Sunday ride outs always started at the Royal Oak situated in the center of town behind the market cross. With cobbled front and faded, red lettering it occupied the prime position for the market trade on Thursdays when the dark, cozy lounge bar was continually occupied by flat-capped old farmers supping pints of bitter whilst their wives sat round copper topped tables gossiping and shrieking with laughter. But the public bar was the hang-out for all the local bikers who’d made it their home for years and more or less became the only sort of people in there most nights and made it their own. What the landlord thought I don’t know but I guess having dozens of regulars piling in seven nights a week made it all worthwhile.
Back in those days pubs were pubs and not places for eating. Low tables with ashtrays and cigarette burns fronted corner seats covered in dubious floral patterns and suspect cushions, the Oak was notorious for it’s crap seats and there were certain places where you did not want to end up sitting for fear of being on the sharp end of a spring all night. If you didn’t get a place on the padded corner units there were loads of low stools and wooden chairs and these would be dragged about to form tight circles around the tables with bikers’ dirty denim knees pressed together and every available space underneath filled with helmets, gloves and scarves. Leather clad shoulders to shoulders, pints of coke and bitter- shandy crammed onto the tables jostling for position with ashtrays, packets of B&H and Embassy Regal, bags of crisps ripped open for every one to share.
Status Quo, Whitesnake and other contemporary rock rotating on the tinny jukebox sending waves of bass and seminal guitar riffs through the smoke filled air but never loud enough to hide the arrival or departure of bikes on the other side of frosted windows. By twelve thirty all the usual suspects were there, Bob, the elder statesman, old school biker with long greasy hair, mutton chop side-burns, oily denim cut-off over black-tasselled leathers, ripped jeans and rally patches. He was like a father to us younger lot and we all looked up to him even though he rode a knackered old Z650 in a rather sedate fashion. Dinger, a strapping six foot local lad who could stop, or start, a fight just by standing up and glowering down at the competition. Massive hands matched a massive grin and twinkling eyes, his loud Lancashire accent drowning out nearby sounds, brass bullet belt, pewter skull badges, classic Motorhead painted in white on the back of his studded leather jacket. Rode a tatty GT250 with T bars but would later become synonymous with a silver Norton Commando which he rode for years. Holding court with the rag tag assortment of local greasers, long hair, black or white T shirts, tight denim jeans, leather waistcoats, enamel badges, swapping stories, taking the piss out of everyone.
Barry, Pranny, Mick and the hard core dirty bikers crammed into one of the other corners, the closest we had to patched bikers, they were at the extreme end of the crowd preferring hard-tail choppers and Harley influenced styling to the “rice-burners” and “Jap crap” we rode. They were less likely to join in a Sunday ride to race round the country lanes and more often would cruise around to other local bike meets or make the long trek to Rivvy barn in Blackburn where there was a much bigger hard-core biker thing going on.
And then there were us racers. Not like the ‘50s, mods and rockers café racers with greased back hair astride Triumphs and Nortons. This was the 1980’s and things had changed from those monochrome days of Ton-up boys and transport cafes. Black was not the only colour and we revelled in our technicolour renaissance, our jackets and bikes ablaze with contrasting stripes, race numbers and advertising logos. Our conversations were not about biker gigs, bonfires and battles but all about tuned engines, top speeds and the latest Transatlantic race dates.
There’s be a gradual consensus throughout the room that it was time to think about leaving and the first keen types would make their way outside and start fiddling under raised seats, checking petrol levels and arguing about which route to take that day. There’d often be several runs with different agendas but I was always lined up with my usual gang, the two-strokes and speed freaks who were looking for an adventure on familiar roads that we knew with maybe a distant rural café, or pub at the end of it.
Next to me there’d be Jason on his green FLF triple, originally a 250 but now with a 400 engine hidden away behind the racy fairing. Always one to get the upper hand in any situation Jason was the good looking mate that all the girls fancied, had more money than most so all his gear, helmet, leathers and stuff was just the right make, just cool enough to make the right statement without him being labelled a poser. He’d be usually sitting casually on the bike with some girl pressing her face close to his helmet trying to arrange where she could meet him later (Bastard!). On the other side my other mate Andy, a mad sod with shocking red hair and a wild look in his eyes. The opposite of Jason, he lived for riding but couldn’t care less about his appearance or polishing his bike. His 250 Yamaha was the classic hire purchase nightmare, behind on his payments, crashed within the first week, seat recovered with gaudy red vinyl I think he’d actually cut from a motorway service station seating unit. Ace bars bent into almost vertical angles, indicators hacked off, yellow and black paintwork dented and dirty. He’d sit there revving and blipping the throttle, impatient to leave, frustrated at the delay. He’d ported the barrels and modified the reed valves in some deluded frenzy one time to increase power but all he’d done was to create the narrowest of power-bands I’d ever experienced. That bike was hard to ride, it had no power unless you thrashed it and when the power came in it was like a slap in the face. You could hear him coming for miles because the engine note and technique required was utterly unique.
Then there might be Chris on the latest Suzuki X7, always wanting to prove his superiority over the older 250s but not quite having the riding skills to do it and Tony on an old gold spangled GT250 that was showing it’s age but still one of the fastest contenders. Tony was a fast rider and a wheelie king always at the front with his helmet painted in black red and white homage to Steve Baker. GT380s and RD200s, Suzuki Hustlers and the odd 125 with an optimistic rider hoping to keep up with this crowd. Final adjustments to helmet straps, riders leaning over to shout some last comments into the face of the next rider, visors reflecting the morning sun and splintering it into rainbow motes as the two stroke fumes drifted across the impending departure.
