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.