My memories of the night before were blurred by the pain in my stomach and head. It was always the same when too many bikers got together. Too many tales of wild rides and raunchy women made time slip by fast. And the buying of round after round as automatic as trying to see up the leather mini-skirts of any of the bints present. I had to feel sorry for the poor peasants in London, up North the women still liked to show an excessive amount of leg.
Oh God, I groaned, a vision of one drunken night's excess coming back with terrifying clarity. There was this piece called Sally. Shit, she was like some model out of Mens Only with everything going for her. My eyeballs went wild whenever I saw her. They weren't sure just where to gape - she had a perfect arse, fantastic jugs and legs......hell, her legs were so long I sometimes felt I had to crane my head just to see her groin. The only problem with Sally was that her boyfriend was the leader of a pack of vicious Angels....I won't mention their name as rumour is they are still after me.
So, this night I'd been supping away at the real ale, a bit morose as the Daytona's main bearings sounded on the way out at highish revs. Again! It always seemed such a willing revver. When I tried to get off the bar stool I found my legs were as shaky as a Speed Twin's back end. I thought I'd got a grip on things only to find myself teetering sideways. Into the lap of, yes, you guessed it, Sally.
It didn't sober me up. By the time I was pulled off the young lass my drunken hands had found surgeon like skills. She had her knickers halfway down her legs and cut-off tee shirt up around her neck. You wouldn't believe the silkiness of her inner thighs nor the hardness of her nipples. Well, you probably would if you saw her.
Her boyfriend wasn't around then but once some so-called friends had thrown a bucket of cold water over me, I realised I was in serious trouble. You f..k with one of those bro's you get the whole lot wanting to kick the stuffing out of you. I got out of there fast, stone cold sober. Spent the next few weeks laying low until the fear and paranoia were displaced by boredom. Once used to the camaraderie of bikers severe withdrawal symptoms set in.....most of my mates deemed it wise to keep me at arm's length until they saw what kind of retribution was going to come down.
I lived a bit off the beaten track. A flat share with a couple of cagers. As terrible as that sounds the rent's cheap and we get on quite well. They're half my age which probably says a lot about my mentality. They don't enquire about what I do behind my closed door and I do the same for them. Though I do wonder if it's quite so healthy to have so many pictures of naked gals on their walls. They should be out scoring.
My head was clearing fast, it was just my stomach that was growling. I don't know how the women put up with me. Massive beer belly and a mess of hair hiding most of my face but it doesn't seem to put them off. Not the older ones anyway. You know how it happens, you wander into a shop to buy something and there's some quite fit bint behind the counter who gives you the eye. Well, okay, I had to go in there every day for a fortnight to get her attention, but there you go.
Mary was her name, 45 if she was a day and three kids out in the world. But her figure had resisted time well and in the dark I could always conjure up Sally. What she wanted was not my body but a ride on the Triumph. Okay, it's a bit smarter than myself and I'm not above using its charms to entice reluctant frails on to the back. One thing usually leads to another, especially with a bit of alcoholic inducement. Mary was okay. I was never going to walk down the aisle with her but her heart was in the right place.
It dawned on me as I tried to run a toothbrush around what was left of my teeth (I blame the vibes from various old Triumphs) that I'd persuaded her that a week spent in the Pennines inside a tent would be romantic. I don't work in a straight job but have contacts with a few of the good bike shops in the area that gets me work rebuilding Harley and Triumph engines. I've had a thirty year, on-going apprenticeship on my Triumph. It brings in enough money to live life the way I want to live it and gives me a lot of freedom to scoot off when I feel like it.
Mary knows me well enough to expect me when I turn up. Telling me to get anywhere at a specific time is a complete waste of energy. I wasn't in a hurry, then, but the summer sun was shining bright and that was enough of an incentive to get my act together. Most of my luggage was spares and tools for the Triumph....I had a spare crankshaft so if the worst happened I was ready.
It had taken my neighbours a while to get used to having the Daytona parked in the hallway. I wasn't daft enough to leave it out in the street. That would've been an invitation to the local urchins to tear it apart. I'd caught one tiny tot trying to tear the seat off before. A boot up his backside was all it needed. Wouldn't go down well with the social workers, but who gives a damn. My standing in the household went up a lot when I put a rag under the bike. Very little oil now soils the carpet.
Pushed the brute out into the street. Even at 325lbs, in its cut down and mild custom form, it was getting a bit much for me. Left me panting a little, like after half an hour leaping up and down on Mary. Tickled the carbs, flicked on the hidden switch and gave the kickstart a half-hearted pump to prime the engine. I gave a grizzled smile to the gods and lunged on the kickstart. Chuff, chuff, chuff....It was going to be a good day!
