I want to go back to the 2021 doctor’s strike. I’m not going to dwell on what caused it. I’m just simply fascinated by the collective force of the thousands of people at the heart of the strike—doctors—and how it had everyone involved with the #HartalDoktorKontrak to step out of their medical facilities in unison at 11 AM.

For the people of Terengganu, that same collective spirit is experienced yearly. It is of course less a doctors’ meet and more a full-blown, petrol-fuelled apocalypse of awesome. They called it RXZ Members. I call it the Woodstock of the Working Class. And frankly, it was far more interesting than anything that involved a white coat or questionable musical talents.

Forget your silent electric scooters and your pretentious adventure bikes. This was all about the Yamaha RXZ. A machine so gloriously un-PC, so wonderfully loud and smoky, it’s practically a middle finger to the entire concept of environmental responsibility. And tens—no, hundreds—of thousands of these magnificent, oil-belching beasts descended upon Terengganu, creating a symphony of high-pitched whines and the kind of air pollution that would make Greta Thunberg spontaneously combust. It was beautiful. In a terrifying, magnificent way.

Now, picture this: a sea of humanity, not swaying to the gentle strumming of an acoustic guitar, but bouncing to the rhythmic sound of highly strung engines. The merchandise wasn’t organic cotton tote bags, but rather aftermarket carburettors and piston rings. The communal experience wasn’t sharing a questionable veggie burger, but swapping tales of near-death experiences at illegal street races (allegedly, of course). This wasn’t a bunch of trust-fund kids finding themselves on a beach; this was the glorious, unadulterated passion of the bloke down the road who’s spent his weekends lovingly tinkering with a machine that’s probably older than himself.

But here’s where it gets properly spicy. This year, the glorious, grassroots eruption of petrolhead enthusiasm somehow managed to get the attention—and more importantly, the cash—of the federal government. Yes, you heard that right. Hundreds of thousands of ringgit poured in, presumably from the same pot of taxpayer money that usually funds things like… well, I don’t know, sensible stuff. And where was this happening? In Terengganu, a state run by the opposition. A state where federal funds would always find themselves conveniently losing their way to the state coffers. The political gamesmanship was thicker than the two-stroke smoke. It was like watching your two divorced parents trying to bribe you with ice cream to pick sides. Except the ice cream was a roaring motorcycle rally.

The state chaps looked about as happy as a vegetarian at a barbecue. Apparently, they felt a tad… overlooked. Sidelined. Excluded from their own party. Which, frankly, adds a delightful layer of political farce to the whole shebang. You’ve got this roaring, independent movement, fuelled by pure petrol passion, becoming just another pawn in the never-ending chess game of Malaysian politics.

So, what’s next for these magnificent purveyors of controlled explosions? How must they navigate this political minefield? Simple: they need to become Switzerland on two wheels. Neutral. Impartial. So committed to the roar of the engine that the bickering of politicians fades into the background like a distant mosquito whine.

First off, the organisers should register themselves as a proper club. A registered entity. A place where the only colours that matter are the iconic hues of a well-maintained RXZ. This allows for proper accounting, transparency, and stops any bright spark from the opposing side of the political spectrum from thinking taxpayer’s money is being used to fund someone’s personal joyride.

Secondly, acknowledge everyone’s support with the enthusiasm of a polite hostage. “Thank you, government A, for your generous contribution. And thank you, government B, for letting us use your tarmac.” No need for effusive praise or flag-waving. The sound of your engines is loud enough.

Finally, and crucially, ban all political paraphernalia from the event. This isn’t a rally for this party or that. It’s a rally for the glorious, smoky, utterly impractical Yamaha RXZ. Anyone caught waving a political banner should be immediately subjected to a communal oil change with the cheapest, nastiest lubricant available.

RXZ Members 7.0 was a glorious reminder that sometimes, the most powerful movements aren’t born in boardrooms or political rallies, but in the shared passion of a group of people who just really, really like a specific kind of motorcycle. It was raw, it was loud, it was politically awkward, and it was absolutely brilliant.

There are several ways to do this, and one of them is absolutely incorrect 🙂