Solo Cycle Slut

The wax jacket was borrowed, smelling of a Labrador called Baz, who used it as a blanket in the back of the car. "Look dear," the boyfriend said, "I don't care whether you think the blue Frank Thomas boots look more becoming, the Derris will keep ft feet warm.” My dad lent me is thermals, a man in a motorcycle shop gave me a £10 discount on the crash hat and with the gloves someone had left behind in a cycle parts warehouse, I was all set.

The first run. Founders Day on the bum pad of a 1938 side-valve Sunbeam Lion. It was a beautiful day and although the sun shone, he was right, it was colder than I had thought. They let us lead because our bike was the most recently acquired and not really tested - they had visions of us being left behind stranded, a pile of black metal spewing out vast ae of black liquid.

Their fears were allayed and we arrived happy and elated at Stamford Hall. It was on this first run that I'd learnt exactly what was required of the motorcyclist’s girlfriend. I was to wear the rucksack containing the loads of Whitworth spanners, the coffee and the snacks (it was me who put them there in the first place , it being obvious that forgetfulness in this respect would come pretty high up on the list of terrible crimes of the 20th century).

And it was me who got to carry the rear stand for the New Hudson he got at an autojumble. "He doesn’t so much need a girlfriend as a pack horse," observed Pete, as he watched me staggering around with this great weight on my shoulders, already overburdened with all the jackets, waterproofs, vests, jumpers and shirts I was wearing in an attempt to keep warm. I suddenly realised why women on the back of motorbikes seem to be so diminutive with big bottoms - it’s compression. The mass of the crash hat combined with the jockey position of the legs, concentrates everything on the one place - her bum, in my case on that pad.

Founders Day was a day for the ladies, as it turned out; surreptitiously I picked up an application for the Womens' International Motorcycling Association. It seems in my mind, at the back of it at least, I'd already decided I was going to have a go at this motorcycling business on my own.

The Bucket & Spade, a VMCC run from Leominster Bus Garage to the seaside at Aberearon and back in a day, confirmed my secret ambition. There was a particular moment on the Drovers Road when I looked over my shoulder and saw behind me, coursing round the gorgeous slopes and bends in wonderfully scenic countryside, a line of thirty or so bikes; it was the bikes that stirred me. At that moment (looking at Pete on his big old Sunbeam, Bill on his all bollocks Yamaha, Bob on his 1921 Triumph) I was seduced by the vision. Seduced and persuaded. I desperately wanted to ride bikes not just sit on the back of them.

The season on the bikes passed by all too quickly and was completely finished by some person of unreliable parentage stealing my entire motorcycling kit, including my dad‘’s thermals. This depressed me utterly, for several days. I'd given Baz his jacket back and had gradually got my kit together from various autojumbles. It was easier to do than I'd expected because the men were too busy searching for obscure bits of metal to bother with clothes, even clothes to wear on bikes.

Watching them, up to their armpits in bits of metal, reminded me of cherubic, smiling babies in a bubble bath. I'd purchased a wonderful Belstaff suit for £20 and now some slab-of-soil-held-together-by-the-roots-of-grass had stolen it. I was mad at the thief, at the weather for becoming so uncharitable and at everyone who didn’t appreciate why I was so upset every single woman I knew and 98% of all the men.

Like in Yank elections, if the polls are against you there's only one thing to do. Fight back. Bill lent me some spare kit, including a crash hat that would have been large enough for me even if I'd still been wearing the old one. The new owner of the rear stand phoned Starider after we'd established that learning to ride in Safeway’s car park, on one of those very wet and misty-cold Sunday mornings was not going to be successful: "I’m not angry," he screamed, "I'm not angry, it’s just that if you keep doing that, you’re going to damage the bike,” and I had the feeling he was going to damage me if I wasn’t careful.

One advantage of learning to ride bikes in November is that not many other people want to, and so one cold day I turned up at Armoury (what you probably need with me about) Road, Birmingham for the first part of my training. John (the man who drew the short straw and was going to teach me) wore earrings and had the same problem as me with his crash hat. He had his hair cropped short at the front, like a Marine and left long at the back, right down to his shoulders. He had tattoos on all his fingers and wore a beautiful scarf that my great aunt would've given her eye teeth for if she had been able to get her hands on it.

He was obviously a man who could stand anomalies. He didn’t seem to think a woman learning to ride was odd, even if the workmen at Starider did. They rushed down during their coffee break, gathered in an unruly group, shouting "Come on darling, take it off... let's have a look at you." I only wish the helmet constrained a volumes of blonde hair that could've tumbled out down to my waist. I did my best, all they said was, "bleedin’ hell," and walked off.

John was polite and charming, and if he preferred teaching Craigs and Darrens he didn't express it. He had the disarming bit of saying "I must stress" as a preface to anything he said that should’ve been totally obvious even to a quarter wit like me. For example, "I must stress that you must disengage the clutch before changing gear," and "I must stress that engaging the clutch and applying the brakes will be more effective in controlling the bike, than giving her quite that much throttle." This, after I'd shot through the barricade of cones screaming, "Help, help," at the top of my voice.

The UMG has much to answer for. Recently a spate of articles on the Honda C90 have appeared, each confirming that while mega short on image credibility, the bike would probably prove invincible to the entire missile stockpile in Red Square. They are, in short, bomb proof. Thus, the boyfriend said (having been reading these articles in the toilet, where for some reason he always goes with bike mags, getting inside now becoming increasingly difficult because of the detritus of matter silting up the corner behind the door), "I think I've found a good bike for you to learn on." I foolishly didn’t take any notice, he’s always spotting good bikes, which is why the garage is full of them and the car sits in the driveway. "It’s a Honda," he said tentatively. "It’s a what?" I replied askance - all summer with the vintage club being hypnotised by old British bikes, being told endlessly, ad infinitum, that Brit bikes were the only truly desirable bikes on the whole planet worth owning... and now this?

I bought the C90. A nice man sold it to me who'd used it to travel to work and back, a round trip of 9 miles. For the money (hardly any) he threw in a Rukka suit, a top box, a cover and a crash hat that would have been big enough if I'd been planning to wear the old one and Bill's. "You'll be alright on a C90, dear," he said. "I want a C15," I muttered under my breath. One thing I have learnt is to keep quiet when men are allowing you into one of their treasured, long held, secret joys of the universe... and, to be ostentatiously grateful. Thus I've drunk some of the best beers in the Midlands, been sailing and finally penetrated the mysteries of motorcycling, while other women sit at home, misguidedly thinking motorbikes are dirty, noisy a crude, and the men that ride them about the same.

The C90 lurches like a drunk into second gear and it’s possible to stall if you're not careful (I'm the same sometimes on Sarah Hughes Ruby Mild at the Beacon Hotel, Sedgley). The only other bike I’ve seen with a worse paint job was a Laverda. The C90 is a most lurid shade of blue. I’ve christened her Mable, after my great aunt who's 90.

The foot work involved with the gearchange is more intricate than the rock and roll steps I learnt at the Railway in Pitsea when I used to go dancing to Summertime Blues and Jailhouse Rock. It’s not as much fun either. But start her up and she goes, and, surprisingly, she keeps up with the aristocracy of British bikes she goes out with; a bit naff but loads of fun.

Wendy Oldfield-Austin