As of last week, I have no motorcycle to ride. At least not legally. It was a bold move to motivate me into saving up for a new one. Those who have seen my bike will agree... I need a new one. In any case, I now have good reason to get around in a car and enjoy all the modern creature comforts it offers. Like a roof and a heater. I am also able to catch up on sleep during my morning commute, wear different clothes everyday, generally be around the speed limit and not worry if the shopping will fit. I'm also certainly more excited to see other motorcyclists on the road now. But it isn't without its downsides. Long gone are the days when I could park right in front of my destination or easily pass an erratic driver using the footpath, gutter, bike lane or lane gap. And then there are times when the girlfriend insists we try the food at some obscure little eatery that Melbourne is so often admired for. You see, on a motorcycle I only need a rough idea of the location. This is because, even when I am lost on a motorcycle, I look purposeful and know very well that no road rules apply to me and consequently feel no guilt for breaking them. Gentlemen will also appreciate that riding 2up on a motorcycle significantly reduces the chances of a 'let's ask for directions' argument. In the car, I'm afraid my left ear is going slightly deaf and I've become an annoying lost tourist. The kind that wants to double park with hazards on, turn left, wait, no right, and reverse up a one-way street. Eventually you reach your destination and your eyes desperately gaze directly at where you want to be. "There it is, there it is!" you cheer. Strangely, instead of finding the nearest curb ramp you drive away from your destination and spend, what must be an eternity, looking for a spot to park your cage. Now this caging business is very popular and apparently the distance from your parking spot to destination is inversely proportional to the size of your penis. Thus you will need to enlist the help of (a) your significant other, who is now a free parking spot hound or (b) pay some ridiculous amount to navigate level after level in a cage storage complex carefully scented with carbon monoxide to remind you that (c) suicide is also a possible third option. By the time you find a spot you are probably late. At least you are dry, smell good, look presentable and have only small items that need to be carried. All good and well then. You quickly forget all of that and enjoy your dinner without anyone kicking your helmet under the table or your jacket being dragged down the aisle. When it is time to go, there is no ritualistic dressing of gear, no obligatory 'be safe' moan from the group's self-appointed safety minister and certainly no onlooking crowd as the bike roars into a lumpy idle. Instead you've forgotten where you had parked and lost your parking ticket. When you do find your car and ticket, you realize you haven't quite gotten use to the concept of locking doors. But you did lock the steering. p.s. I've placed empty braces to save you some time, Justus.