“You been doin’ burnouts, ya cunt.” 

I stood like a complete idiot and stared.

When I took my bike into the Kawasaki workshop for a service, and that was the first thing the sandy-haired apprentice mechanic said as he gazed at the rear tire, I simply stared.

It was one of the few times I’ve been at a loss for words. It’s as though the kid’s statement was some secret hard reset code for my brain. All I could do was stand and blink, as my mind switched off and on, and began to reboot.

I hadn’t been back home for over a year, and I was still struggling with the mental switch, from Singapore mode, to my original factory setting.

The kid was right. I had been doing burnouts. In some circles, chewing up perfectly good rubber for the sake of a cheap thrill and lots of smoke, is considered bad form. I don’t think he was in one of those circles, though. He simply made an observation and blurted out the first thing that popped into his head. Nothing wrong with that. But did he say…?

Reboot 80% complete.

He stooped and picked at a bit of shredded rubber, while I watched on stupidly.

90% complete.

I was far enough along my reset process to manage a reply. “Yeah, one or two.”

“Huh?”

Reset complete.

“Yeah, cunt.”

The kid poked idly at a small stone lodged in the tread, and mumbled.

“Mad cunt.”

 I was back.