Acid Adventures

There was a gaping crack in history. Filled with Cortinas, Transits and guitars. At one end was a street called irony. At the other stood a victorious warrior, bathed in that glorious light that emanates from people who've just passed their bike test. It was 25 years since the git in the trilby hat parked his Morris on my leg...

Lying in hospital, with NHS cans on my ears, I listened to Radio One. If anyone deserved to be in hospital it was those guys. Suddenly, reality slipped. Jimi Hendrix was torturing his groaning plank with Voodoo Child. I clutched the headphones in disbelief. Must be the pain killers, I thought, unable to get those screams out of my head. Later, I traded some bike bits for an amp and a shiny but crap guitar.

I jammed in coal sheds and busked in Paris. Soft drugs hit the streets and whacked the collective youth of South Yorkshire over the head. It was really happening; not that much occurred when you thought you were part of the settee. Eventually I got into a rock and blues band, accepting gigs where even the hardest nutters were afraid to go. Our best audiences were bikers; but I got kicked out of the band for not fitting in. Meanwhile a local business entrepreneur and successful writer (well, he fixed lawn-mowers and got published in the UMG) invited me to take control over part of his empire. I was to deliver mended mowers.

I rolled up in the Custard (the Cortina) at the workshop, drivelling over and stroking his old Triumph. I'll do it one day, I’d say, sat on the saddle pretending to ride. Rrrrrrrrum, clunk, Rrrrrrrrum, (clunk), A-grrrrrum. Ah! The smell of goggles. The leather chaffed clegg-nuts. One night I went to the speedway to take some photos. Right outside the gate was a motorcycling school.

What the hell. It was as if I'd landed at the right end of the rainbow. ‘Forty year owld an’ ready ter burn,’ thought I, tripping over the Portakabin step to book my lessons. Have you ever ridden before, asked the bloke behind a worried sandwich. Ever ridden before? My anorak squeaked into life. I told him of airborne Beezers, thrashing through fields and over the local tip. I told him of the motorcycle garage where I'd worked as a kid (he'd never heard of them). I told him more and more... blah-blah.

I spread the lessons over the summer of '95, yellow bib fluttering in the sun. A test date came through, but a gale was blowing so they cancelled it. Next test - December. The examiner was delighted to tell me I had passed. I was delighted in a quiet way, gnawing the tyres off that little red Honda. OSM, PSL, JCB... I did the lot.

To be honest, I think it’s too dead-blasted easy. I’m afraid for people, who like I did, think they're in control. And they probably are. But people in trilbys might not be. Beware the trilbys, for they come out of the dark pit and will have your ass before you can say, if only I'd had a 750, I'd have out-gunned the bastard...

You see, things were not good on that street called agony. I had tried to get up and give the trilby a strong impression of my goggles on his mush. But my leg was a jumbled mess. A passing duty ambulance got me on to the stretcher and into a nearby retirement residence. Those that hadn't fainted wanted to make us a cup of tea. The emergency ambulance arrived. They were attending the wrong accident... a girl had been run over just down the road, but they tried to transfer me to a floppy stretcher. I asked them not to, it crunched my shattered bones like a sort of meat-bag. My mouth opened, a window shattering noise ending in bastard issued forth. It’s crap being at other people’s stupid mercy. They took my point, took me to hospital on the firm stretcher. My jeans and boot were cut off and a passing nurse said, ‘That'll come off!’

Knowing glances were exchanged. I tried to look at the mess I was in, saw a technician tickling my foot. I laughed. ‘Can you feel that?’ Someone said. ‘Yes,’ I lied, though I felt nothing. It was the sight of someone tickling my foot that had made me laugh. More knowing glances. I believe that was their sole reason for saving my leg. Next thing I woke up with Gandhi's flip-flop in my mouth and a priest. Catholic parents sure know how to scare you shitless.

Apparently, I’d lost so much blood the doctors didn’t think I'd survive the op. I looked down anxiously. There among the ropes and weights were a familiar if somewhat bruised five little toes. I wiggled them, and they waved back with a wan smile. I crashed into the pillows with a huge sigh of relief. I did have a few words for God (what does he ride?) after all - thank you very much...

After passing my test I went back to school, A-levels, and an Access course. University life was suiting me very well. ‘Specially when they loan you money. Every year. For three years I drooled over my shopping list. That’s one motorcycle, another safari... a mate down the road ran a bike repair shop and said he'd watch out for something suitable.
 
My dreams of a big Brit had faded as I looked through the for-sale columns. Too expensive. Must be rational. I've got running costs to think about. I’ve heard these Nips are quick, so I figured about 350 to 500cc would be plenty. The power to weight ratio would be a laugh because the girlfriend and I are no heavier than a damp wind between us.

