Bacon

Monkey rides. East this time, into the blinding early morning sun. Once again his trusty steed rumbles below him as the urban decay of east London slowly gives way to the bland retail parks and shopping arcades of Essex. Despite the boring surroundings and the general monotony of riding the same route every day, Monkey has learnt that this particular journey often has a few surprises lined up to keep him on his toes. While others become complacent in their daily routine, Monkey’s senses are alert and his eyes scan the road like a hawk.

Today’s journey starts with the comforting sight of an ambulance tending to an upended biker. A regular sight along the A12, this particular rider appears to have been taken out while filtering through traffic. His black R6 lies on its side leaking fluid while the paramedics tend to him. Nobody looks hurried so it seems the biker is relatively ok, alive at least. Monkey shakes off this stark reminder of his vulnerability by doing what he’s good at…..arsing around. At a set of lights he blasts away from the line as they go green, then in with the clutch, let the bike redline and BLAM, out with the clutch again. The front wheel rockets upwards, along with Monkey’s heart, which gets temporarily stuck in his throat until the fuel tank wallops into his chest and knocks it back down again. He manages to shut off the throttle and the front end drops. Winded, and with his pride dented as much as his balls, Monkey sheepishly, and painfully, continues at a more modest pace.

Further down the road Monkey comes across another biker ahead of him filtering through the traffic at a set of lights. Although clearly much shorter than Monkey, he is riding a tall enduro bike and at a standstill his toes only just reach the floor. He has a large topbox on the back of his bike, which doesn’t seem to help the man’s balance as he tentatively makes his way through the traffic. In a dazzling miscalculation he chooses the worse possible time to weave between two cars. The lights have just changed to green and the cars begin to move as he rides between them. He corrects his path, trying to get his bike pointing in the right direction and as he does so there is the slightest of contact between his front tyre and tyre of the moving car. It is so slight that it’s barely noticeable. But Monkey sees it. The man’s already questionable balance is found wanting as the bike starts to fall. His left leg shoots out and he manages to stop the bike from falling, but his short legs don’t have the leverage to right the bike, which is leaning over at a forty-five degree angle. He puts all his strength into trying to get the bike back up and his arms begin to shake with the exertion. His efforts are futile because there can only possibly be one winner here. He just doesn’t have the height to get this bike upright again but he hasn’t quite accepted the inevitable yet. Having come to a stop a few feet behind the stricken biker, Monkey watches all this develop with amusement. After leaving it as long as possible he lunges his bike forward at the last moment, puts his hand on the topbox and gives the bike a swift shove. This was a complete surprise to the biker as he suddenly finds himself sat upright in his saddle again. He looks around nervously, before quickly fumbling his bike into gear and riding off. Monkey sighs, casually engages a gear and follows. At the next set of lights he pulls alongside the biker who leans towards him. ‘Thanks mate’ he shouts sincerely ‘You really saved me bacon back there’. Monkey’s expression is hidden behind a darkened visor, but he nods nonchalantly in acknowledgement. Monkey knows.

Spanish Lessons

I'm tired. Really tired. This is stupidity. If I keep this up I'm going to make a mistake, do something stupid, and then I'll be in a whole world of trouble. I need to stop, call it quits and get some rest, but I cant, not here. I've been on this bike all day and my head is shot, I've stopped concentrating and now it's starting to get downright dangerous. The unfamiliar mountain road twists and turns its way into the blackness and I do my utmost to follow it. Riding late into the night has taken its toll, I'm physically and mentally exhausted and my riding has lost all its fluidity, it's become erratic, cumbersome, clumsy. I need to stop. The mountain drops away to my right as a constant reminder of why a mistake here could have serious consequences.

My mind to drifts to thinking about my leg, i can't help it. Falling off a bike is not a nice thought at the best of times, but falling off with a leg in this state fills me full of dread. I can walk for about ten minutes before the sharp ache creeps up my shin and forces my limp to increase. Walking down to the shops is mission and yet, for some inexplicable reason, I've chosen to ride all the way to Spain. Not that it's a problem on the bike, the leg just rests redundantly on the foot peg, but it wouldn't be so happy if I came off. And the chances of that seem to increase as the night, and the miles, and the tiredness wear on. I lose count of how many times I misjudge a bend and have to dip the bike further in to stop myself drifting out to edge of the road. The only protection between the road and the black nothingness of the mountain drop-off is a series of concrete blocks, about a foot high, placed at intervals on each bend. This may offer a passing comfort to those in a car, but for a biker they serve as nothing more than a launch pad into the abyss, ensuring maximum punishment for those foolish enough to run wide. You'll be in freefall before you can even wonder why the hell the radius of that bend suddenly tightened up. Not for the first time I start to question what on earth I'm doing here. As usual I'm pushing myself that little bit too far.