Slowly through the village high street the procession would set off, wary of cold tires and choked engines spluttering, the local panda car parked up at the post office keeping an eye on things and reminding us that there were traffic laws and speed limits and consequences for ignoring this fact. As we hit the 40mph limits our speed would increase and the first jostling for positions would start to happen, someone flying up the outside to the front and others just wanting to get next to a rider they trusted or had some pre arranged vendetta to settle. I’d always use this time to listen to my engine and settle down into the feel of my bike. I was only happy when I could sense everything was right and if there was some strange vibration or subliminal difference with the brakes or suspension I’d be agitated and distracted until I’d either worked out what it was or at least decided that it wasn’t going to result in a breakdown or crash. Slower cars were caught and passed en-masse, the big multis using their torque, four-into-ones barking with open throttles and the ‘strokers blipping, once, twice down the gears to engage power-bands before screaming past into the open roads ahead.
Finally the last set of lights signalled the end to suburban restrictions, the strung-out procession of bikes braking hard forming rows that mirrored the GP grids we longed to be part of and suddenly the real ride was about to happen. Lights changed to amber, clutches dumped and 20 bikes launch down the long mile straight of the Cockerham road, a pure drag race, legs trailing, denim hems flapping, crouching low over tanks trying to keep front wheels down and going up through the gears. Red line and maximum power, now was not the time worrying about mechanical failure, this was the moment when you could catch and pass, two, three bikes at a time glorying in the 400’s triple thrust, “Got you, yer wanker!” You’d be secretly smiling inside your helmet, only to be passed on the inside by a nutcase on a GS750, Piper exhaust shrieking towards 12,000rpm as its pilot mercilessly rubbed your face in it’s superior missile-like thrust. There was only space for a brief run at terminal velocity 20 bikes, or more, spread across both lanes the verges a blur of green and yellow, the cow parsley blasted flat with wind blast and exhaust gasses. And then the desperate reverse of intent as the end of the straight fast approached, a right-hander leading to a terrifyingly narrow, hump-backed canal bridge. Down through the gears we went all converging to the left braking hard to tuck in behind the next rider and not even minding losing a few places in order to get on the right line before the bend. Holding the triple on a steady throttle, revs hanging on the mid point, waiting for the apex before engaging the power-band and nailing it out to get set up for the bridge.
You didn’t want to be the first to a bridge like that. Blind horizon bordered by brutal stone walls, a single lane with no opportunity to pass any oncoming vehicle. Sensible folk would approach slowly, and with a short warning on the horn to alert any conflict ease over the brow keeping an eye out for danger. Mod sods on motorbikes took these bridges at speed and trusted to luck, getting the front wheel airborne and often the rear as well. But once the leader was clear, closely followed by the next, it was evident that the road was clear and the rest of the pack could concern themselves only with landing straight and not ploughing through the hedge into the next field of cows.
Once free from the bridge the road snaked its way through farmland, past isolated farm buildings, rural pubs and occasional woodland. Typical of the roads we frequented across Lancashire this was a classic two-lane B road, old chippings almost lost beneath the worn out tarmac the ragged edges merging, curbless, into narrow roadside verges covered in Dandelions and daisies or dropping off steeply into foreboding, nettled-filled ditches. Hawthorn hedges hugged the bends broken only by wooden gates and farmyard entrances - the roads there suddenly coated in the green/brown stain of cow-shit and slurry. Chickens and ducks scattering in a frenzy of expansion-chamber mayhem and dogs barking at our rapid departure.
If there was one source of eternal danger on these rides it was from agricultural activity. Seemingly determined to create treacherous road surfaces at every opportunity or string barbed wire across the run off to every bad corner the local farmers worked hard to keep our numbers down and as many as possible in the local A&E. They fought us in a variety of lethal machinery from ancient Fordson tractors to shiny new Massey Fergusson combines that came equipped with a plethora of hideously sharp and shiny metallic tools that would literally dice and shred you should you not stop in time. They lurked round blind bends, doing impossibly slow speeds, or would suddenly lurch out of hidden driveways into your path, drivers grinning like idiots or shaking their fists angrily in the air like it wasn’t their fault. Their dogs chased us, their cows shat at us and their pheasants would explode out the roadside undergrowth and bury themselves in front wheels, fork stanchions and helmet visors. Up on the moors their sheep, tough Lancashire bastards, would stare, black faced at fast approaching bikes, seemingly not flustered and then at the last second, panic and sprint forwards sending all parties into a desperate panic to avoid contact.
But we also knew these roads to Glasson Dock and through the Trough of Bowland. We knew every bend and every point of danger like one only can after hundreds and hundreds of repetitive journeys at speed. Every little nuance, pothole, off-camber bend, all the bad spots, the passing points and the places best to back off a bit and let someone else take the risk. Everyone had a favourite bend and everyone had memories of close calls, big offs and heroic encounters at certain places along the way. As a novice you’d learn the lines by following one of the older guys, keeping tucked in behind and watching his back light for braking points and studying how close his exhausts or footrests were from the blurred tarmac, always ready to take evasive manoeuvres if he dug-in and slipped off in a shower of sparks and broken plastic. Catching up other bikes, especially if they weren’t local, was the best and we’d cruise alongside and subtly taunt them with a friendly wave before knocking down a gear and clearing off into the distance.
