CLEANING CAGES

By Hanne

This is the place to be on a Saturday night

As a motorcyclist, I am quite unaccustomed to the joys of using the drive-through car wash at the local petrol station. Unless I was super keen to test the water tightness of my Cordura - which I’m not, because I know it isn’t – I can think of no reason to even give the machine a second glance. This weekend all that changed.

It turns out that hip surgery and motorcycle riding don’t really mix that well. It’s got nothing to do with the limited range of movement or the happy fairies having a morphine party right in my field of vision. There’s just nowhere to store crutches on an ax100. The armed offenders squad would probably have something to say about it if I strapped them to the side covers like missile guns and split down the motorway shouting ‘Bang! Bang! Bang!’ I hear blaming that sort of thing on the fairies doesn’t go down too well in a court of law…

Anyway, back to the carwash! Poppy’s having a bit of R&R so I have had the pleasure of being chauffeured about in my flatmate’s mother’s BMW. It was so filthy that it needed the ‘deluxe’ version of a clean: no ‘budget’ or ‘express’ for this feat of German engineering. When I was younger my mother told me that people aren’t allowed to sit in their cars while getting a carwash. I think she was worried about the paintjob on her Volvo, but I took her word for it. It wasn’t until recently that I realized there was an inconsistency: if you weren’t allowed in your car, how did you drive it in and out? My mother had lied to the fruit of her womb! Next she would be telling me that there was no tooth fairy, no Santa Claus… my world began to crumble around my feet.

Luckily this crisis was nothing that a much belated trip to the local BP couldn’t fix. We approached the keypad and my fingers trembled with anticipation as the driver keyed in our code. The machine had been activated! Cautiously, we entered the cleaning cabin…

We reach the point of no return...

Suddenly the windows were covered in white soapy foam. We could have been anywhere: battling our way through a blizzard in an Antarctic snow cat or smack bang in the middle of the world’s biggest paintball fight. Then came the rollers. We heard them first, whirring into life somewhere up ahead. Their green and yellow phalanges grabbed at the suds, pummeling the windows and rooftop like hungry zombies. Back and forth they spun, punctuated by our own private monsoon from above. I could hardly contain my excitement: this was everything I had ever imagined, and more!

Then suddenly everything changed. It was like coming across a thick spread of gravel across a perfectly sealed highway. When the blow drying machine descended from the ceiling it felt as if we were in the movie ‘Final Destination’: I could just imagine the sharp blades concealed behind the steel arms, see the machine malfunctioning, failing to sense the outline of our car, charging forward and decapitating us all…

Luckily, it didn’t. The light turned green and we pulled away, heads and limbs intact. To top it off, we even went to the supermarket after! I haven’t had such a raving Saturday night since the checkpoint cop detained me so I wouldn’t get hit by a drunk driver… I should be back out exploring the world on two wheels in the next few weeks. In the meantime, the carwash will probably retain its novelty for a few more sudsy outings. Next time I might even wear my Cordura…

Dont try this at BP...