I’M A FILTHY DEGENERATE. No two ways about it. I speed every chance I get. I always have. I always will. My licence has been shredded more times than a Liberal senator’s meeting notes.
You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now. But some dogs can’t be trained. They remember when they were wolves. And now and again, that old primeval switch gets flicked in their brains, and they howl at the moon no matter how often you’ve tried to beat compliance into them.
So, when a filthy degenerate like this, like me, is given a Hayabusa – presumably because the giver understands some old wolves remain in a world of boot-licking lap-dogs – there’s going to be some howling.
The day was bright and clean. There was a spring zest in the air. The crushing summer heat was still some weeks away, but pretty girls are putting on their bright summer dresses, and filthy degenerates are checking their tyre pressures.
My plan was simple. The best plans always are. Belt the Hayabusa down Mother Putty in the morning. It’s week-day empty and a man can apply himself. He can pretend he’s faster than he is. That said, on a Hayabusa, he’s faster than he thinks.
This new Hayabusa was greeted with bizarre opprobrium when it appeared earlier this year. Lovers of the model – mainly fat, twice-a-year-riding fossils – started mewling about how they’d been
