The test, the Trumpet and BIG trouble with crumpet
Posted: Tue Oct 11, 2016 9:59 pm
It was February 1975 and I was eagerly looking forward to my seventeenth birthday and more importantly the issuance of my proper motorcycle licence, for as soon as I’d turned seventeen I’d be eligible to ride a bike of up to 250cc on the road. Ok, I’d still have to have L plates but I could live with that. I was delirious with anticipation and when my licence finally arrived in the post a week before my birthday I just couldn’t believe it. I was actually going to be able to ride a proper sized bike on the road. Not only that, I’d be able to do it legally for a change. It was a major moment in my life.
I’d already purchased a second hand Yamaha 200cc YCS5 from a guy in Hemel Hempstead. I’d been told that this was a seriously fast machine for its size and it was as clean as a whistle too. My Dad came with me on the bus to pick it up and rode it back home for me but when he got it back he warned me that he didn’t think the engine was very good. I was a teenager. What teenager listens to the voice of reason or experience? Exactly! From the moment it was parked up in the back yard of my house I couldn’t bear to be apart from it. Every day I would go out and start it up and give it some spit and polish. It was the first bike I’d ever owned that had an electric start and I drained the battery starting and stopping it a zillion times. I counted down the days till I’d be able to ride it on the road. Come the morning of my birthday I was up and out of bed faster than a jackrabbit with a ferret on its tail and in no time had wheeled the Yamaha out onto the street, fired her up and I was off!
The elation I felt as I accelerated down the road that cold and blustery February morning isn’t something that can be explained to anyone who isn’t into bikes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be for I soon discovered the bike had engine problems, just like my Dad had told me, and it wouldn’t do more than 65mph. When I had it checked out by a Yamaha dealer I was told the main bearing seals were shot, and for a two stroke twin that was as good as saying it was a gonner. He said it could be repaired but the costs would be in the region of £200 or so. What! That’s what I paid for the bike, and anyway, I didn’t have £200!
I was gutted and had serious thoughts of going back to the guy I bought it from and sticking his head up the exhaust pipe, but I never got round to it. Reluctantly, I sold it for a pittance and a couple of months later bought a Triumph Blazer 250cc. That lasted me a total of about three weeks before I blew the big end out of the crankcase by over revving it.
I still only had a provisional licence, and undeterred by my previous misfortunes was desperate to own a really big bike. The one I hankered after more than any other was a 650cc Triumph Bonneville, but without a full motorcycle licence all I could do was ogle at it through the showroom windows of the local motorcycle shop.
I applied for my motorcycle test and received an invitation to take it not long after. The location of the test centre was next to the court house buildings in Watford. With no working bike to take the test on I hurriedly checked around to see if one of my mates could lend me a bike. Finally, the day before I was due to take the test, a mate of mine reluctantly let me borrow his 250 Suzuki. And so, with confidence exuding from every pore of my body I rode to the Court House – after I’d taken a long detour and given the potent little Suzuki a good thrashing down the motorway, of course.
The test back then was a simple affair, nothing like it is now. The instructor asked me a few simple questions then checked whether I could ride slowly while keeping my feet off the ground.; a piece of cake as far as I was concerned. The final task was to ride round the block whereupon at some point, the instructor informed me, he would step out behind a parked car and signal me to make an emergency stop. If I skidded or lost control I’d fail the test. If I did everything correctly and stopped safely I had my full licence.
So off I went around the block, ensuring that I drove as sedately and carefully as possible. All I could think about was that shiny 650 Bonneville in the window just waiting for me to come and take it away. There was a bit of traffic and a couple of traffic lights to reconnoitre, so it took a minute or so to get all the way round but as I negotiated the final bend I noticed something strange up ahead. There was a guy lying in the road and another motorcycle lying on its side a bit further on. The guy with a helmet on, obviously the owner of the crashed bike, was standing over the man spreadeagled out in the road.
Apparently, per eye witnesses and the biker, this chap had just jumped out in front of him from nowhere and put his hand up. The guy on the bike was travelling quite fast though and wasn’t expecting some idiot to run out into the middle of the road unexpectedly, so he didn’t see him in time and ran him over.
I couldn’t believe it! My instructor had stepped out in front of the wrong bike and now there he was prostrate on the ground with an ambulance coming to take him to hospital! The stupid bastard! The worst thing about it as far as I was concerned was that he wouldn’t be able to pass me now. The poor bloke came round just as the ambulance arrived. He wasn’t badly hurt, thank god but I was too preoccupied to care about his wellbeing. What about my bloody licence!
