Inside Sport’s beanpole reporter Aaron Scott recently discovered at Eastern Creek Raceway that as a Superbike prospect, he makes a bloody good journo.

Your author takes to Eastern Creek Racing, Your author takes to Eastern Creek Racing. Images: Chris Peridis // courtesy of ASBK Pillion

I am not built for riding motorbikes. This fact is rammed home as I wander the paddock at Eastern Creek Raceway during round four of the Australian Superbike Championships. The riders lope between the tents, their leathers around their waists, their blonde girlfriends trotting alongside. They look like jockeys, except their necks are thick as oak trunks and their shoulders wide as pick handles. By contrast, I stand two metres tall and approximate a scarecrow.

I’m here, on the invitation of the Championship organisers, to coat myself in leather and ride pillion on one of their machines. The invitation mentioned no height restrictions. But when I meet my driver, former pro Alex Gobert, I astutely note he stands a foot shorter than me. He shakes my hand and looks dubiously at my legs, as if I’ve worn a pair of stilts to get a laugh.

I lose count of the times I do get a laugh. They laugh when I have my blood pressure taken at the medical tent. They laugh when it takes 15 minutes to manoeuvre myself into my leathers. They laugh when it takes another ten to cram my feet into a pair of boots two sizes too small. They laugh when I stand in front of the mirror and assess my appearance. I can see why. The leathers finish midway up my shins. The crotch to shoulder crush is so tight I have to stand in a chimpanzee hunch. The boots are so tight I walk as if wearing a pair of three-inch heels.

I figure that if I squint manfully, pull the leathers to my waist and hold my helmet in the crook of my arm, I might just make it through the pits without losing all dignity. I might even get a second look from some of the blondes. Unfortunately, instead of striding through a gaggle of admiring women, I pass a bloke on crutches. He notes the look on my face. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I did this on a motocross bike.”

The chief difference between Australian Superbikes and their MotoGP cousins is that the MotoGP contraptions are purpose-built in gleaming laboratories, while the superbikes are production-line machines that have been tweaked to within an inch of their life. But don’t assume superbikes are low-budget machines ambling along at street pace. In recent years the MotoGP technology has trickled down to the Superbikes and the gap between the two classes is closing. Take race pace laps at Phillip Island as an example: the MotoGP bikes take around 1:30, the Superbikes 1:32. Make no mistake, this is very, very fast.

With Leather's on. With Leather's on. Image: Chris Peridis // courtesy of ASBK Pillion

The chief failing of Superbikes, of course, is that they’re not built for two-metre beanpoles. Straddling the bike in the pit lane, I ask Gobert if my knees should poke to the side of my arms or whether my arms should encircle my knees. Gobert looks perplexed – it’s not a problem he’s encountered before. I tell him my knees hang a little lower than his. He doesn’t bother to respond ... Then we roar off.

At turn two – a hairpin bend – the brakes kick with such force I almost vault off the front of the bike. Only a vigorous head butt of Gobert’s back and a furious clenching of my arms keep me in my seat. By the fourth turn my entire body is flexed, my neck cabled with tendons, my forehead trickling with sweat. When we hit the straight the burst of acceleration flattens my stomach against my spine. I swear I can feel my brain bunching at the back of my skull. The wind hits my helmet like a flurry of hammer blows.

As we bullet past the pits, I entertain the notion of giving a thumbs up, just in case some of the blondes are watching. The notion is promptly forgotten as the speedo hits 279km/h and a ferocious sword-swipe of wind threatens to flip my head off my shoulders. I press my head between my knees as the trickle of sweat turns to a king tide. Gobert hits the brakes for turn one and again I almost vault off the front. I suck breath down with frantic gulps and forget to breath out; I press my head so deep between my knees it’s practically resting on my leathered crotch.

By the time my three laps are up, my arms are trembling from the effort and my neck feels as if it’s been worked over with a crowbar. I would sigh with relief, but my chest is heaving far too hard. I unzip my leathers and pull them to my waist to find my grey T-shirt mottled with continents of sweat. I judiciously decide to skip my triumphal procession through the pits – the blondes don’t need to see it.

– Aaron Scott