A few rust heaps taunted my over anxious desires, then suddenly an announcement in the pub. The bloke was selling a GS450 to buy an EN500... the night sparkled frost as I tore like a Road-Runner to his house. My new helmet tried to jostle out of its box, and my thoughts jostled to make sense of the situation. An MOT. That’s what I'll do. I'll wiggle the wheels, forks an’ stuff. Test the brakes, lights... oh, and winkers. Pah! A laugh exploded from my lips. Pooh! A fart exploded in sympathy. That must've been loud, I thought, as the door creaked open to reveal a surprised face, its owner holding his breath.

I looked down at the wheels. There were no spokes. I put my hand through one of the gaps and waved to myself. All that fresh air they put into bike design. Fresh air and plastic. The front guard looks like a Klingon weapon. The back one’s shorter than Cher’s skirt. You'd get better protection from a fig leaf. Fresh air, plastic and fig leaves. Humph!

Don't know if I’m impressed because I know more about crocheting than Jap bikes. The alloy and chrome looked nice. Least-a-ways they would if he’d given it a wash. My eye followed the sweeping exhaust, paused over the bulbous tank. Off a 750! Noted the petrol tap had about nine positions - on, off, reserve, prime, not on nor off, neither off nor on, but not prime or reserve either...

Curiously for the time of year, tiny flies buzzed around my Trossachs as I leaned over the comfy saddle and stroked my chin. I later discovered they were cat fleas but the nifty application of a lit fag end soon cured the problem. I don’t know why my offer to do the cat was declined. Anyway, there, on the wrong side of the bike was the gear lever. I tried to be smart - ‘One down and four up, eh?’ I said with a knowing look. ‘Five up,’ he smiled. Five? I did some quick maths. Fresh air, plastic, fig leaves, nine petrol tap positions, lever on the wrong side and six nicking gears? You never had all this with a Francis Barnett. Then again, you don’t get laughed at on a Suzuki 450.

I began a ritual dance around the bike. Looking down this side, then that, scratching my crimson bagpipes with one hand, then another. The owner twirled his beard. Somewhere a grandfather clock ticked away in a small cottage. It was getting near haggle time. If the kick start wasn't on the same side as the gear lever it must be... er, oh. No, no, it wasn't there either. Nor was there any sign of a splined stub. But I wasn't getting jack-shit this time.

I looked at the owner, then the bike. He looked at me, then the bike, then at me again to see if I was looking at him. I looked at him sideways, pretending to look at the bike. The MOT idea faded as I pictured myself in slow motion, like an elegant swan, straightening the curves’ and bending the rules. January has a way of dealing with all that. A bead of clear fluid fell from my nose and shattered like crystal on the garage floor.

He pushed a secret button, the bike gazzummed into life. I took it round the block. I was alive. Down the road, second, third, fourth. Into the corner, third, second, wibbly over the tram-lines, correct the wrong indicator, up the hill through the box into sixth, with twenty yards into the next turn. Oooer! Finally, we spat into our hands, smashed our glasses in the roaring fire, rolled up our trouser legs and made the angles square to the hypotenuse. I had apparently purchased a bike shaped blob of mud, as my other half called it.

Welcome to the joys of biking, as I tried to explain the peculiarities of my gear problems to a friend. When they were up they were up, and when I change down, they're down, but sometimes it gets stuck halfway up... aw, you know the song. I peered sadly into my beer. ‘Yer look like a dog on one of those lovely plates in the TV guides,’ he muttered helpfully...

Whistling Voodoo Child, my fingers squidged as I disgorged treacle cake from the case where the gear change rod pokes out. Snow flakes danced prettily round my head as I purged the black treacle that passed as brake fluid. Some WD40 de-treacled the brake-light switch (it also makes a nice snort when you're out there in the cold). A new coil layered in waterproof treacle keeps it running in the wet. After a muddle with my sparse collection of metric sockets, I flopped on to the settee with a cuppa and a fag.

I'm knackered but so smug because I’m biking again. That crack in history feels more like a timewarp now. It's been like finding some treasured possession in the attic. The gypsy blood’s rising and I'm ready to hit the road. I roll up at Uni and a biker friend admires the tiny winkers I'd pooped. OK, it’s no sizzling 1300 in colours that give your granny a turn. But I’ve got cheap insurance, the petrol bill’s down and I haven't had so much fun in too long a time. My non-biking friends listen with envy as I tell them that fresh air’s king. I just hope we have another great summer like that of '95.

Alex Oliver