he'd not had his for not very long - it was a cheap replacement for the Suzuki Bandit 1200S he'd only just recovered from binning; I was riding solo after a traumatic breakup, he was riding solo after a traumatic breakup; he was heading to FNR, I wasn't because that was Her patch, and I didn't want Her to think I was going to places I knew She'd be trying to find Her; he said he was having some problems with his suspension and rear brake, I told him to save the $50-100 he was going to spend and and bring it over mine the next day instead; he agreed and went to FNR, I went to Peacemaker for a pint with New Friend Lou.
Later that night I was bored and antsy, so decided to head to Kita for a late-night Teh Tarik on the 'busa:
On the way home I crashed it - a wrong turn, a dark street, a headlight dipped a little too low, and what I though was going to be a straight-shot through Narrabundah to Jerrabomberra Ave and Monaro Hwy turned out to be a dimly lit T-intersection covered in gravel. I grabbed a fist-full of brake, felt the front wheel wash out, and the next moment I was sliding down the road on my right hip and armoured shoulder, watching my beautiful bike spin down the road ahead of me leaving a trail of sparks behind it.
"Because fucking of course I did..." I thought as I picked myself and the snapped foot peg up off the bitumen, then deftly lifted 230+kg of 'busa back onto its wheels and rode it home with my right boot perched on the heel-rest. It wasn't until I was nearly at Kings Ave that I realised just how easily I'd picked the bike up, and remembered that I'd not have been able to do that a month or two ago, when a skilled chiropractor started fixing the scoliosis I'd been living with for something like 30 years.
It's amazing the difference it makes when your muscles aren't being dragged out of shape because your spine is actually something close to straight; I won't say that I went from living with constant pain to an agony-free existence overnight, but, y'know... a month or two later it sure does feel that way. Likewise, I could tell you that I went from relying upon drugs to sleep to none at all and that babies don't sleep this well, but I'd be lying and I remember saying I didn't do that; I now take FEWER, and LESS POTENT drugs to help me sleep, and I sleep a hell of a lot better for all three of those things. The other thing, which led to my being able to lift my bike again, is that I can now LIFT again. I used to try to build some strength and muscle with a pair of 5kg weights and never seemed to get anywhere; suddenly I was blazing reps with the 5's so hard I upgraded to 8's, then added a pair of 12.5's (although I had to back those off when I discovered I needed to rebuild some of the smaller, supporting bits of my shoulders first). When I caught up with Scott the other day he commented that I was standing straighter, head held further back, and my shoulders were squarer. I've definitely noticed that there's a bicep emerging when I shave, which is... good for the self-image.
I was certainly a bit achy when I went to sleep later that night with an inbox full of confirmation emails from the small pile of parts I now had on order, but the grazes on my leather jacket had been treated and were now mostly invisible, the graze on my new helmet adds character, and apart from a few bruises which would fade before the week was done I was none-the-worse for wear.
The next morning I threw 3 months' rego on the Street whilst drinking my coffee, and had my tools together in time for when Dropbear turned up. We checked his Speed over, confirmed the parts we needed, and whilst cruising to Fyshwick in the FrogRocket we started the trade stories. By the time we got there it struck me just how quick we'd been running through the "getting to know you" dance - I'd tell him about something that had happened and he just... got it, no explanation required. Likewise, when I made a clarifying query about part of his, he'd just nod and say "yeah, that." Not having to explain why something had left me gutted, or defend my right to feel something, was one thing; being treated like an instant mate by a guy who wasn't even alive when I got my first bike, and not like some weird-old-guy or ersatz-dad was just a little bit special.
Back in the basement-garage we fitted the springs to keep his exhaust in place, tweaked his suspension to give him better corner-feel, and adjusted his rear brake so it... y'know... worked, then...
Then we went for a ride.
An hour or two later we'd run up to Arbo for a hot-lap to test his new suspension settings and a cigarette, he showed me where Flags was, then we went the long-way up to Mt Ainslie trading the lead back and forth on our Triumphs as we jinked around cars at 120kph. I took photos at each stop, and posted them to Instagram with the caption:
"Look at us being Triumphant..."
I didn't expect Her to ever see that either, but if you want to mark your calendar with "The moment Pete's life finally turned around (4096x2072, 1/1216 sec, f1.7, ISO 50, 6.57mm, Nothing A024)", 7:01:46PM (-35.270439, 149.158056) on Saturday the 8th of November, 2025 is probably about as precise as you're going to get.
"So what's with all the photos?" you might be asking. "and who's this Gorgeous George guy anyway? Are you hanging out with that Doctor who stitched you up?"
Well that's another story you're going to have to wait to hear...
... for about 2 seconds because fuck it, we're only at 2100ish words so based on recent stats it's early-days yet.
