Although I do actually possess a car driving licence I have never actually owned a four wheel device. Thus my experiences in automobiles have been strictly limited to the passenger seat and have been characterised by an almost complete sense of boredom. Even a spirited ride in a Fiat X1/9 failed to excite much more than a polite yawn. Safe in the cocoon of steel and glass I’ve always been able to relax in the knowledge that the driver had much more skill and experience than myself and was unlikely to spin his expensive tin box off the road. Were I to get my grubby hands on one of the cars to which I might admit to having a passing interest (start with a Porsche 911 and work your way upwards) I would doubtless mow down a row of pedestrians or cause a mass pile up in the time it takes to say Peter Bottomley is a £$%&**.
I suspect that it is not just cars which are boring but car drivers as well. Suggest pumping up the tyres to 100psi and taking off for a night of debauchery in Merthyr Tydfil and I usually receive a look reserved for suggesting that having sex with underage girls is an amusing way to pass an evening. Lend a car driver a copy of (hard to obtain) Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, by Hunter S. Thompson, in an attempt to educate them in how to drive cars in an interesting manner and the book is immediately misplaced and forgotten; lend an early Psychedelic Furs tape (imagine the Sex Pistols with a sultry saxophone throw in - if you dare) and they play it at a volume more suitable for the geriatric nonsense they churn out of Radio 3. After half an hour in the passenger seat I start acting very strangely, it is nothing for me to turn the ignition off at an inappropriate moment, give the steering wheel a quick jerk and only the thought of having to walk home has so far prevented me from sticking the gearbox in reverse whilst someone’s Ford Fiasco is plodding along at a steady 60mph...
I never had this kind of trouble the few times I’ve been foolish enough to allow myself to be transported on the back of a motorcycle. Rather than give the pilot the benefit of the doubt, I always immediately assume that they are some kind of speed crazed lunatic with drug blitzed brain cells and a desire to scare me shitless. The cornering I can just about take, it’s the braking that gets me, they always seem to leave it to the last possible moment, as if they have never heard of the benefits of engine braking and thinking ahead a few yards. When the pilot finally condescends to use the massive power of his triple discs I’m forced into the kind of physical proximity that would be highly enjoyable with a 16 year old Thai girl, but unless you're into black leather for the wrong reasons, is a trifle embarrassing. The other thing that frightens me is the way my knees are left sticking out in the airstream, perfectly situated for a quick knee capping if the rider misjudges the gap between traffic by more than a few millimetres.
I wouldn’t dream of distracting the rider whilst on the pillion and boredom just doesn’t come into it, the elements are all too intrusive and the potential pitfalls of motorcycling all too apparent when perched on the back of some speeding motorcycle with nothing to do except for holding on and pondering the likelihood of a dose of gravel rash - if you’ve even slightly paranoid I guarantee you'll end up a total wreck after half an hour on some rapidly ridden motorcycle.
It’s this knowledge which fuels the delight I take in giving car drivers their first taste of motorcycling, malice accentuated by the behaviour of many of these, er, people when behind the wheels of their tin boxes - a sweet kind of revenge on all those blind Herberts who have had the audacity to make sudden manoeuvres with no thought about their effect on my forward motion, all those heart stopping moments when you thought the end had come and only the combination of quick reflexes, experience and a healthy dose of luck prevented the risks of a NHS rescue operation. Oh yes, place some innocent car driver on the back of my motorcycle and I'll transform from a relatively sane rider into a crazed hoodlum out to mentally mame my passenger.
For this kind of business you need to forget all about these modern, silky smooth multis, what’s needed is some hoary old bastard like a Yam XS650, preferably hopped out to 850cc and running on the original suspension - I mean, if that kind of combination leaves the rider with white knuckles and the need for a change of underwear, just think what it'll do to some car driver used to. the civilised progress of some bland auto. It’s important to remove the mirrors or angle them to stop the pillion from catching the huge grin; if he sees that you’re wearing a blissful smile as you shoot through London traffic at ninety, he may catch on, which would spoil the whole effect. Traffic jams are ideal places to educate the pillion, the heavier the traffic the better. After all, if the gap is only just big enough for a motorcycle to get through there’s no way some plod mobile is going to catch up with you, is there?
The bike has to be ridden on the throttle and the brakes, with vivid bursts of acceleration followed by death-grip braking - do this at speed on an XS and you'll soon have a buckling and weaving monster that'll come close to removing the passenger’s knees if indulged in between rows of stationary or slow moving cars. There’s also the noise and the vibes which all add to the effect of imminent destruction, it’s just a pity that the pillion has the protection of a crash helmet, but this can be reduced by digging out an old open face job with no visor and dodgy strap fitted in a way that helps to strangle the hapless pillion under acceleration and temporarily blinds him by letting the lid fall down over his eyes under heavy braking.
Whilst town riding is the most likely place to really scare passengers it’s always worth clocking up a quick 50 miles out in the country (the pillion will be so nonplussed from the town riding that he won’t think to object that the quick spin around the block has been extended) in the hope that a sudden downpour will leave them even more wretched and will give the rider the chance to indulge in a few lurid slides, which on something like an XS get very lurid indeed. A few hundred mile an hour bursts will leave the passengers eyes bloodshot, whilst the excess weight placed on the back of an XS will have the bike nicely oscillating across a few lanes of carriageway (you can really scare the passenger by taking both hands off the bars to help stop such sick making machinations). The fun you can have seems almost endless.
Not that it always works. I remember one occasion when I piloted an XS across Cockroach City in a downpour with an innocent on board. I knew just how easy it was to lose the back tyre on the slippery road surface but this didn’t stop me turning on the gas hard enough to scare me a few times, take the usual chances by speeding between rows of snarled up traffic, playing Russian Roulette with the appalling disc brakes and arriving with a suitably manic grin at the thought of the state he’d be in - not only was he shaking a lot less than me, he even had the audacity to commend me on my sane and safe riding style - I can only think they must all be mad nutters in Manchester, which was where he came from. I got my own back on the way home by inadvertently sliding the XS through 90° and only avoided scratching my paintwork by giving the tarmac a quick jab with my boot, but by then we were both too wet to really give a damn about anything other than getting back to the comfort of a warm house.
Bill Fowler