Fortunately for me, another instructor was on hand and after waiting a couple of hours I was sent off around the block again. This time everything went to plan and when the guy popped out into the road with his palm up I managed to stop safely and without incident. He then produced a little pink slip and smiled. I’d passed!
Not long after that, and after a lot of pestering of my ‘ol man to lend me the shortfall, I became the owner of a gleaming, second hand 650 Triumph Trophy replete with a red and white pearl-drop tank and big bars. Oh yeah! I was playing with the big boys now. I’d be able to do a ton down Horseshoe Lane like my brothers before me. The world was my oyster and the road my plaything. I was a man and I had the bike to prove it!
And boy, did I try and prove it! Letting me loose on a bike as powerful as that was tempting fate. Within a couple of weeks I’d pretty much reached the limits of the Triumph’s capabilities and by some miracle hadn’t yet come to grief. Because of my off–road experience on those old track bikes I was actually quite a competent rider on the road but I was always looking for the next challenge. If I ever saw another bike ahead of me I’d just have to catch up with it and accelerate past, egging the other biker to race me. Sometimes they did, sometimes they bugged out.
One night, I took my mate Gooz on the back to a live gig in St Albans. It turned out to be better than we expected. The rock band AC/DC were heading the bill. That was just before they hit the big time. I also managed to pull. She was slim, she was cute and a right tasty little bit of crumpet. Her name was Michelle. She was also really interested in bikes so I took her out to show her mine (the Triumph that is) I couldn’t take her home on it though because Gooz refused to lend her his crash helmet. He was too smart to let me go off with some chick. He knew I’d forget about him and leave him stranded in St Albans ten miles from home.
By midnight the band had called it a night. I’d arranged to meet Michelle for a date the following weekend and Gooz and I were making our way home on the Trumpet. I’d stopped at a set of red traffic lights when a guy on a red Kawasaki 250 pulled up next to us. I must admit I felt a bit imperious as I sat there on my solid British built parallel twin looking down at this little runt on his three pot sewing machine. It did look nice though. I revved my engine. It roared. He did the same with his. It screamed. He had no chance. My bike was a 650. His was less than half its size. The race was on. The lights turned green and … shit! He was gone in a haze of blue smoke! I tore off down Hollywell Hill at full throttle after him.
Now, Hollywell Hill is a very long and quite steep hill. During the day it was quite a busy road but after midnight it was relatively empty of traffic. The guy on the Kawasaki had the advantage of course. His bike was lighter, better engineered and quick as lightning and he was also riding solo. I was riding a dinosaur and I also had Gooz on the back and the fat bastard weighed at least fifteen stone.
The little Kawasaki was pulling away fast and there was nothing I could do to catch him, but as my speedo tipped eighty he braked suddenly and I zoomed past him with a wide grin on my face. Gotcha! In that split second though I realized it was me who’d been got! There was a hump backed bridge at the bottom of the hill. In blind panic I slammed the brakes on, causing Gooz to slide forward into me but I knew it was no good. I also knew that if I hit the hump while still on the brakes the bike would tip us off like a buckin’ bronco. The only answer was to accelerate over it. I managed a split second glance at the speedo. We were still doing about 70mph. This was going to be a rough ride!
Everything goes into slow motion in split second decisions like this; I’ll be the first to attest to that. Although it couldn’t have taken more than three seconds to hit the hump backed bridge, it actually seemed to take forever. I have my own theory on this: When you’re faced with a life or death situation your mind actually speeds up. Because of this your thought patterns and reaction times speed up also. Therefore, the amount of computing your brain does in a normal three seconds is multiplied tenfold. In this way your mind runs faster than the world around you, making it appear that things are going slower. Well, like I said, that’s my theory but be that as it may, it still wasn’t going to prevent us and the bike slamming into that hump in the road like it had hit a brick wall! Luckily, I’d managed to jam it into third gear and yank the throttle back and it made it over, but only just. The impact bottomed out the suspension and I recall hearing a resounding crack as we took off.
Gooz was catapulted into the air but fortunately only straight up, not forwards. We were literally flying, me, Gooz and the bike, about three feet off the ground. Gooz was suspended somewhere above me but I couldn’t tell exactly where. Then my stomach lurched as we dropped back down. There was a horrendous graunching sound as metal met tarmac. Sparks spewed out from under the bike like a welders torch but somehow, someway, I managed to keep the bike upright.
