Over coffee in the staff room, I announced that I was to buy a motorbike. The Principal looked at me quizzically and asked if I was having trouble with erections, while my Head of Department started to dictate the advertisement for my replacement. Not to be deterred, at four thirty the yellow and rust Renault 5 was gunned up, and I drove down to my local dealer to collect a Suzuki DR125S.
Not wanting to spoil the appearance of a brand new bike with L plates, or my own credibility as a mature biker, I sat astride the gleaming machine while the salesman checked over the car. Even the 97000 miles on the clock didn't put him off, and the deal was finalized. A quarter of a pint was skilfully poured into the tank without too much evaporation, and I manfully kicked the bike into life. The pain of a cast iron kickstart on its return hitting an unprotected shin is as excruciating as it is indescribable. A helmet was forced over my head and gloves onto my shaking hands, and with twelve horsepower thrashing between my legs, I made my farewells to the assembled crowds and aimed for the curb. To stall twice while still at the shop was embarrassing, with my confidence shattered I eventually made it to the wide open pavement, and then the road.
5.30pm on Friday is not the optimum time to learn to ride a bike in a city like Birmingham. The fast moving traffic has a determined momentum, and the sight of a Paris Dakar man does nothing to impede their exit from the city. After a few hundred yards I decided to abandon the main roads for the comparative sanity of the back streets. Indicating left, I started to turn when the engine cut out. As an experienced motorist, I immediately dipped the clutch to bump start the Suzi. It was strange to be travelling sideways on a bike after such brief acquaintance, even stranger to be sitting next to the bike on the pavement, and perhaps a minor miracle that the engine was running even though the bike was in the horizontal plane.
The adrenalin pumping through my veins soon had the Suzuki vertical, after sneaking a quick look to see if there were any witnesses, I remounted to continue my voyage of discovery. The remaining mile home was uneventful except for one more stall and dropping the bike when I tried to restart it. But I had completed the journey home and was mostly unmarked, unlike the bike.
Saturday was spent becoming familiar with the controls and buying foul weather clothing for the impending summer. .A superb one piece yachting suit was purchased from a bankrupt shop for half price, and Frank Thomas boots to protect the shins in the event of another assault from the blood soaked kickstart. By early afternoon, it had started to snow (well it was early May) and it was time to get some dirt under the tyres. Not far from where I live there is a small patch of green where local kids BMX around OAPs and their incontinent dogs, Feeling suitably equipped to face these perilous conditions, I mounted the pavement and surveyed the scene. The site looks like an old bomb crater, the trees and criss-crossed with tracks. I took a deep breath through the vents of my full face MDS, pulled down Oakley goggles and charged down the nearest slope.
It was a pleasant sensation falling into soft snow, much nicer than tarmac or paving stones and much less damaging to the bike. I straightened the mirrors and indicators, and soon learnt the art of off road biking. Do not use the front brake on deep descents, do not try to sit on the saddle, do not try to stay on the bike when things get out of hand. It's best to use separate exit paths, that way the exhaust only burns the terrain and not your leg. I returned home to contemplate my first day as a biker, and to make plans for Sunday. Having been a keen hill walker, and wanting to run the bike in, I found myself early on Sunday heading for Snowdonia.
The DR was surprisingly comfortable, and even on the M6 revealed a much better view of the countryside than a car could offer. But I felt a little conspicuous, perhaps because I was trying not to exceed the running in revs of four grand (about 45mph if prevailing conditions allowed the use of top) or perhaps because I remembered I hadn't passed my test. I banished such thoughts as I continued my journey and soon discovered what made motorcyclists tick - roundabouts and fag stops. After a dozen or so miles on a 125 the sight of a roundabout is positively orgasmic. The nervous expectation that soon you will be dancing on the gear selector and diving for the gaps between fast moving cars and trucks while still trying to achieve the ultimate angle of lean, is what 125s are all about. But roundabouts are so infrequent that the the waiting can get very boring. After every second roundabout, it was time for the nicotine and caffeine levels to be adjusted. I had to admit that I was very disappointed that the vent holes in the MDS would not take a Silk Cut - a bit more thought at the design stage and journey times could be cut by half.
Still, after only a few hours (about six I seem to recall) I arrived in. North Wales. Surrounded by the rugged splendour of the Ogwen Tea Hut, I drank, smoked and watched the Suzuki pose for a group of scouts. It looked magnificent with its yellow and blue paint job, gold wheels and just the right amount of dirt to make me feel truly a long distant two wheel explorer. Even the realisation that soon I would have to return to Birmingham, and that I hadn't tried any of the Welsh tracks (the original intention of my journey) didn't dull my enthusiasm. For the run home, I would use 5000rpm, enough to make mince meat of the M6. With the sun now behind me, and the rain clouds massing in front, I kicked the beast into life. Perhaps I could tape some foam rubber onto the kickstart, I remember thinking, as the blood slowly oozed down my shin into my right boot...
John Hodgett