February 12, 2006

At London’s convention centre, one of the bikers drank one beer too many and started shouting profanities at a robust man who was quickly moving down the corridor. Anger. Leather. Invitations to fight.

Because the motorcycle convention was horribly unexciting, I crossed my fingers hoping a fight would break out. I never saw bikers fight, and I expected them to fight dirty, clawing each other mullet’s and shit. Unfortunately, the robust man just kept walking and the rest of the afternoon descended into boredom.

Motorcycle conventions are the dullest events imaginable. A thousand monsters of metal do nothing but crowd lifeless in the hallways. Everything is shiny, overwhelming, and smells like new leather. And as we all know, shiny things with too many muscles are dreadfully, dreadfully dull.

I didn’t come for the big bikes — I came for the scooters. Scooters are modest, kind creatures, and they huddled together in a corner away from the big bikes. Everybody ignored them, but I felt a strange thrill in their presence.

This summer I’m getting a scooter, goddamn it! And a greasy mullet too!