I’ve been in Kalbarri for four days for no particular reason.
I drink wine on the beach and wink at the beautiful people. The sun hasn’t risen in the same place twice, though each morning it spreads light on the only path out of town. Something keeps me from it, unable to shake the sand from between my toes.
In travels past the culprit would have been sickness or exhaustion. Now I think I just need to get laid.
Knocking boots with the anybody of my dreams is hardly an ignoble endeavor. But the problem is this, and it’s the one inviolable truth I’ve discovered on my journey: Bikers just ain’t sexy.
In theory it shouldn’t be this way. Cyclists are in incredible shape and generally have a big smile on their face. Some of us are even nice people.
The trouble is that we wear Lycra and helmets. Spandex alone is okay. Wonder Woman wore tights and she was a part of the Super Friends and Justice League of America. No doubt she had her office flings.
On their own, helmets are fine also. George Patton wore a lid. So too did Joan of Arc, Neil Armstrong and Evel Knievel. These folks inspired awe in the masses while keeping their brains from spilling out their ears. They had no need of opening lines.
But can you picture Superman with his tongue squeezed between his lips as he tries to buckle his bike helmet? How about Darth Vader fidgeting with the padded bum in his elastic shorts?
Of course, the fact that I sport a scraggly beard and carry most of Australia beneath my fingernails doesn’t help my cause.
Nor does my wardrobe. My Sunday best is a red hoodie and my right shoe keeps falling off my foot. If it were a dog I’d have to shoot it.
But I shall overcome these obstacles. I’ll meet the right person – we’ll touch as we reach for the last package of expired biscuits in the discount bin. Our eyes will lock and lustily they’ll ask if I know where to steal wireless Internet.
We’ll walk hand in hand to that special place, filling our bottles in public fountains as we go.
It will be magic.