Bikers are actually just nerds

It is an unmitigated fact that I am a nerd. Always have been. On my first day in high school, I was petrified.

Back in the day, initiation of the standard sixes was a big thing. Although the school principal assured us that no humiliating or dangerous bullying would be tolerated, I found myself surrounded by a matric mob only seconds after the bell rang for first break.

As a nerd, I was an easy target. Drowning in my oversized blazer – my mother said I would grow into it and that she wasn’t going to buy me a blazer every year – I really did make a pretty pathetic picture.

So, there I was, on my knees, unsure of my fate and fearing the worst. I could feel my lower lip quivering. Next thing, a matric girl positioned herself in front of me. Forced to look down, I could only see her shoes and ankles. Then I was handed a match.

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The instruction was simple: measure the girl’s leg. With only my shaking fingertips protruding from my sleeves, I dropped the match. In an attempt to catch it, my hand brushed the girl’s leg. Instinctively, I looked up to apologise. You can imagine the view. I gasped. The girl blushed.

I was rewarded with a knee in my back that made my teeth rattle and my eyes water. The torment lasted for what seemed forever and, needless to say, after that ordeal I spent most of the breaks hiding in the library.

Eventually, though, I did grow into my blazer – and beyond. Then I turned 16, and my father bought me a brand-new, shiny silver 50cc Suzuki motorcycle.

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On the first day of my standard nine year – with my sleeves now a good 10cm too short and my blazer faded like an old soldier’s uniform – I parked my bike and strolled in, helmet in one hand and school bag slung over one shoulder.

A group of standard sixes were huddling together. They looked at me and I knew exactly what they were thinking. As I ticked off my list for the annual inventory, I knew it wouldn’t be long before a few of the new kids would join me in the library.