THE PUNISHER, THE MONSTER AND DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON

by Boris

I can always hear the Punisher arriving well before he actually downshifts into sight. His Speed Triple's MIVV pipe announces his arrival and his intent much like I would imagine the angels of the Lord announce the End of All Things. I had beaten him to the Wilberforce servo by mere minutes. It was a cool mid-winter day – bright as a blade and sharp with the promise of not-oft-travelled roads. The bikes were well-matched – both naked, both grunty, and both piloted by men whose licences were in tatters and who haven't ridden a single kilometre at the speed limit in all the time they have known each other.

Note the Ducati Monster

"It's fucken cold," the Punisher observed. It wasn't a complaint. The Punisher, in my experience, rarely complains. "It's gonna get a lot colder," I grinned, all smug and fatuous in my incredibly warm jacket (Ixon Gallium, pilgrims. Wear it and believe). "We've got time for a bunger," he stated, rummaging in his pockets.

Note the genius evident in the packing

Appropriately bungered, we discussed the elephant in the room as we geared up – the elephant being the Ducati Monster I was riding and the manifold apocryphal tales of its questionable reliability. "I have a tow-rope," I finally said, ending the discussion, jammed my helmet on my head and fired the Monster into rattling life.

There was no such life in the Punisher's Speed Triple. "I think it's the battery," he said, as I dismounted and prepared to push him and his bike up and down the main street of Wilberforce until I died or it started. Thankfully, the latter came before my expiration and we aimed our handle bars up the Putty Road.

The Monster's rubbery and subdued growl promised much in terms of grunt. It seemed to be geared for 4000km/h and I was much happier riding it in fourth at 120km/h. Doing the speed limit in top gear is nothing but a shakefest of lugging L-twin and dismal roll-on. Kicking it hard in fourth rewards with instant surge and will bring you to stupidly high speeds very quickly and purposefully. That's how it wants to be ridden and I am not one to gainsay it. Besides, there's something quite exhilarating about downshifting at 150km/h.

As a handling, suspension and braking package, it has few peers. It is sure-footed, predictable, stable, and worthy of the reputation Ducati has for handling and braking. Lightweight Marchesini wheels, top-shelf Brembos and golden Ohlins goodness is what you're paying for, and it is as good as it gets.

As we increased our pace and began to essay the Putty proper, and the Monster's handling credentials grinned me up nicely – despite the riding position I simply could not, have not, and will not ever come to terms with. Imagine, if you will, hot scissors action between two girls. This is when they are locked at the groins in sekshual congress. Still confused? Make the peace sign with the two fingers of both hands and push them together at the crux of the Vs.

That is how you sit aboard/astride/within the Monster. I now understand why they are so popular with girls. It is for the same reason horse-riding is popular with girls. I am not a girl.

And because I am not a girl, this riding position ensures my not overly large but still manfully substantial genitalia will never be at peace or find happiness on the Monster. A man can only ride on his junk for so long before it becomes bothersome. In all other aspects I actually revered the Monster and revelled in its unquestionable ability. I even worked out that an Aprilia tankbag makes a perfect pillion package, sits well on the rear half of the seat and will carry enough crap for me to do a weekend away without any grief.

But for the moment, my attention was wonderfully centred on the road, and the green HSV about 400m ahead of me, doing about 10km over the speed limit. We were about 20km from the burned-out Halfway House. The road was empty except for us and the green HSV, which, for reasons that proved to be well-founded, was causing the Punisher to hang back from me and for me to reconsider passing it at 200km/h.

I edged as close as I dared to the rear of what I was now certain was a cop car and saw the hateful antennae. I backed off and as he rounded a bend in front of me I indicated to the Punisher that we were following the Highway Patrol. This farce went on for a few more kilometres. Eventually, my bladder made a call and we pulled over. "Shitfucker," I observed as I hosed the side of the road with my tenderised phallus. "What's the fucken chances?" the Punisher sighed, sparking another bunger to ease our shameful conniptions at being denied our Road God-given right to speed like mad fucks on a deserted road in the middle of the week on stupidly fast motorcycles.

"Fuck him," I hacked, smoke wreathing me like glory in the clarified winter sunlight. "What's a bet the fucker's waiting for us up ahead," the Punisher coughed as his bike refused to kick over once again. I fired up the Monster, then pushed his bike up the road until it started. We set off at five kays over the limit, and sure enough, the green HSV was parked up at the Halfway House. Of course, I had to turn my head almost backwards to see the skulking fuck, but see him I did. He was pointed down the long straight that runs north from the burned-out servo and we both maintained a timid speed until we started to engage the brilliant bends towards the end of the Putty. Noting nothing green in the distance behind me, we opened the taps a bit and laced a few corners together.

The grin was back on my face and I actually rubbed myself erotically on the Monster's tank. Well, it's not like I had a choice, is it? I always stop at The Tree, which is a shaded little layback right at the end of the Putty's tight stuff. The Punisher and I smiled a bit, as he lit another bone. This is what this mid-week motorcycle shit is all about.

At The Tree. Note the Punisher's coldness.

This is what drew me to riding and what keeps me riding through all the rotten, shiteful legislation, the disgusting mindless enforcement and the inevitable personal and physical costs. This. Standing on the side of the road with a mate, after putting together a combination or two in some twisties, feeling the bike and the road fucking like two greasy otters on a muddy river bank, and basking in that unique afterglow. This.

The Punisher and I finished the bone, congratulated ourselves yet again on being clever enough to skive off work for two days, blew a smoky kiss or two to the Road Gods for granting us the weather to ride in and the wisdom and cunning to outwit our LIDAR-equipped enemies… and they rewarded us. The Punisher's bike started and did not miss a beat the rest of the journey. We fuelled up in Singleton and set course for Gresford, figuring to grab a bite in Dungog, then do the 27km-hop to the Bucketts Way, chuck a left and make for Walcha via Gloucester.

The scenery in that part of the world is quite breathtaking. The roads were empty, interesting and challenging. Young players should take note. The surfaces are constantly changing and always challenging – and that pretty much holds true for the entire run to Walcha up Thunderbolts Way. At times the surface is a Third World disgrace. At times it is a sublime otter-fuck. At all times it is a challenge worthy of you. We stopped in Gresford for coffee.

Note Gresford