Gooz landed almost on top of me and slid off sideways, but managed to hold on to my leather jacket as he went. The bike was still bouncing and grinding its way along the road and was trying to tip over on its side. It had no suspension to speak of and the sub–frame felt like it had snapped so it was like trying to control a hundred and fifty kilogram bowl of jelly. By some miracle however, I managed to bring it to a stop with me and Gooz still attached to it.
When we’d finally ground to a halt I slumped over the bars, let out a deep breath and looked down to my side. Gooz was lying in the road next to me. He was shaken and bruised his leather jacket was smoking from the friction of being dragged down the road for fifty yards but he wasn’t hurt badly. My back hurt like hell where the fat oaf had landed on me but other than that we were okay.
The guy on the little Kwacker had stopped and was running back to check we were okay. Lifting Gooz to his feet he said he’d never seen anything like it and when we checked the bike out nor had I! It was still in one piece but the frame was almost broken in two and the back wheel was sitting at an awkward angle. I couldn’t believe how lucky we’d been.
Believe it or not, we managed to tie the frame together with some jubilee clips and a strip of metal we found lying near the roadside and actually limped home at about 10mph.
A close call, that one.
I took the Triumph in for repairs to a friend of a friend who knew a bit about welding and a week or so later it was roadworthy again and I lost no time in tearing off back up to St Albans to see Michelle, the girl I’d met at the gig – this time, without Gooz and also with a spare crash helmet.
She lived nearby in St Albans Abbey on a quaint little street that ended at the river. I took her out for a ride and pretty soon we were getting along just dandy. That evening I got my first kiss and as we said our goodbyes on her doorstep I arranged to see her the following Saturday evening. I told her I’d come and pick her up at 7pm.
I quite fancied her and the week went by pretty slowly but on the following Saturday evening at 7pm on the dot I pulled up outside her house again. As I got off the bike I noticed another bunch of bikers a bit further down the road staring at me. I waved a greeting to them. Bikers were generally friendly to one another I’d found, but these guys looked pretty sour faced. Screw them then I thought and with a spring in my step I sauntered up the path to her front door. Would tonight be my lucky night with mischievous Michelle? I mused. But I couldn’t help noticing though that those guys seemed mightily interested in me for some reason.
I knocked on the door a couple of times but there was no answer. That was strange. She’d appeared to be really keen to see me again. I couldn’t believe she’d given me the cold shoulder. I knocked again, this time louder than before. Then I saw movement inside the house and heard what sounded like muffled voices – raised voices. I knocked again. I don’t know why but I began to feel uneasy and those sour faced guys on their bikes were still looking my way. What was their problem?
A split second later I found out.
Michelle came to the door, all teary eyed and looking pretty upset.
“You have to go,” she said.
“Whaddya mean, go?” I asked. “I’ve only just arrived!”
She seemed really agitated for some reason.
“My boyfriend, he’s…”
Boyfriend? That didn't sound good!
Then it all kicked off! A guy about the same size as me pushed past her and launched himself forward to land a punch in my face. It all happened so fast I almost didn’t react in time. I jumped backwards, narrowly missing a right hook to the jaw and in doing so tripped and fell over but I was quickly on my feet again. The mystery assailant lunged at me once more but this time I was ready for him. Blocking his punch I took him out with two blows to his head and a kick in the upper leg sending him plummeting to the ground.
Instinctively, I looked around me. Those guys down the road were now firing up their bikes and two of ‘em were running towards the house. They must be this guy’s mates, I guessed and they’d been waiting there for me to turn up. This was obviously the end of a beautiful relationship for me and Michelle and if I wasn’t careful it was going to be the end of me as well!
I ran back to my bike and jumped on it, slapping my helmet on without securing the chin strap. The two bikers on foot were approaching fast but they had to run uphill which slowed them down a bit. I stuck the key in the bike’s ignition and turned it on then jumped on the kickstart. It didn’t fire up! I kicked it again. The engine almost caught but it didn’t start. I looked behind me. Michelle’s boyfriend was struggling to his feet nursing his broken nose and bruised leg but his two mates were only about ten yards away.
They’d be on me in seconds!
It was a funny thing actually; I was more concerned with what they’d do to my bike than me. On the third kick the bike roared into life and with a graunch of gears I pinged the clutch out and wheelspinned off up the road. I swear I felt a hand grab the back of my leather jacket but I didn’t bother to look around. I was outa there.
