Evil bikies

If you have been trawling my archives or - heaven forefend - reading this drivel for long enough, you will know that my dear old daddy and I would go to Bathurst each Easter for the bike races. Persons who have never been to Bathurst may be labouring under the assumption that it was a weekend of violence and debauchery. It was. Except for the violence. In ten or so trips to the mountain, the only interpersonal violence (as opposed to violence committed upon a motorcycle*) was directly outside the police compound and was committed by the police. I have since heard from a retired policemen that there was quite some competition for the Bathurst job each year. I suppose everybody has to vent.
Be that as it may, I never felt threatened or intimidated by any person or situation when I was there. Dad obviously felt the same because he gave me free reign even as a twelve year old to go pretty much anywhere I wanted by myself. I worked out that the best way to get around was to buy a T-shirt emblazoned on the back with a motorcycle logo; didn't matter what brand you chose, somebody would be riding that brand and would stop to offer you a lift. In those days when you were actually watching the races you would usually find yourself in a conversation with whoever happened to be nearby. Later in the evening, if you happened to run into those people at a pub, you would have a beer with them. If you were walking around the campground and they spotted you, they would call you over for a beer. Generally speaking (and I generally am), it was the most consistently friendly and socially accepting atmosphere that I have ever experienced.
Cut to the present Day:
I was on the telling bone with Dad on Anzac Day talking about The Old Days **. Dad went Phillip Island for the MotoGP this year. Dad will turn 80 next year and is a fairly gregarious chappie. Apart from monosyllabic grunts and the guy on the gate, nobody spoke to him all day. Although he is quite thick skinned and one of the toughest blokes I know, this upset Dad. He's been involved in motorcycles and motorcycling for over sixty years. Which illustrates something that has been gnawing at me for some time.
The nature of motorcyclists and motorcycling has changed, I believe for the worse (All changes are for the worse). Originally, when Dad started riding, motorcycling was an economic decision; you rode because you couldn't afford a car. Only a small percentage of riders rode for pleasure and of those, most raced. This meant that there was some sort of camaraderie between riders, sort of a mutual support group. Then, when I started riding in the seventies motorcycling was populated almost entirely by pleasure riders. Cars were cheaper, people were richer. If you rode, it was because you wanted to. At the time motorcycling was not quite respectable. A lot of people had misconceptions about motorcycling and motorcyclists, considering it/ them to be somewhat dangerous. These opinions were fuelled - as such misconceptions usually are - by sensationalist stories in the populist media. Some fuckwits even had their opinions reinforced at the movies.
However, this also led to a sort of camaraderie among riders. It meant that you would never drink alone in a strange pub or run short of someone to talk to at a race meeting.
These days there is still a camaraderie among riders, but it has changed subtly. Some older riders - and I include myself here - have retained the old attitude of welcoming anybody with the correct number of wheels. A lot of riders, young and old, now reserve their 'brotherhood' for riders of the same ilk i.e., sports riders, tourers, Harleys etc. Worse, a lot of them have a strong clique mentality whereby you have to become accepted into their lofty social strata before they will recognise their existence.
Fuck 'em.
*I saw two blokes having an argument once. One bloke had a Ducati and the other had a Suzuki. Suzuki Man claimed that Ducatis were pretty boys with no staying power. Ducati Man said that Ducatis were just as tough as the working class Suzukis. To resolve the argument they got the bikes wheel-to-wheel, started them up and held the throttles wide open. For a very long time. Eventually the Duke heard the alarm go off, thought that it was time for work and put a leg out of bed. Dunno how Ducati Man got home.
**Shut up. Just shut up.