A day in the life of a HIPSTER...
H ave you ever had flies in your teeth? I have. Lots of them, and that’s an experience I would’ve missed out on if it weren’t for the joys of open face helmets. I thought Bruce was pulling my leg when he told me to arm myself with leather chaps, goggles and a peaked lid for good measure, but this was no Village People revival he had in mind. Oh no!
It was a chance to live out a day as a hipster. You know, one of those trendy folk who have slicked back hair, carefully pruned moustaches and drink light beer while watching live feeds of the stock exchange. Not that I’m being judgemental, or owt. I’m not that kind of guy. Live and let live, as they say, and that goes to those who enjoy an evening cataloguing their belly button fluff before having it large with a three hour sesh of extreme ironing. I’ll pass on all accounts, thank you very much, but I’m happy that such endeavours evidently bring so much joy to those who pursue them. The same goes for the retro scene. I’ve never been the kind to spend money honing my appearance in favour of essential new sliders, and I’m certainly not about to start doing so now, having learned the realities of being a hipster for the day. It’s hard work, and I don’t just mean the squeezing of oneself into a pair Freddie Mercury-esque leather pants.
I guess you could say I’ve found a new level of appreciation for those ardent motorcyclists that spend countless hours perfecting an uncomfortable style and persona for the greater goodness of their cause: looking cool. See, cool to me is doing a massive jump over Cadwell Park’s Mountain or doing 200mph down Sulby Straight, but maybe I’ve been misinformed over my 27 years, because in actual fact that kind of antic couldn’t be further from the truth of hipster living. Speed is very much the antipathy of the said existence, and that’s understandably the case. For starters, dressed to impress with a pair of impractical but stylish sun glasses on my noggin, I couldn’t stomach going much over 50mph for long periods of times as my eyes were watering like a garden feature on speed.
And then there was the bane of my lid’s strap trying to garrotte me if I so much as dared to sneak in a cheeky stint of 70mph for a mere matter of metres. It wasn’t a case of being uncomfortable; it was essentially selfharming. But it wasn’t just a physical discomfort I experienced on that day, as nasty bikers weren’t waving back when I took both hands off the ’bars and tried to give each and every passing two-wheeled brother-in-arms a double high five. But no one would acknowledge me, and then a guy in the sportsbike shop I visited tried to lock the door before I could enter his showroom. What’s wrong with people? I’d never looked so dapper, having just had my moustache finely fettled, yet I was being treated like I’d rolled in dog crap and was asking for a hug. I nearly cried that night, letting out the tears of pain only a true hipster would know. Let me tell you, one day in those boots was enough to break me. So much so that I set fire to my clobber when I returned home that evening, and not just because my missus threatened to leave me… Well, it might have been a little bit.