Phase 6 Prologue
I had a thought some time so late on Friday night it was really Saturday morning and I know it was important, but even if you put a gun to my head I couldn't for the life of me tell you what it was which would probably have something to do with the third of a bottle of whisky that was left in the door of my fridge when I dragged myself out of bed sometime around when the sun was reaching its zenith the next day, although I do remember that I spent a good few of those pre-dawn hours on one of my YouTube binges, that before passing out I spent 26514 Qantas Frequent Flyer points on tickets to see Wage War in Melbourne with Boldilocks a couple of months from now, and that I left myself a new Post in Drafts with nothing but a title and a link for context, so expanding that into content for you here, now, feels like a good way to start: GUNSHIP- Tell Me When The World Stops Ending
I bought that bottle of whisky earlier in the evening because I wanted to celebrate; I've been doing that a lot lately, because it feels that I've had plenty of reason to. Friday's excuse was receiving the first proper paycheck from the new gig - more money than I'd earned in the last two months before I landed it, remunerating me for the work, if you want to call it that, which I'd done over the last two weeks of May. I've worked another two since those timesheets were submitted, and some time after I file the invoices for the next two fortnights I'll get paid again.
And again.
And again.
And again,
for another ten and a half months, assuming I serve out the rest of my current contract,
assuming I don't fuck up so bad that they serve me my notice.
Don't laugh, it's happened before.
Some time in and amongst that I'll get to do some actual work but the lack of effort I'm being asked to undertake notwithstanding, they seem pleased with my performance so far.
I didn't curse Previous Night's Pete for the hangover I pushed myself through to head down to the garage yesterday afternoon - he did what he needed to do, he knew the consequences even if he wasn't going to have to pay them, and impulse-buying tickets for a band I'll really enjoy seeing with a friend I REALLY owe a visit in a town I've not found an excuse to drag myself to in far too long just goes to show that he had Future Pete's best interests at heart. I wasn't going to wave it off either because I had work to do, and no bike to ride until it was done.
At the end of my first week in the new gig Scott drove me up to Goulburn to collect my new baby on Friday May 15th, with signed vaccination certificates and notarised adoption papers in hand. By Thursday May 28th I'd completed the required 1000km Getting To Know You Dance run-in, carefully working up and down the gears whilst keeping the needle on the tacho under the prescribed 5500RPM, without letting it sit in any one spot for too long.
When they emerge from the Hamamatsu Plant in Shizuoka, the black 2026 Hayabusa looks like this
but red ain't never been my scene. Sadly, Suzuki has never made a Glass Sparkle Black Gen III Hayabusa with Pearl Vigor Blue - that accent's always been reserved for the Pearl Brilliant White one:
Me, I had other ideas in mind. I'd ordered some of the panels using codes from parts lists of the 2024 model. Others I selected from fleaBay and Ali Express. The part I couldn't find was that swoop between the 隼 and the air vent, so last weekend I snagged the two-part spray paint I needed when [insert name of a particular ultra-inexpensive motor-vehicle supplies retailer here] had it was on sale, and after knocking off work from my day-job on Wednesday night I got to work dismantling the fairings so I could finish the fucking job.
When I was done laying down the 5th and 6th layers of clear coat the swoops turned out to need, wiring the USB charger in under the right-hand cockpit shroud, drilling holes in the fender eliminator bracket to hold the license plate 9mm higher, working out how to put the ECU in Dealer Mode so I could clear the Oil Change Alert, painstakingly laying down the rim-tape I spliced together out of a set of blue and a set of silver, and completing the 3D jigsaw puzzle reconstructing fairings which Suzuki entrusts to takumi-level craftsmen, I caught up on Super Genius Boy's adventures over the last week and a half since he's got out of a London psych-ward whilst I rehydrated and waited for the pain to subside, then geared up in the helmet I hand-painted Tron-like lines on with a Posca Paint Pen and the hand-written Enter Shikari reference that no one gets, and my hand-made Archangel hoodie, and went to take some photos using the Sigma 18-50mm f2.8 lens I'd splurged on using the paycheck from Week #1 so I could introduce Gideon II to the world:
It don't matter if they're listening tho, because when I get it over 5500RPM that unbaffled VanDemon exhaust screams like an oni announcing that the world is ending.
Then the arrival that snarling clarion call announces is backed up with the presence only 30 years of Japanese Fuck You-volution can engineer, hand-built by 匠, ripped apart and clumsily rebuilt into something manifestly unique, and utterly mine, by the incompetent fool who's been a 30-year-old-boy for 30 years now and counting, and is about to climb off the back of it with a shit-eating grin, hook the key with it's DON'T PANIC tag to the carabiner hanging from his cargo's and light a cigarette. When we leave I'll throw my leg back over the solo-seat to dance our way to the 11,000RPM redline on the edge of our Bridgestone S22 Hypersport tyres.
Meet Gideon II - the "Raven Special" Hayabusa. Mazal Tov! It's a Boy!
The first time I rolled across the carpark with a cigarette in my mouth and my helmet on the tank of the Triumph, Ava yelled "Holy fuck, you're iconic!"
The last time she climbed off the backpack seat she sighed "Oh, Conor is SO getting laid tonight!"
I threw my leg over the tank, reached past the vape to pull a cigarette out of my pocket, and as I lit it replied, "well... just make sure he calls you 'Pete'."
But more importantly, what's been running through my head for the last couple of hours I've got carried away listening to 80's-chic synthwave whilst writing this, and adding tabs to my browser as I fact-check in parallel, has been how the peregrine falcon my bike is named for can soar at altitudes of over 5km before it tucks in and stoops, reaching speeds Gideon II is forbidden from reaching thanks to Safety Standards and Gentleman's Agreements, and whilst everyone is focused on "how high" and "how fast", I can't stop thinking about how much effort that motherfucker had to put in to get up there in the first place, and that it feels so good when you are.
Way back when I was Ava's age, an old friend told me the story of the one time she took her life in her hands and flew Aeroflot on a dare. She chose the shortest route she could find (from Helsinki to Moscow), and after an uneventful flight an announcement came over the PA saying in Russian, Soumi, then English:
"We are about to begin our descent into Moscow.
"Our staff will shortly be distributing vodka."
At this point, the story goes, the bespectacled, bearded, bear of a man to her left who'd been snoozing since 5 minutes before take-off woke up, came to attention, and did a little dance in his seat singing
"A-hey-Hey-HEy-HEY-VODKA!"
"Why are we drinking vodka?" she asked him.
He replied, "because WE ARE ALIVE!"
A lifetime later and I still can't dance for shit unless my feet are on the pegs or something's on fire,
but I've a job that pays which I can do,
and my choice of bikes to ride,
but ride now I'm dancing with Gideon II.
Confused?
Not sure what that means or was all about,
or where it was going?
Oh fellow-traveller-of-mine, you are amongst friends,
because so am i.
... and if that isn't cause-enough to celebrate, i don't know what is.
Welcome to Phase 6.
