'Stand by your bike' the photographer says.
Er, OK. I feel such a dork. Shall I put my hands in my pockets, or clasp them in front of me like a guilty vicar? No, I know... I'll casually drape one hand over one of the grips, and lightly finger the clutch lever, as if I'm itching to get away from this square scene and, like, get into the breeze man, and just ride, because that's the life of freedom I've chosen dude.
(What's the time? Is it really that late? Don't want to miss Australian Pop Idol. How long's this bloke gonna be, anyway?).
Oh, and try not to smile. Bikers don't smile. Damn, I always forget that one.