caught speeding …
Jimmy on his reconstructed 250 Kawasaki dirt bike, pulled up on the M1 by the Highway Patrol. More flashing lights than the Casino Show. The bike Jimmy uses instead of a horse when he’s mustering cattle on his uncle’s dusty farm west of Mallangalee with enough acres so nobody inside the house minds the bike’s noise when Jimmy’s outside revving it up in the paddocks.
Caught Fanging. A load of illegal substances on his tongue and an overload of more on his breath. On the Byron coast for some party time.
Also not good is that Jim’s licence has yet to be printed and the bike is not noted on the official Registry of registered bikes. Ditto insurance policies, all of them.
Senior Constable Mick Buchan climbs out of his patrol car, shuts the door and walks over to where young Jim is sitting on the grass verge beside his laid-over bike. Buchan takes a moment, surveys the skid marks and the toppled bike. Jimmy slowly getting to his feet.
Police notebook out. Police issue Go-pro on. Idiot to be dealt with. And here cometh his moment of lawful reckoning
‘You were speeding.’
Said the constable.
“How was I to know?’
Said young Jim. Looking at the uniform, being truthful.
But Buchan’s good. Fuckwits he’s dealt with by the dozens.
‘How do you not know?’
‘Me bike doesn’t have a speedo.’
‘Right.’ says Mick, then makes a note.
Two B-doubles whistle on by, twenty over the limit, a Linfox twenty feet behind a Lindsay, sucking off its vortex, saving gas. They switch over every hundred K’s. Somebody else’s problem thinks Mick.
Back to Jim, who’s rolled a smoke and sat up his Kawasaki.
‘Why didn’t you slow down when you heard the siren?’
Jimmy blows out a plume. This is the river Ganges and he’s a corpse laid out for the burning.
‘Bike’s got no brakes.’