Back when I was heading up to Arbo with a regularity you could set clock by so long as it wasn't COSC-certified, on an afternoon who's dates and events I can't in any way remember, I pulled in just past a Honda CBR650R and Yamaha XSR900 parked side-by-side, reversed in at a respectful distance, took a seat on the composite-rock wall, and pulled my phone out to check my messages. The rider wearing a cheap, too-big-for-him suit wandered over, spoke admiringly of the 'busa (which I'd learned to capitalise on; whether Gideon is a 'panty-dropper' is unverified, but 'conversation-starter' is undeniable), and we got chatting. He'd just had a job interview, hence the suit, and was out for a ride with a mate.
"Yours the CBR... 500? 650? Sorry, they all look the same..."
"No, the XSR. The CBR650R's my mate's."
"That's a Yama, yeah?"
"Yeah, 900."
"Man, I'm rusty on the smaller bikes. Nifty-looking cafe-racer...
"Wait... CBR650R... is that...?
"HEY, OSCAR!"
The other rider, still wearing his helmet (because that's a thing the cool kids seem to do these days; She used to do it all the time) looked over, feigned sudden acknowledgement (because there is precisely one bike like mine in Canberra, and I knew that he knew who gets to ride it) and waved. I wasn't going to push it further than that because last thing I heard he was a Very Close Friend of Hers, but fucked if I wasn't going to be friendly and polite even if the situation was seriously fucking awkward.
"Sorry, I kinda know that guy.
"Anyway: Pete."
"George."
"Nice to meet you. So what was this job interview? Reckon you got it?"
I ran into George again with Oscar a week or two later after acquiring a new scar on my arm, and chatted some more, then again later-still, sitting around with Mia. "Polite and friendly," I thought to myself as I masked up and be friendly and polite to another Very Close Friend of Hers.
"Ey Gorgeous George, 'allo Stranger."
The motions of "how've you been" rolled through with casually warm tones expressed with an undertone of guarded superficiality, which led to me asking one of the typically empty questions you throw into a conversation when it starts to run dry:
"So, big plans for the weekend?"
"Don't know yet, might have a date," Gorgeous George replied, because of course he fucking did.
<freeze-frame>
The thing you need to understand about Gorgeous George is that he generates a Cognitive Dissonance Field.
You meet him, and he's absolutely unintimidating - medium height and slight build which suggest a complete lack of threat, sandy hair tussled in a way that can only to be the result of careful de-reconstruction or having just pulled off a bike helmet, a smile which exudes just a bit too much casual charisma, and ice-blue eyes which look at you earnestly and project such utter sincerity that puts you so immediately and perfectly at-ease that your lizard-brain goes into full-blown Admiral Akbar mode.
You find yourself bracing yourself for it to be a trap...
... which somehow doesn't spring because it was never there in the first place.
He's simultaneously modest about his abilities, and utterly assured that he's the fastest motherfucker in the room.
Because he is.
It's not ego; it's simple fact and he knows it, but it's also not arrogance because he straight-up doesn't care. He's demolished me on rides and shrugged off congratulation; I've passed him on the outside of a corner and pulled so far ahead that I already had my helmet off when he pulled up to the stop and given me real, meaningful tips on how to be FASTER.
He's the only person I've ever met who achieves gravity without mass, magnetism without a trace of iron, suave without a hint of smarm.
Of course Gorgeous George has a date this weekend; when you put all the pieces of him together identikit-stylez and feed the image into Nano Banana with the prompt "what is this?" you'll receive the reply "This is an image of the taxonomic ideogram depicting a calculated construction of what it would look like if evolution and selective-breeding were to create God's Perfect Fuckboi".
And it will be absolutely and undeniably correct whilst also being completely and utterly wrong.
Gorgeous George is both none of the things he appears to be, and everything it says on the tin.
Both parts of my brain want to be friends with him whilst fighting to the death over why the other is full of shit.
Let them fight.
I was going to be either way.
</freeze-frame>
"But next week is free," he continued, "come to FNR, my crew'll be going for a ride."
"You know I can't go to FNR," I reminded him, even more for Mia's ears than his, "it's my Ex's patch and I REALLY don't want Her thinking I'm there trying to find Her."
"Nah man, send it; you need to stop being afraid of your ex."
"But..."
"She's not been going to FNR," Mia chimed in, "and when she does she's been turning up in a car."
"...
"Why would She be turning up in a car...?"
"Some fucker tried to steal her bike - she's been off the road for like 10 weeks."
"Shit... what...? Damn... She was so happy when she got that, we went up to Sydney to pick it up," I showed them the photo of Her grinning like a dork leaned against the Suzuki GSX-R750 She'd owned for all of 4 hours at the point I snapped it at the Marulan BP we stopped at on our way back to Canberra, "did they... how much damage did they do?"
Conversation ran through the professional- and mechanical-ineptitude of Eye Candy Motorcycles and the crime-rate in Queanbeyan.