I’m not sure if the other guys on the bikes tried to chase me. If they did they never got close, for I tore home faster than Giacomo Agostini at the TT races and quickly parked the bike up in my shed.
I never bothered to try and contact Michelle again either – too risky. As my old Gran used to say to me – “there’s plenty more fish in the sea, ducks!” That’s right, I thought; and there’s a lot of sharks too!
I’d already purchased a second hand Yamaha 200cc YCS5 from a guy in Hemel Hempstead. I’d been told that this was a seriously fast machine for its size and it was as clean as a whistle too. My Dad came with me on the bus to pick it up and rode it back home for me but when he got it back he warned me that he didn’t think the engine was very good. I was a teenager. What teenager listens to the voice of reason or experience? Exactly! From the moment it was parked up in the back yard of my house I couldn’t bear to be apart from it. Every day I would go out and start it up and give it some spit and polish. It was the first bike I’d ever owned that had an electric start and I drained the battery starting and stopping it a zillion times. I counted down the days till I’d be able to ride it on the road. Come the morning of my birthday I was up and out of bed faster than a jackrabbit with a ferret on its tail and in no time had wheeled the Yamaha out onto the street, fired her up and I was off!
The elation I felt as I accelerated down the road that cold and blustery February morning isn’t something that can be explained to anyone who isn’t into bikes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be for I soon discovered the bike had engine problems, just like my Dad had told me, and it wouldn’t do more than 65mph. When I had it checked out by a Yamaha dealer I was told the main bearing seals were shot, and for a two stroke twin that was as good as saying it was a gonner. He said it could be repaired but the costs would be in the region of £200 or so. What! That’s what I paid for the bike, and anyway, I didn’t have £200!
I was gutted and had serious thoughts of going back to the guy I bought it from and sticking his head up the exhaust pipe, but I never got round to it. Reluctantly, I sold it for a pittance and a couple of months later bought a Triumph Blazer 250cc. That lasted me a total of about three weeks before I blew the big end out of the crankcase by over revving it.
I still only had a provisional licence, and undeterred by my previous misfortunes was desperate to own a really big bike. The one I hankered after more than any other was a 650cc Triumph Bonneville, but without a full motorcycle licence all I could do was ogle at it through the showroom windows of the local motorcycle shop.
I applied for my motorcycle test and received an invitation to take it not long after. The location of the test centre was next to the court house buildings in Watford. With no working bike to take the test on I hurriedly checked around to see if one of my mates could lend me a bike. Finally, the day before I was due to take the test, a mate of mine reluctantly let me borrow his 250 Suzuki. And so, with confidence exuding from every pore of my body I rode to the Court House – after I’d taken a long detour and given the potent little Suzuki a good thrashing down the motorway, of course.
The test back then was a simple affair, nothing like it is now. The instructor asked me a few simple questions then checked whether I could ride slowly while keeping my feet off the ground.; a piece of cake as far as I was concerned. The final task was to ride round the block whereupon at some point, the instructor informed me, he would step out behind a parked car and signal me to make an emergency stop. If I skidded or lost control I’d fail the test. If I did everything correctly and stopped safely I had my full licence.
So off I went around the block, ensuring that I drove as sedately and carefully as possible. All I could think about was that shiny 650 Bonneville in the window just waiting for me to come and take it away. There was a bit of traffic and a couple of traffic lights to reconnoitre, so it took a minute or so to get all the way round but as I negotiated the final bend I noticed something strange up ahead. There was a guy lying in the road and another motorcycle lying on its side a bit further on. The guy with a helmet on, obviously the owner of the crashed bike, was standing over the man spreadeagled out in the road.
Apparently, per eye witnesses and the biker, this chap had just jumped out in front of him from nowhere and put his hand up. The guy on the bike was travelling quite fast though and wasn’t expecting some idiot to run out into the middle of the road unexpectedly, so he didn’t see him in time and ran him over.
I couldn’t believe it! My instructor had stepped out in front of the wrong bike and now there he was prostrate on the ground with an ambulance coming to take him to hospital! The stupid bastard! The worst thing about it as far as I was concerned was that he wouldn’t be able to pass me now. The poor bloke came round just as the ambulance arrived. He wasn’t badly hurt, thank god but I was too preoccupied to care about his wellbeing. What about my bloody licence!
Fortunately for me, another instructor was on hand and after waiting a couple of hours I was sent off around the block again. This time everything went to plan and when the guy popped out into the road with his palm up I managed to stop safely and without incident. He then produced a little pink slip and smiled. I’d passed!
