The Chromag Doctahawk is a bike for dickheads. And I mean that in the most affectionate way possible.
Duppy used to be Chief Dickhead in our group. Anything from slinking away to bed The Russian in the dead of the night, right through to eating other people’s dinners when they were out of the room. Dickhead #1. Some of his traits persist. For example, you can still find him face down in the long grass in a distant part of the garden when he overindulges on the suds, like some great awful cat that’s taken itself away to die.
But at some point, he shed his skin and left the bulk of all that behind. I racked my brains for a recent example of him being a fuckwit and they just don’t exist. He drove me in his fish-oiled van out to Boganville, Lower Hutt to collect esoteric trinkets that my wife-to-be insisted MUST be scattered about our wedding. We laughed at how ridiculous it was to be gathering up big wicker chairs nobody was going to sit in and a dilapidated wheelbarrow that couldn’t hold anything, and then he carefully wrapped both in a blanket so they wouldn’t explode on the return trip. When I couldn’t stand up straight the next day, he returned it all for us. I mean, that’s not gonna cut it.
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