An Incident Behind the Comfort Zone
Created | Updated Jun 30, 2009
It was at a Harley rally somewhere in Belgium. Most of it's a blur. The ride through Belgium was so boring that I fell asleep on the pillion behind my fella. My head tipped forward and fetched him a sharp crack on the helmet. This caused a few metres of 'fish-tailing', which woke me up for a while. We did stray into France briefly - like a couple of dozen frantic ants, rushing up this road and down that, trying to find our lost pheromone trail. But we still got to our destination before dark.
A Harley rally camp site leaves an impression. With all the black leather, sitting, standing and wandering around, it looks as though an oil slick has inexplicably washed up in a field. My jacket was red.
We found a less populated patch of ground, set up our tents and then set off in search of a beer tent. They're easy to find. You just submit to the tidal motion of the oil slick. Wherever you find a large, lumpy accretion sticking - there be booze. And we did what you do at these dos. We strolled around with our drinks, looking for old friends and when we found them, we sat about gassing. Until the band came on and drowned out conversation.
Then we danced. Every so often we'd get out of the way as a biker came roaring into the tent and did some fancy spins and wheelies, egged on by a thunder of shouting and table banging. The pulsing light show would dim in the cloud of dust and fumes and the band would take a break while the wild men ruined their tyres.
Some of the rockers get very drunk indeed at these events. One of our group who never failed to drink himself unconscious, wobbled off mumbling something about the diuretic effects of the beer. An hour or so later, his girlfriend was asking if anyone had seen him. No-one had. Half an hour after that, he turned up - all washed and scrubbed and changed into clean clothes - and almost in charge of his faculties. Some of us were still sober enough to be surprised by this middle of the night transformation. We didn't find out what had caused it until the next day.
He'd wandered over to the latrine block and found all the cubicles occupied. There must have been at least 20 of the portaloo-type booths, lined up in front of a deep trench. The trench was full of the emptyings from the loos. It was what you might call "deep do-do" and it was not fenced off. He couldn't wait, so he walked down to the end of the row, with the intention of peeing in the trench. Unsteady as he was at that stage, he tumble in. It was quite a long struggle to get out. Understandably, no-one was eager to help. He did not come up smelling of roses.
The ride back was another uneventful blur, like the ride there. It's funny the things that stick in your memory...
A Harley rally camp site leaves an impression. With all the black leather, sitting, standing and wandering around, it looks as though an oil slick has inexplicably washed up in a field. My jacket was red.
We found a less populated patch of ground, set up our tents and then set off in search of a beer tent. They're easy to find. You just submit to the tidal motion of the oil slick. Wherever you find a large, lumpy accretion sticking - there be booze. And we did what you do at these dos. We strolled around with our drinks, looking for old friends and when we found them, we sat about gassing. Until the band came on and drowned out conversation.
Then we danced. Every so often we'd get out of the way as a biker came roaring into the tent and did some fancy spins and wheelies, egged on by a thunder of shouting and table banging. The pulsing light show would dim in the cloud of dust and fumes and the band would take a break while the wild men ruined their tyres.
Some of the rockers get very drunk indeed at these events. One of our group who never failed to drink himself unconscious, wobbled off mumbling something about the diuretic effects of the beer. An hour or so later, his girlfriend was asking if anyone had seen him. No-one had. Half an hour after that, he turned up - all washed and scrubbed and changed into clean clothes - and almost in charge of his faculties. Some of us were still sober enough to be surprised by this middle of the night transformation. We didn't find out what had caused it until the next day.
He'd wandered over to the latrine block and found all the cubicles occupied. There must have been at least 20 of the portaloo-type booths, lined up in front of a deep trench. The trench was full of the emptyings from the loos. It was what you might call "deep do-do" and it was not fenced off. He couldn't wait, so he walked down to the end of the row, with the intention of peeing in the trench. Unsteady as he was at that stage, he tumble in. It was quite a long struggle to get out. Understandably, no-one was eager to help. He did not come up smelling of roses.
The ride back was another uneventful blur, like the ride there. It's funny the things that stick in your memory...
