I stand at the counter flipping burgers and watching the gathering crowd. The smell of petrol and hot exhausts drifts across, mixing with the earthy smell of vegetation from the slopes of Box Hill beyond the car park and the tasty aroma of frying onions from the griddle in front of me.
The deep drumming note of the Ducatis, the throaty roar of the Honda Goldwings, the rumble of the 250 and 350cc bikes and, occasionally;
apologetically; the whine of the mopeds. Each group is gathered with their own kind like beasts at a waterhole, occasionally one will break off and do a kind of mating dance as they rev. their motorbike of choice around the tarmac. These circuits are not, usually, for the benefit of the opposite sex though. This strutting and preening is like the clash of antlers or the locking of horns. It’s for the benefit of their peers, their fellow bikers.
I stand at my counter at Rikers and flip burgers, serve hot dogs, make coffee and watch.
The Lords of the Dance, not for the price of their machines or for the smartness of their outfits but for their sheer scariness, are the ‘Hells Angels’ contingent. Defiantly bare armed whatever the weather, with their studded leather waistcoats and greasy torn jeans, they‘re given a wide berth by the other riders. There are couples in matching Belstaff jackets and trousers, a girl whose long hair streams over her shoulders when she pulls off her helmet and dozens and dozens of teenage lads.
There is no racial prejudice here, even the girl is tolerated. The only distinction is between those with bikes and those without. The few car drivers who stop to look are eyed with disdain, as if they were of a different order of humanity.
‘Sunday at Rikers’ is nearly over. The winter dusk is closing in rapidly. The bikes drift away, looking for one last race down the straight bit of road back to town. I clean the griddle, serve a last cup of coffee and pull down the shutters. Time to go. Tomorrow I’ll be back at my ‘day job’.