See the tests
7. Horse Shit
I love the stuff. Second to seagull shit that is. Well OK I know they serve different purposes - horsey-poo does the underneath of the car while our white swooping friend splatters the bodywork and windows. It’s nature’s way of telling all those wankers who clean their car every Sunday that there really is a purpose in life.
But if it’s bad for cars, spare a thought for the poor motorcyclist. You’re cranked over on your latest £12,000 CBZZRRR 1100 enjoying the country lanes when there it is, right on the racing line, a pile of the brown nobbly steaming stuff just where your front wheel will be in 7 nanoseconds time. But you’re good at this! Experience counts in the motorbicyle riding world. You flick the handlebars just a fraction and the front wheel pushes out a few inches, giving you a nice new line twixt shit and ditch. Trouble is, you weren’t the only one who was scared. The big fat pigeon in the tree at the roadside has seen it all coming and yes - you’ve guessed it - he’s shat himself and flapped off - leaving his squidgy ballast in mid-air homing in on your visor - a guided helmet-seeking plopsky on an inexorable collision course with your £600 pound carbon fibre bone dome.
SPLAT! You now see nothing but milky whiteness. With fractions of a second counting for your whole future life, your practised £99 gloved hand flips to attention and lifts the thin plastic from your obliterated view, enabling clear vision and a feeling of relief as the front tyre nestles up to, but does not cross, the edge of the grass verge.
Congratulating your self on a near-miss, you blast out of the corner only for some poxy bumble-bee to smack you - SPLICK - straight between the eyes like you’ve been shot by a ten-year-old thug with an airgun pellet.
You hit the brakes and pull over to the roadside to clear up the mess and rub your smarting skull, placing your foot on the verge where - SQUDGE - your £250 riding boots have found the only pile of hairy badger-shit in the county.
After several minutes with a flimsy stick that keeps snapping and your somewhat discoloured handkerchief, you pile off once more into the joys of the unknown, hurtling along one of those lovely narrow straights that make the world feel so fast at moving backwards, and into a cloud of at least 17 million greenfly…… I know - I’ve done it! It’s like diving into a tank of guacamole……
Meanwhile, back home, I feel thankful for the car as I jet-wash round its wheel arches, only getting a few splatters of diluted horse-crap in my face, then squirt the windscreen to remove the pre-digested dried herring which is glued thereon (tell me - why does the seagull shit always hit the very edge of the bit that the wiper sweeps, so it spreads half of it right round your window, while leaving the other half still intact?).
I suppose we’ll never know.