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