Not long after that, and after a lot of pestering of my ‘ol man to lend me the shortfall, I became the owner of a gleaming, second hand 650 Triumph Trophy replete with a red and white pearl-drop tank and big bars. Oh yeah! I was playing with the big boys now. I’d be able to do a ton down Horseshoe Lane like my brothers before me. The world was my oyster and the road my plaything. I was a man and I had the bike to prove it!
And boy, did I try and prove it! Letting me loose on a bike as powerful as that was tempting fate. Within a couple of weeks I’d pretty much reached the limits of the Triumph’s capabilities and by some miracle hadn’t yet come to grief. Because of my off–road experience on those old track bikes I was actually quite a competent rider on the road but I was always looking for the next challenge. If I ever saw another bike ahead of me I’d just have to catch up with it and accelerate past, egging the other biker to race me. Sometimes they did, sometimes they bugged out.
One night, I took my mate Gooz on the back to a live gig in St Albans. It turned out to be better than we expected. The rock band AC/DC were heading the bill. That was just before they hit the big time. I also managed to pull. She was slim, she was cute and a right tasty little bit of crumpet. Her name was Michelle. She was also really interested in bikes so I took her out to show her mine (the Triumph that is) I couldn’t take her home on it though because Gooz refused to lend her his crash helmet. He was too smart to let me go off with some chick. He knew I’d forget about him and leave him stranded in St Albans ten miles from home.
By midnight the band had called it a night. I’d arranged to meet Michelle for a date the following weekend and Gooz and I were making our way home on the Trumpet. I’d stopped at a set of red traffic lights when a guy on a red Kawasaki 250 pulled up next to us. I must admit I felt a bit imperious as I sat there on my solid British built parallel twin looking down at this little runt on his three pot sewing machine. It did look nice though. I revved my engine. It roared. He did the same with his. It screamed. He had no chance. My bike was a 650. His was less than half its size. The race was on. The lights turned green and … shit! He was gone in a haze of blue smoke! I tore off down Hollywell Hill at full throttle after him.
Now, Hollywell Hill is a very long and quite steep hill. During the day it was quite a busy road but after midnight it was relatively empty of traffic. The guy on the Kawasaki had the advantage of course. His bike was lighter, better engineered and quick as lightning and he was also riding solo. I was riding a dinosaur and I also had Gooz on the back and the fat bastard weighed at least fifteen stone.
The little Kawasaki was pulling away fast and there was nothing I could do to catch him, but as my speedo tipped eighty he braked suddenly and I zoomed past him with a wide grin on my face. Gotcha! In that split second though I realized it was me who’d been got! There was a hump backed bridge at the bottom of the hill. In blind panic I slammed the brakes on, causing Gooz to slide forward into me but I knew it was no good. I also knew that if I hit the hump while still on the brakes the bike would tip us off like a buckin’ bronco. The only answer was to accelerate over it. I managed a split second glance at the speedo. We were still doing about 70mph. This was going to be a rough ride!
Everything goes into slow motion in split second decisions like this; I’ll be the first to attest to that. Although it couldn’t have taken more than three seconds to hit the hump backed bridge, it actually seemed to take forever. I have my own theory on this: When you’re faced with a life or death situation your mind actually speeds up. Because of this your thought patterns and reaction times speed up also. Therefore, the amount of computing your brain does in a normal three seconds is multiplied tenfold. In this way your mind runs faster than the world around you, making it appear that things are going slower. Well, like I said, that’s my theory but be that as it may, it still wasn’t going to prevent us and the bike slamming into that hump in the road like it had hit a brick wall! Luckily, I’d managed to jam it into third gear and yank the throttle back and it made it over, but only just. The impact bottomed out the suspension and I recall hearing a resounding crack as we took off.
Gooz was catapulted into the air but fortunately only straight up, not forwards. We were literally flying, me, Gooz and the bike, about three feet off the ground. Gooz was suspended somewhere above me but I couldn’t tell exactly where. Then my stomach lurched as we dropped back down. There was a horrendous graunching sound as metal met tarmac. Sparks spewed out from under the bike like a welders torch but somehow, someway, I managed to keep the bike upright.
Gooz landed almost on top of me and slid off sideways, but managed to hold on to my leather jacket as he went. The bike was still bouncing and grinding its way along the road and was trying to tip over on its side. It had no suspension to speak of and the sub–frame felt like it had snapped so it was like trying to control a hundred and fifty kilogram bowl of jelly. By some miracle however, I managed to bring it to a stop with me and Gooz still attached to it.