I've read all manner of motoring adventure stories and there's one theme that connects them all - it's the desire to push on, to go further and faster and longer than you really need to. Why? The destination is of no consequence, nor is the country, the culture, the sights, the language, the road, or possibly lack of it. Nothing matters, just this all consuming desire to push yourself further. I read a book by Alan Sillitoe in which he describes a drive from St Petersburg to Moscow, a distance of some five hundred miles. He has booked a hotel about half way so he can complete the journey in two stages, but as he sets out in the morning his mind turns to doing it in one go, despite having all the time in the world. By the time he's fifty miles in he has convinced himself he can do it. Along the way he's overtaken by a convoy of German registered cars and, not being a fan of being overtaken, particularly not by Germans (this was 1967), a race ensues. He completes his five hundred miles and he wins the race, but at the expense of missing out on the sights and culture along the way. Sillitoe describes this sense of irrational urgency as the tormented looking for a tranquil place to die. An impossible quest of course. I'm not convinced by that, but I can offer no alternative theory. All I know is that whenever I ride I set myself a target, then I reach that target but can't help wanting to keep going. And here I am, keeping going, making stupid mistakes on the edge of a mountain. You're an idiot. One of these bloody bends will spit you out and you'll go cartwheeling down the mountainside. Then you'll see, then you'll learn.

I ride about twelve hundred miles in two days. I ride until every muscle, every bone screams it's objections. My arse is sore, my back, neck and wrists ache like hell, my head throbs, my eyes feel like sandpaper, but finally I make it. Valencia. I spend a day recovering but then have to think about my ride back to Calais. I've got a boat to catch.....in two days.

Oh bugger

Intruder

Monkey rides. He rides west with the rays of the early morning sun. His trusty steed rumbles below him, uncomplaining and faithful to its master, chomping away at the miles of relentless urban decay. A bitter wind whips around them both, biting into their very souls, but they shrug it off, completely focussed on their task.

The going is slow, continuously punctuated by frustrating traffic lights which draw them to a halt with monotonous regularity. As Monkey reigns in his powerful steed for the umpteenth time, a fellow biker draws alongside. He sits several inches lower than Monkey, a short portly man on a low squat motorcycle. His fat head is squeezed into an undersized open-faced helmet that has managed to push his cheeks together in such a way that his upper lip is forced into a pout that reveals his front teeth. Accompanied by bug eyes that sit too close together he has all the appearance of a hamster, eating its lunch, in a windtunnel.

Monkey looks down at him, his eyes shining with bemusement, accompanied by a low sigh of resignation. The man leans across and speaks in a thick east London accent.

‘Wot is ‘at?’

‘What?’ asks Monkey

‘Yer byke, wot is it?’

‘It’s a TRX’

The man looks bemused, his face going into suspended animation and his already glazed eyes staring straight ahead. Being the helpful chap he is, Monkey speaks slowly and with determination.

‘A TRX, it’s a Yamaha, it’s their attempt to copy the Ducati 900SS, it’s got a trellis frame and an 850 parallel twin engine and is actually a better bike than the Duke’

‘Oh’ says the man, tapping the badge on his fuel tank ‘Moyns a copy of an ‘arley. Well, it’s copy of Yamaha’s copy of an ‘arley’

Monkey’s gaze is drawn to the badge. It says ‘Intruder’. The bike is painted a garish blue with lashings chrome trim and leather saddle bags. Monkey can’t help think it looks and sounds like something you’d find in a Soho sex shop. Words fail him and he just stares at the leather clad fat man.

‘Yer byke sarnds noice, ‘av you ‘ad it long?’

‘yes, and I’ve done about 25 thousand miles on it’

‘Oi’ve anly dun two farsand on this’

The man leans forward on his bike in an apparent attempt to give it a hug. His belly, which is doing its best impression of a leather balloon, prevents him from getting too close to the fuel tank and he is, thankfully, unable to complete his embrace of the Intruder. He contents himself with a somewhat disturbing stroke of the paintwork, tilting his head towards Monkey and making a face that only a hamster could make, if it tried to smile.

‘It’s moi baybeee’ whines the rodent.

I bet it is, thinks Monkey, raising his left eyebrow,…..I bet it is

My Church

The sun shines, filling my body with warmth as a smooth fast twisting road opens out before me. I twist open the throttle, quick but smooth, and the tranquillity of the countryside is shattered as my world erupts
in an explosion of induction roar, exhaust rumble and wind noise. I lie flat against the warm metal of the fuel tank, becoming one with the
bike, feeling the power pulsing through my body. Every muscle, every sinew, tightens and strains against the surging machine, desperately trying to hold on and retain control - control that feels like an
illusion as the scenery becomes a blur. My heart rises gradually into my throat and the adrenalin rushes forward making me feel sick. As the
rev counter needle rises towards the redline the bike screams its objections but I take no heed. Push. Push. As we surge forward I catch
a glimpse of a black shape to my side. I shift my eyes to see a giant black dog running alongside me, his short black coat shining in the sun and accentuating his taut muscular body. He turns his head towards me, his eyes shine gun-metal grey and he's smiling. He opens his mouth to speak. "these are the sunshine mushrooms my son, take them and all will be well". I turn back to the road, a bend is approaching at a furious rate. Back off. Back off NOW. Confront your fears, hold it, just....one....more....second, then back off. Brake brake brake. Let go. Lean the bike, LEAN IT, now go again, open the throttle, go go go.

This is my church.

There's no room here for beards and real ale. This is where the mildly unhinged reside, the little people who cackle like lunatics behind their
darkened visors when they exit the bend. You did it my son, the black dog came with the sunshine mushrooms and you won. You're upright. You're alive. Next.