It was one of those days that started out with a clear ice blue sky and rapidly turned into a real scorcher. Being less than sentimental about British weather and London cabbies, I togged up in full leathers and bunged the waterproofs into the top box. Just walking the distance from my house to the garage left me a sweaty, smelling, ill-tempered monster. The venerable CX650 didn't much like hot temperatures, either, despite its watercooling; clanged away for a good five minutes before bursting forth into merry life. The CX's favourite clime, though certainly not mine, was a mild winter's day with the threat of rain in the air.
North London traffic was its usual messy self, taken at maximum revs in the first couple of gears, just to tell the Honda and the world who was boss. A near miss with a homicidally driven bus brought me to my senses for a few minutes, the vee-twin left to luxuriate in mild revs in the taller gears. Would the pigs go for the excuse that I needed the high speed breeze just to stay cool? Probably not.
Finally arrived on the fringes of the City, after taking to the pavement a couple of times. Sent a few ped's flying, did my bit for the good socialist way by having a few city gents eating out of the gutter. Way to go. You put the DR bib on after doing these kinds of things - not that I need to tell UMG readers that! Breezed into the office to be greeted by the usual insults, both personal and aimed at the venerable, classic CX.
Not that there's much difference - you insult my machine, you insult me, sonny, and if you do you'd better watch out. As I don't get on with the controller or the boss, I got the usual shit-load of jobs. There's nothing like sucking up to these stooges to get the good stuff and I wasn't going to demean myself for a sliver of silver. I made up for the unlikely runs by riding like a true lunatic, aviating the CX's front wheel when necessary and charging through the usual round of pedestrian precincts and bollarded-off bits of tarmac. I usually manage at least 500 notes a week even after the usual hideous expenses.
This particular day, of recent memory, I was sweating it up a storm, wondering where the drop was in Hackney. Not the kind of place to ask the locals for directions. I consulted the map whilst perched precariously in the gutter, reckoned I had it sussed. Slam down a narrow alleyway and turn right three times. However, the narrowness of the alley proved a touch troublesome, with me down to a walking pace, waggling the bars from side to side.
As we turned a corner a fat, black bollard was revealed in the dead centre of the alley, blocking off my exit. I cursed the CX for the way the pots stuck out and whacked the bollard in frustration with the front wheel, whilst steam poured out of my ears and sweat swamped my body under the leathers. The bollard moved half an inch. In a fitting act of violence, I nudged it several times until it dislodged from its foundations. Unfortunately, I had to actually get off the bike and manhandle the whole caboodle out of the way. Totally knackered me in the heat.
No sooner had I cleared a path than some large gorilla of a security guard appeared out of a warehouse, started screaming oathes at me. He didn't look like the type of chap who'd take kindly to sane reasoning, so I leapt on the Honda and gave it some gas. The back wheel slide on the shiny surface of the lane was something to behold, left me wondering if I'd survive as the shaft drive kicked in its machinations against the worn out rear suspension. Still, I got out of there.
Trouble was, the package had to be delivered to the warehouse the security guard had just come out of! I circled back there ten minutes later, crept into reception and got the signature. I thought I got away with it when my collar was felt. I denied it all, said it must've been someone else and the cretin finally gave up, letting me off with a kick between the legs that missed and gave me a dead leg instead.
It was then I realised that it was going to be one of those days. Sure enough, heading back towards the City there was a lurch from the back end. I turned my head around to watch the top box bouncing down the road. Of course, the cagers took a delight in running over it until all that was left were my shredded waterproofs and the odd bit of splintered plastic. Not a disaster as I still had the panniers but a bloody inconvenience.
I turned back to the front just in time to avoid mashing into the back of an ancient old Cortina that judging by the gleam of the paint was some kind of modern classic, the owner of which would doubtless give me a pasting if I so much as dented the bumper. The Honda's front discs weren't standard and could throw me over the bars if I put in too much muscle, so no great hassle saving the day.
Back at the office, a fight almost broke out when the new kid was given a couple of prime runs - he was some kind of distant relation to the boss, or perhaps his bum-boy. Or perhaps both! I was told to stand in for the controller who had to have the black tombstones in his mouth attacked by a dentist. I've done this a couple of times and it's great fun to send enemies from one end of London to the other. Only problem was that I was near naked under my leathers so had to sit in the stifling heat of the office and sweat it out in more ways than one. Fortunately, it was only for ninety minutes but I packed in an awful lot of revenge.
Back on the road I gave the CX a mega blast, cleared out both its and my own lungs. People laugh at Plastic Maggots but the 650's got a lot of grunt if you go wild on the throttle and will kill dead a surprising number of bikes. Makes the GT550 crowd go crazy because they think they have the definitive DR tackle but the CX hustles them right through the range. You can even wheelie them wildly, just ignore the gearbox sounding like it's about to fall apart and don't take any notice of the clutch whining away like some spoilt child. Riding a CX like this needs a bit more space than some bikes but it don't half annoy more sportily mounted DR's.
It was whilst up on one wheel, officer, that some daft ped decided to take a walk on the wild side. A note about the exhaust system's in order at this point - basically it was a stocker that had degenerated into rust to such an extent that it must've weighed at least half of what the designer had envisaged. To be fair, the motor didn't seem to mind the leaner state of affairs. What I could never understand was how anyone could fail to hear us coming. It was incredibly loud, see. People looked up, wondering what a platoon of tanks or low flying vintage areoplane were doing in Central London.
Not this ped, though. Just walked out into my path as if he didn't have a care in the world. Assumed that because the cars were stalled dead, nothing but nothing else could move. Oblivious to the world of motorbikes and pushbikes that existed despite the silly dominance of the four wheel crowd. I gave him a blast on the airhorns which made him turn in my direction.
Imagine the scene, the day suddenly ruined by the fast descending front end of some lunatic on a motorcycle. To his credit, he wasn't startled into immobility, managed a life-saving leap, like a deranged kangaroo, on to the bonnet of an Astra. Not quick enough to avoid a nudge from the front wheel on his leg, but much better than meeting the bike head-on.
As for poor old moi, the Honda's trajectory went far enough sideways that when the front wheel hit the tarmac I had to get both boots down, with an ankle-breaking thump, to hold the CX on line. I think one pannier might've had a bit of a fighting match with a cage (it was already too battered to find any new evidence) but I held on to our forward momentum with heroic brutality. I smelt of a horrid mixture of stale sweat and outright fear, though. Just another day in my life, a good night's sleep after a few reviving jars and I was ready for lots more fun and games.
Mike Williams