When we’d finally ground to a halt I slumped over the bars, let out a deep breath and looked down to my side. Gooz was lying in the road next to me. He was shaken and bruised his leather jacket was smoking from the friction of being dragged down the road for fifty yards but he wasn’t hurt badly. My back hurt like hell where the fat oaf had landed on me but other than that we were okay.
The guy on the little Kwacker had stopped and was running back to check we were okay. Lifting Gooz to his feet he said he’d never seen anything like it and when we checked the bike out nor had I! It was still in one piece but the frame was almost broken in two and the back wheel was sitting at an awkward angle. I couldn’t believe how lucky we’d been.
Believe it or not, we managed to tie the frame together with some jubilee clips and a strip of metal we found lying near the roadside and actually limped home at about 10mph.
A close call, that one.
I took the Triumph in for repairs to a friend of a friend who knew a bit about welding and a week or so later it was roadworthy again and I lost no time in tearing off back up to St Albans to see Michelle, the girl I’d met at the gig – this time, without Gooz and also with a spare crash helmet.
She lived nearby in St Albans Abbey on a quaint little street that ended at the river. I took her out for a ride and pretty soon we were getting along just dandy. That evening I got my first kiss and as we said our goodbyes on her doorstep I arranged to see her the following Saturday evening. I told her I’d come and pick her up at 7pm.
I quite fancied her and the week went by pretty slowly but on the following Saturday evening at 7pm on the dot I pulled up outside her house again. As I got off the bike I noticed another bunch of bikers a bit further down the road staring at me. I waved a greeting to them. Bikers were generally friendly to one another I’d found, but these guys looked pretty sour faced. Screw them then I thought and with a spring in my step I sauntered up the path to her front door. Would tonight be my lucky night with mischievous Michelle? I mused. But I couldn’t help noticing though that those guys seemed mightily interested in me for some reason.
I knocked on the door a couple of times but there was no answer. That was strange. She’d appeared to be really keen to see me again. I couldn’t believe she’d given me the cold shoulder. I knocked again, this time louder than before. Then I saw movement inside the house and heard what sounded like muffled voices – raised voices. I knocked again. I don’t know why but I began to feel uneasy and those sour faced guys on their bikes were still looking my way. What was their problem?
A split second later I found out.
Michelle came to the door, all teary eyed and looking pretty upset.
“You have to go,” she said.
“Whaddya mean, go?” I asked. “I’ve only just arrived!”
She seemed really agitated for some reason.
“My boyfriend, he’s…”
Boyfriend? That didn't sound good!
Then it all kicked off! A guy about the same size as me pushed past her and launched himself forward to land a punch in my face. It all happened so fast I almost didn’t react in time. I jumped backwards, narrowly missing a right hook to the jaw and in doing so tripped and fell over but I was quickly on my feet again. The mystery assailant lunged at me once more but this time I was ready for him. Blocking his punch I took him out with two blows to his head and a kick in the upper leg sending him plummeting to the ground.
Instinctively, I looked around me. Those guys down the road were now firing up their bikes and two of ‘em were running towards the house. They must be this guy’s mates, I guessed and they’d been waiting there for me to turn up. This was obviously the end of a beautiful relationship for me and Michelle and if I wasn’t careful it was going to be the end of me as well!
I ran back to my bike and jumped on it, slapping my helmet on without securing the chin strap. The two bikers on foot were approaching fast but they had to run uphill which slowed them down a bit. I stuck the key in the bike’s ignition and turned it on then jumped on the kickstart. It didn’t fire up! I kicked it again. The engine almost caught but it didn’t start. I looked behind me. Michelle’s boyfriend was struggling to his feet nursing his broken nose and bruised leg but his two mates were only about ten yards away.
They’d be on me in seconds!
It was a funny thing actually; I was more concerned with what they’d do to my bike than me. On the third kick the bike roared into life and with a graunch of gears I pinged the clutch out and wheelspinned off up the road. I swear I felt a hand grab the back of my leather jacket but I didn’t bother to look around. I was outa there.
I’m not sure if the other guys on the bikes tried to chase me. If they did they never got close, for I tore home faster than Giacomo Agostini at the TT races and quickly parked the bike up in my shed.
I never bothered to try and contact Michelle again either – too risky. As my old Gran used to say to me – “there’s plenty more fish in the sea, ducks!” That’s right, I thought; and there’s a lot of sharks too!