Starting is a good test of sobriety. If I can kick her into life without falling over into a heap or getting a brutal kickback from the engine then I'm sober enough to still be able to pilot the plot. Easy starting is also a sign that I've got the ignition timing dead on and nothing's worn so badly that it's about to fail. I guessed the main's had another few thousand miles in them.
Up north, we don't take much note of the EEC or UK noise regulations.....the Daytona has a nice throaty roar. The megaphones aren't quite straight through, so any plod up here can be fooled by sticking the engine in a tall gear, gently growling past at an acceptable volume. They don't need much of an excuse to pull bikers over, so why give them the means?
My Daytona's well set up, cuts a fast pace through the traffic and will pull hard all the way to 100mph out of town. The suspension's as hard as a Tory's heart but it doesn't seem to worry me. I prefer to know what the tyres are doing. The suspension combined with a bit of extra frame bracing makes for a ride as taut as Sally's thighs....you see how she's got me. I'd be riding along minding my own business when she'll totally fill my head....it's a wonder I haven't ridden right off the road yet!
I roared into Mary's road, gave the engine a dose of revs just to make sure the neighbours heard. It was a nice bit of suburbia, with those strong red brick houses built in the forties to last a long time. Any kind of motorcycle would cause a storm of curtain twitching. The Triumph and myself in cut-off denims and leather must've sent them running around like headless chickens.
It wasn't the sort of area I'd like to stay for long. It was the kind of place I might've ended up if I'd settled down in a proper career, got a mortgage and all that crap. Just the thought of it depressed me. I put a big grin on my face as Mary came out to me. She looked sexy dressed in black and I was tempted at the thought of a quickie. But I got myself under control, helped her strap her bag on to the backrest and then we exited the street with a roar of the exhaust and exuberant grin. The curtains appeared to twitch wildly but Mary seemed to enjoy the notoriety. The open road beckoned.
I don't know about you, but to me motorcycling's all about riding hard through the English countryside. Preferably with the sun shining and a bint clinging on to me. As soon as we were outside Barnsley I headed for a back road route I knew across to the Pennines. It weaved about a lot and ran up and down a few hills. Beautiful fun, with Mary screaming with delight as we roared over apexes with both wheels off the ground. At least I think it was delight, she was clinging to me just as she did in the throes of orgasm.
After about 20 miles of this amusement, we rolled up into Holmfirth. Mary was digging me furiously in the ribs. I pulled over, she rushed into the pub to use their loo. I eyed a horde of caravan towing junkies with disdain and wondered why half the district's police force were loitering in the town. I was tempted to turn the Triumph's healthy roar off but figured she might object to this cowardice by refusing to start again. It was better to be prepared for a quick getaway than stuck furiously kicking the motor.
Mary came back with a relieved smirk over her face. I could've taken this need to piss as an insult about the vibes that the Daytona was putting out but that seemed a bit churlish. Especially as I'd only brought a single sleeping bag for the night's delights. It was a good idea to put the girlie in a good frame of mind for the evening's debauchery.
A solid line of caravans blocked the exit from the town. A few pedestrians were scattered as we growled along the gutter but I wasn't going to let the Triumph overheat because of a bunch of insane campers. The cause of the hold-up turned out to be a police check point. I was all for riding around them but they went into the kind of frenzy that only self important youngsters can manage.
I knew the drill. Turned off the engine and removed my helmet before they had a chance to ask. They were looking for travellers, as in hippies. They had done the old trick of taking over a bit of field and starting a festival. Bikers were marginal in this respect, and it took some effort to persuade them that we were relatively innocent campers. Mary's reasonably cultured tone and big smile helped, though I could see they were wondering what the hell she was doing with a grizzly old bear like me.
Her composure was a bit ruined when she had to help push the Triumph. The bike often did that trick, refusing to start on a hot engine. I suspected that the car coils were breaking down, but had not got around to replacing them. Why bother when you can get the lady of your life to give a push.
The Triumph roared into life, sprinted up the road, causing Mary to fall on her face. It took all my willpower to hold the laughter in check as I dusted her down. My fingers lingered longer than they should. It was only whilst back on the bike that I let the grin flood my face.
The main road was chockabloc with traffic, so I hit the B road to Slaithwaite. Another nice bit of lane but any speeding was out of the question. Too many cars and police around for that. I was more than disappointed, in the past I'd ridden the road with my helmet off, a glorious dose of wind ripping through what was left of my hair. I felt sure Mary would've gotten high if she could have had a few miles without a lid; she had never done it before: I was old enough to recall when Triumphs ruled the roads and the helmet law was but a distant ambition of some mean-minded civil servant.
