Servo’s are a source of much magic for someone riding a postie bike. Someone will always hurry over with a knowing wink, and say ‘postie bike eh?’
This will be followed by either:
a) ‘You’re not gona break the bank filling that thing up.’ (Wink wink, followed by hysterical laughter as the guy revels in his own ‘zinger’.
b) ‘Where did you get it? How much was it? Could you possibly describe the process in graphic detail and thus babysit me through the whole journey of getting one myself?’
Or;
c) ‘God damn you’re handsome, gee whizz. So handsome. Hey other hot girl, come over here and take a look at this handsome guy. So handsome. Gee whizz.’
The other day, unfortunately, I was greeted by the most frustrating combination of these responses I’ve ever experienced.
I had just taken all the gear off: gloves first so I can squeeze my sweat box helmet off and quickly put it down so I can rearrange my hair, awkwardly fling my backpack around for a while so I can squeeze an arm out to peel off the jacket, etc etc.
I’m just grabbing for the bowser when a shiny and expensive looking four wheel drive pulls up LESS THAN A METRE away from me, so close that the woman in the passenger seat would have clocked my bike if she tried to open her door.
Her husband scurries his hefty frame over from the driver’s side and makes a bee line for the pump. Like he hasn’t noticed that I’m there, holding it. He gets really close, too close, and just stands there waiting for me to finish. As if his presence will intimidate me to modify my fuelling experience into a sprint race.
‘Postie bike eh?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
I hadn’t even started pumping yet, and already felt like rubbing his face into the pavement. Clearly the protocol is: he parks his vehicle behind my vehicle, and patiently waits for me to vacate the bay. Not only was he doubting the validity of my bike as a vehicle, he was doubting the essence of my manliness.
‘Won’t take you long to fill that thing up.’
This was the straw before the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Either this guy had no idea how far he was irritating me, or he knew it and loved it. What I should have said is:
“Dear sir, if you stand any closer and I may well flip out and rip your face off, and you won’t have saved any time at all because you’ll be spending ten minutes freaking out all like ‘oh god where’s my face, I have no face, where did he throw my face?’”
But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything at all. I just stood there, angry pumping. Waiting for his next smart arsed ‘hurry up’ comment. Waiting for him to move my bike and help me zip my gear up for me, anything to get me out of there sooner. But he didn’t.
‘God damn you’re handsome.’
Do you have a problem with people hassling you about your handsomeness at petrol stations? Comment below.
