Who said that Beemers were only for boring old buggers and middle-aged professional people living in posh places like Guildford? I mean, look at me. Steady! Still the right side of thirty, just, I'm broke, live in Suffolk and can still recall the days when I could've been a shining prodigy of the Earnest Thrasher Academy of road craft. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it.
Just because I’m an adult now, committed to the task of being a responsible human being, does not mean that I don’t have my little fantasies still. Yesterday. I was Reg Pridmore (remember him?), getting down to some serious stuff at an American Superbike Championship race of the 1970s. The A1-whatsit (can't be too specific for obvious reasons) became the Daytona Track and my race modified, twin plug head R90s... well, er... a beaten up old R80/7 actually, responded with all the grace of a ponderous pudding to my every heave and struggle. Flat on the tank, cramming my bulk behind the petite S type cockpit fairing, at 105mph down the straight, I change down a cog for a bend at the and: kerrrr-crunch, with a spanner tossed in the works delicacy, I'm into fourth and powering out of the apex, With the Beemer wallowing like a fat lady's bottom in a quick walk race. I’m gathering momentum for the ultimate assault on the lap record down the next straight.
I didn't actually win the London to Tiddlepot-Out-in-the-Sticks GP that time. The honours fell to a Ford Sierra, piloted by the sort of prat that hangs his Burtons chain store jacket up on the door pillar peg, who thinks he's Nigel Mansell. What a plonker. Oh well, it was a reasonable day, all said and done; the sun pierced the gloomy damp grey for a brief micro second and I vaguely remember the rustle of crisp ten pound notes in my pocket. It was probably sweetie paper. Still... that was yesterday.
Now, I’m never entirely comfortable functioning in the happy mode; get too pleased wiv' yerself and something is just bound to happen to spoil it all. Today is proof that I've been right in the assumption that it's always best to remain a little cautious.
I thought I had suffered the day’s instalment of dreariness, heaped upon me in one go over the breakfast table. A bank statement, my one and only letter of the week, seemed to suggest that I had less money than I thought - £10 overdrawn in fact.
The accompanying note from the manager implied that they would prefer me to bank with them, not them banking with me. Bloody cheek! To top it all, my girlfriend, who after nagging on about me getting my thumb out of my bottom, took her leave without so much as a kiss goodbye, demanding that l do the dishes before I went to work. Yes dear. I don't know about you lot, but dealing with a ceiling high pile of mucky crocks, encrusted with the remains of last nights lasagna first thing in the morning, just does not turn me on. Sod it... nothing else for it but to slip back into my imaginary world.
The crowd cheer as I walk out across the paddock in my black, battle scuffed leathers, where the mechanic is waiting with my bright orange, race modified, good for at least 145mph, R90s super sex special. I smile as I don my smoke visored helmet, and return a wave to somebody important amidst the crowds of people Journalists, TV crews, photographers, race fans and some very tasty crumpet. It's one of those Le Mans style run to your machine starts. No problem as I'm fit as a fiddle (wheeze. puff, really must give up the rollies one day; and blast those Belstaff nylon suits, don't they ’arf make you ’ot). l leap aboard, my sights set on taking the lead with a good getaway. I jab at the starter button and... let's do that slowly again. | press the starter button in very positively... and... fumble, panic... bloody nothing!
The bitch wouldn't start. As I see my hopes of winning the Superbike Championship gurgle away down the plug hole, I suddenly consider that if I'm late again, so would my chances of remaining employed. Oh hell...
Losing my usual cool and collected composure for a second, I tore off my lid (my earlobes are still red and ringing), and drop kicked it like a rugby ball. Just my bleedin’ luck. it sailed through the air clearing a sizeable fence, scoring a magnificent conversion in the next door neighbour’s garden. With my foot throbbing in agony, l part with rational behaviour again to scream and punch the garage. Aargh!
Okay, I tell myself, heart thumping, foot throbbing and knuckles bleeding, take it easy, I try the dreaded button once more Nothing... dead! Count to ten. One... two... three... four... no good, and as l succumb to frustration once again, I feel something akin to a beautiful pain as l beat the bike with an old leaf rake. Oh, ah. that's so good.
Exhausted and in tears, I slump down on to an upturned lawn mower grass collecting box and light up a fag. The bike remained unmoved, a black blob of useless metal. Time was slipping by my watch seemed to acquire an amplifier in the sounding of its passing. In 15 minutes time I might as well start searching the sits vac page of the drossy local paper. You know the sort, always loads of discount bed and carpet advertising, depressingly expensive houses for sale and its little bit of local lad, young Master Bates, receives award for picking up litter in town whilst balancing a fish on his head, news quota.
The seconds ticked by. tick bleedin’ tock. The good woman had already gone off to work, so I couldn’t bum a lift with her. It always provided her with an excuse to moan anyway. "Well.....it's two seconds out of my way, dear," and, ”look at you... nearly thirty and still messing around with dirty motorbikes..." and. "Couldn’t you at least have a shave this morning," and, ”don't you 'yes darling' me.” So, then, I was a failure and these dirty old motorbikes were the major cause of it. If so, I meant to get even.
l paced around the impassive old Beemer with all the menace of Herr Donald Blitzen, Head of the Gestapo, armed with an evil sneer and a 120 watt flexi handle lamp, which I shine into its one big glassy Bosch eye. Calmly, I mention that if engine systems weren’t go on the count of five, then I’d sell her to a big fat hairy Hells Angel who, less kindly disposed towards the virtues of Teutonic engineering, would thrash her on a cold engine. Still absolutely no response.
Under the Schnicklegrubber Convention. the old bucket was obliged to disclose only frame and engine serial numbers. I wheeied around suddenly, the heel of my boot rolling a discarded fag end into a crumpled ball. Okay, have it your way, I hissed, if you don't friggin’ start you'll be donated to the Gay Christian Bikers League. That did it... instant response, but oh clear what had I done? The bike began to tremble and then rock violently on its centrestand, the handlebars thrashing from side to side. Fearing imminent disaster, I reached out to steady the convulsing wretch and as I did so happened to notice something.
Oh no, how could I be so stupid. What a pillock, shit. etc. Within half a second both the bike and l were fully operational.
After a brief attempt at trying to explain to Mrs Miserable Mug next door why my crash helmet was in her garden, and could I have it back please, we were off. Within a couple of miles everything was forgiven, and even the slight misfire couldn't spoil the pleasure of rippling up the highway, slipstreaming and overtaking a moped mounted granny up on the inside. Slightly further on, move over Clever Trevor in yer high powered Marina, I'm coming past at 95mph and I’m gonna make it through that red light.
The moral of this story is, always check the position of the engine kill switch before you end up giving yourself a hernia.
JKH