BALLS

My testicles, as you can imagine, are important to me. They still function remarkably well, remain cancer-free, and help to handsomely fill out my underpants without the aid of rolled-up socks.

I am, in every sense of the word, rather attached to them, despite them being relatively unremarkable (but still far better than the shrivelled raisins non-motorcyclists have).

Of course, I do not have unfeasibly massive stones like the fellows who race at the Isle of Man, MotoGP, or that kaleidoscope of uber-pain and mega-suffering known as ‘Hard Enduro’, but I’m OK with that.

My normal motorcycling testicles suffice and provide, and they have caused no issues for anyone ever. And because they are so benign I cannot help but wonder why some motorcycle manufacturers are waging a brutal terrorist campaign upon my junk.

You crazy shit-weasel bastards. What is wrong with you? Why do you hate my testicles? Why do you seek to punish them and savage them? Why do you cause them to mash themselves into the petrol tanks of your motorcycles until my scrotum resembles a deflated purple balloon with lumpy gruel in the bottom?

Do any of you actually sit on the bikes after you’ve designed, or maybe take them for a ride? Is there anyone in your production facilities with a pair of swingers under the spout? Or do you get the office chick to give it a fang around the block, then tick the ‘Ergos are all good’ box and set about designing your next man-crotch crippler?

I don’t want to name names or point fingers, but most of the offenders come from Italy – a place which, coincidentally, builds some of the finest and certainly the most gorgeous bikes in the world.

Now I understand compromise. And I understand suffering. I rode around on a MV Agusta F4 for a year and there’s nothing any of you can tell me about ergonomic anguish. Luckily, I had already impregnated my wife so my line was assured, because as much as I adored that howling red-and-silver missile, it brutalised my Playstation like a caulking mallet and reproduction would have been impossible.

I didn’t care, of course. Riding a race-piped F4 like a sweating man-whore was certainly better than having functioning sex-organs at that time. It was, as my friend Paul Mirtschin observed on another matter altogether, akin to a great sex-position – exciting and uncomfortable in equal measure.

The Ducati Monster I rode a while back was even crueller to my scandalised nethers. The MV powdered my spinal column which distracted me from the bruising chaos happening in my undies, so I was never quite sure which part of me was suffering the most. Spinally, the Monster’s riding position was fine. Testicularly it was catastrophic and akin to straddling a fork in a gum-tree that lurched in four different hateful directions. A mule firing its hooves into my spuds would have been gentler.

There have been various other assaults on my boys over the years. All of them are seared into my mind, none of them will ever be forgiven, and I am invariably left to wonder what kind of heinous twat-boil designs a seat that forces the rider’s testicles into the tank, and thinks it a good day’s work.

Certainly, manufacturers do tend to address such issues when they’re made aware of them, so don’t be scared to send them Smartphone images of your haematoma-filled man-berries, preferably resting on the seat/tank combo that caused the bruising.

There’s a reason the new R1 now comes with a flatter seat, and it’s the same reason the 2015 Sportster 48 has a new saddle. Clearly the flood of letters to Milwaukee from horrified Sydney motorists who watched me rubbing life back into my numb genitals at every set of lights in town had an effect. The new 48 seat is much better than the old one and my commute no longer causes delicate women to faint inside their BMWs.

Most recently, my balls were assailed by the spectacular fiend-machine otherwise known as the MV Agusta Dragster RR. The Dragster was so utterly captivating to ride I didn’t even register that my beans were pasted flat against the tank at first. I only realised what was happening when I re-positioned myself on a fast corner entry. As my toy-shop swung out from the tank and rapidly un-flattened itself, the resulting…well, re-shaping, I suppose, caused me some alarm and resulted in a rather creative corner apex.

Would any of these testicular challenges stop me buying one of these bikes? Nope.

Do these issues impact on my enjoyment of the bikes? Nope.

I just want the cackling rat-eunuchs who design these things to know that I am wise to their vile jihad on my balls.

Do your worst, cag-mashers. Tilt the seat even further forward. Add sharp ridge to the centre of the petrol tank.

Bring it.

I will remain resolutely unbowed; mashed and pulverized about the sack, nonetheless I shall not yield to your insensate cruelty.

My testicles will prevail, for I am a motorcyclist.