Emissions/Kilian Doyle: The first time I saw Mad Max, I was about 10 years old and at that particular age when nothing would do me but to declare to all who would listen that I intended to spend my adulthood roaming the dusty highways on a beast of a motorbike, terrorising all before me with my outlaw posse of fellow grime-ridden road warriors.
I was captivated in particular by the leader of said movie's biker gang, the grisly-monikered Toecutter. What did he do to get such a name, I wondered? The sheer grossness of it was enthralling to a sheltered, middle-class pre-pubescent boy. Obviously. Why do you think metal bands like Slipknot and their ilk sell so many records?
Anyway, to cut a long story short, I grew out of that particular obsession within months, and the point was even more forcibly drummed home five years later when I crashed straight into a parked car 20 yards into my first attempt at riding a motorbike.
I consider myself lucky. There are dozens, if not hundreds of unfortunate adult males still clinging to their pathetic boyhood outlaw biker fantasies.
I speak not of motorcycle cops, Hell's Angels or even Gay Byrne, but of the sad clowns who derive their adolescent kicks by posing as professional motorcycle couriers on our city streets.
Not for these urban kamikazes the observance of such mundane trivialities as insurance, traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, bicycles, one-way signs, road markings, et al. "Don't tie me down, maaan. No brakes, no fear and no future, the lot of 'em."
Less than one in 50 of the taxed vehicles on Irish roads (note the "taxed" clause - who knows the real figure?) are motorcycles, but their riders make up around 10 per cent of all road deaths.
There were 39 killed last year alone. All were male, and nearly all were under 25.
Gentlemen, I accept we all need a macho story to tell in the boozer, lest anyone find out what we're really like. But, at risk of sounding like your mother, there's nothing romantic about being scraped off the back of an articulated lorry.
I've seen it, and believe me, it'd have you running for a bus pass and a McJob quicker than any cheesy Government road safety ad.
I also fail to understand why couriers insist on stopping to ogle at each other's machines at traffic lights. Remind me not to go into the toilets in a biker pub.
But you, the public, must accept some blame for encouraging them. In small cities like Ireland's, how can it make business sense to hand an urgent package over to that nonchalant greaser you've just caught slavering over the receptionist, when you know he'll just dump it in his bag, nip down to the boozer for an hour, pop into the bookies, meet up with his mates, and then amble into the destination, demanding a tip? Could you not have done that yourself and saved a tenner?
Many companies used to insist that couriers take their helmets off before entering their building. This practice has now, thankfully, been largely discontinued for aesthetic reasons. (Just a thought: Why did kamikaze pilots wear helmets anyway?)
But perhaps the most worrying aspect is that there seem to be less of them on the streets since the taxis were deregulated.
You know what that means. God help us all.