In Slaithwaite we stopped for a beer and bit of lunch. The police were working efficiently, the pub was full of natural yuppies full of false chatter and smiles. We exchanged disdainful looks; we lived in different countries; even the way we appreciated the scenery was different. I liked to think that as we cut a path through the Pennines we were closer to nature, did no damage to the old roads and somehow added to the aura of the area. Others would disagree - judging by the traffic in the Pennines it wasn't a big enough world for the two of us.
Somewhere between Swaithwaite and Uppermill, there's a little track barely wide enough to let the narrow Daytona pass. It's used by ramblers a bit but they seemed absent that day. The Daytona worked quite well as we followed this route for a mile or so. Coming to the top of a ridge, the view before us seemed revelatory and as I switched off the Triumph, not even the screams of the demented kids in the cars could be heard.
It was the perfect place to pitch the tent. There wasn't any beer but lots of other entertainment, including putting up the tent - an old army job with lots of patches. It collapsed around us in the middle of the night during one particularly enthusiastic bout of passion. Once in the mood Mary would do anything you could expect from a reasonable human being.
The next morning we set out early to enjoy the relatively deserted roads. I was hoping to come across the outlawed, persecuted festival. The police's paranoia made it all the more attractive. By breakfast time we had done a long loop through the Pennines, with a bit of helmetless riding thrown in for good measure. Mary reckoned she had never felt so afraid and found it hard to believe that in my youth we all used to ride that way. It was just as natural as supping masses of ale and having to be carried home dead drunk. It's sad to see what modern times have done to a man's spirit.
I needed all my resolve when the bearings started knocking some little way outside Calderbrook. I knew what had done it - taking her to 8000 revs in fourth down a long downhill. Put 120mph on the clock and the fear of god into Mary as we were still helmetless. The town could be seen in the near distance. We pushed the bike into someone's driveway. Had to get off the road out of the way of the furious traffic that would turn up later in the day.
Turned out the old codger used to own a Douglas in his distant youth. With British bikes that kind of thing often happens. He made me feel like a young whippersnapper. Anyway, he let me do the strip in his driveway. I sent Mary off to the nearest shop for a supply of beer. I knew as the day wore on I'd need it. Bloody thing! I knew my way around the engine, reckoned I could've done the job blindfold because I'd done it so many times in the past. I just hoped I had all the right bits to hand.
It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon when I'd finished. I hadn't expected the sump to be full of shattered piston ring as well as having loose main bearings. One of the oil rings had cracked up, probably because the crank was whipping around out of control. If I'd ridden the bike a few more yards I'd have totalled the whole engine. I didn't have an oil ring but had a spare compression ring which after a bit of work was persuaded in.....I figured it would get us home. I sent Mary to buy a gallon can of oil just to be on the safe side.
As the day had worn on, as more beer was supped and as one problem after another arose to annoy me I became increasingly irascible. The old guy going on about his youth didn't help, neither did the broiling sun. Mary took the brunt of my ill-temper but didn't seem to mind. It was so far from her normal life that she must've been enjoying the change. After all the day's hassle the last thing I wanted to do was find somewhere to erect the tent. I was immediately thrown into a better mood when Mary revealed her surprise for the night. She had booked us into the pub cum hotel. Ah, the joys of being a kept man!
We rose late the next morning. I had drunk so much I still felt light headed but no hang-over - I'd always thought that the way to avoid them was to have a bout of exercise before falling into a deep slumber. The excursion had been cut short by the Triumph's troubles but we were still in a good mood as we headed for home.
The engine vibrated much more than before, forcing me to keep it below 60mph. I'm into British bikes not vintage cycles, that kind of speed sends me to sleep out of boredom. And on main roads it's a bit dangerous as some wally in a cage is likely to drive straight over you. So, it wasn't much fun tottering up to Huddersfield, where I had a mate who owed me a bit of dosh.
I knew the day was going to turn bad when he wasn't in and dark clouds skittered suddenly across the sky. Wet weather gear? Nah, we were foolish optimists. I assured Mary that we'd keep ahead of the storm after she started muttering something about putting the bike on the train. Bloody cheek!
It could've been worse. We got to Denby Dale before it rained, only ten miles from home. I'd forced the Triumph up to 70mph, much against my better judgement, as the skies went blacker and coldness seeped into our bones. And this was supposed to be the summer. Getting caught out by the English weather always has me swearing under my breath. The rain when it came felt like bloody great hailstones were trying to tear our skin off. In less than a minute we were soaked through. I started singing defiantly to myself as I tried to see where the road was. Mary didn't join in....
The Daytona made it home. I did a proper rebuild and it runs lovely now. Mary? She was a bit pissed until I got her out of the damp clothes....
Gunge