"See? She's not even going, you're fine."
"...
"...
"I guess... maybe it'd be Safe?
"But I'm not showing up alone... what would people think?"
"Fine. Meet me up here, you can arrive in a group."
"..."
"C'mon man.
"Send it."
"I... OK... fuck it.
"But if She's there I'm just gonna keep riding...
"...
"... and if I leave in a hurry, you'll know why."
So 8 days later I arrived at the Friday Nite Ride nexus-meetup at the tail-end of a convoy on my Triumph with Gorgeous George and his friend Kaesi, with the thundering of my pulse in my ears drowning out the sound of prejudgemental guilt I felt for having the audacity to even be there in the first place coming out of my helmet comm's, scanned the crowd as we did the lazy bog-lap I'd never told Georgeous George I'd need to do, and after a panicked false-positive pulled up, reversed in, and got introduced to a crowd of new friends.
Then we went for a ride.
Running around late at night practicing my photography was Gorgeous George's fault as well in a roundabout sort of way, although Dropbear provided plenty of encouragement of his own. On one of those afternoons sitting at Arbo he was talking about wanting to get some nice photos of his bikes, and having a whinge about how much money motorcycle-centric photographers charged.
"Well... I've got a vaguely decent camera I keep meaning to learn how to use - if you can show me some examples of what you want I'll do it for free. I've got a lot of time on my hands, and I could use the practice..."
We tried a few at Arbo here and there, and I was talking about it with Dropbear who wanted to try some near Carillon with his new girlfriend Ruby. They were the ones who taught me the main rule of motorcycle-photography; "no plates, no faces," is mainly to do with records of people breaking road rules, but I decided to adopt it generally anyway because I find it incredibly liberating. I hate having photos taken of me because I'm completely unable to pose naturally. I'm fine if someone snaps me when I'm not paying attention - sometimes I even look pretty decent, but the moment I try to make my face smile something happens to the fabric of the universe and what shows up looks like someone left a rubber clown mask draped over the collection of bobble-heads they keep blu tack'd to the dashboard of their car whilst it was parked in the sun during a heatwave. Give me a mask to wear, especially a biomechanical skull with blood dripping off its chainsaw teeth, and I actually look pretty fucking cool... even when being a bit bromantically silly:
I got some REALLY nice ones of all three of our bikes one afternoon Gorgeous George joined us because of course they already fucking knew each other - turns out he ALSO owns a CBR650R:
I took to saving them to a public share on my private photo server, which on a whim I published as Jinba Ittai. Whether that was before or after I designed a custom decal from the kanji probably wasn't worth remembering, but what I really should remember is to put in the order for the prints because it'll be, I reckon, pretty fucking cool:
"So... now what? Where's all this headed? What's the plan and what's the point?" I can imagine you asking yourself, and the answer is:
"Fuck knows. Nowhere. There isn't one."
I had plans, I thought I knew where I was heading, and I failed those Phases so hard I got Blocked from ever getting there. I don't know what I'm going to do next, when job will happen, and...
I've stopped caring.
Welcome to Phase 5.
I know that tomorrow is a public holiday, and Dropbear and Gorgeous George were talking about doing a Mt Mac run.
I know I have a design in my head for a nifty pattern using reflective tape I want to sew on the back of the kevlar-lined hoodie Dropbear gave me in exchange for the new front brake master cylinder I paid for.
I know people who are spinning up a new ride crew called Sanctum, and have invited me along to the photo shoot they're doing for promo pics and vids, which should give me a chance to try out an idea for another ghost-style photo, this time where I roll the bike into the frame from the left-hand side with the lights on, then stop and sit still for the rest of the exposure to I get the light-trail effect, and both me, and my Buzzsaw helmet, and my Triumph look a bit intangible.
I know that I'll do all of these things when I feel like it, for the sole purpose of having done them, then post them to Instagram, and if people like them then that's great for them, but beyond being interesting enough that people want to hang out with me I really don't give a fuck so long as I have fun doing it.
I know that half the things I make I won't care about once I've finished them, and will just give away because the point was to work out how to do it, not to keep whatever it is.
I know I'm stuck here, and for now I don't have a whole lot better to do, but filling my days with weird creative projects, pretentious photography, sitting around Arbo talking shit with strangers, keeping Dropbear company when his depression is biting just a bit too hard, getting wheelie lessons from Gorgeous George, and rediscovering how to have FUN has been making that a whole lot easier to deal with.
I know that no matter how much I'd love to share all these things with Her, She'll probably never see them.
And I know I'm going to do them anyway because I CAN, and I fucking feel like it.
I'm not doing any of it for Her, I'm doing it for me.
Rabeh would be SO proud.
But y'know, I've said it before, and I may even one day say it again اگر خدا بخواهد:
Oh my god
We're going for a ride...
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