“With Our Eyes Wide Open” published by Curtis Bausse is an anthology containing one of my short stories called “Graduation”. It’s ready to pre-order on Amazon only £1.49 and it’s full of fantastic stories – not be missed.
Ladies who Lean
Tuesday 10 October 2017
Thursday 20 October 2016
Bucket List
On my Bucket List is ‘Learn how to ride a motorbike’ and in
brackets (get full bike licence). To do this, one must first obtain one’s CBT
or Compulsory Basic Training.
So, I organised a free taster session with a local training centre
and found myself on a scooter, on a disused runway, near Manston Airport. Carl,
my trainer, had a wealth of training techniques up his sleeve. There was a lot
of carrot and a little stick. The carrot being - there are two rules, Jess:
Don’t run me over and don’t end up in the field. The stick being – Jess, every
time you touch the front brake, you owe me a beer. However, with his cunning
use of childhood references, I was soon riding around the runway on a Honda
CBF125, changing gear and everything, Sir!
Carl stood in the middle of the runway and demonstrated how the
Karate Kid would help me change gear by raising his right hand up in the air,
in a gripping motion, to remind me to release the throttle. Then his left hand
in the air – engage clutch and then hopping around on one foot for change gear.
My deranged Sensei trained me through turning and weaving with the patience of
a saint, safe in the knowledge that I owed him enough alcohol to open a small
off-licence. He reminded me to think of Sooty and Sweep when checking I was in
first gear. Just as Sooty tapped his magic wand three times, so should I tap my
gear leaver three times, which would ensure I was in the correct gear. I
enquired, wryly, if this gambit worked with the young people to which he
responded “Yes, although sometimes they don’t know who Sooty is.”
A week later I returned to obtain my certificate. Up at the crack
of dawn on a Sunday morning I joined three young men in the portacabin on site.
Bleary eyed, we all pulled on waterproofs and sipped coffee, psyching ourselves
up for the day ahead. Two of the chaps were renewing their certificates and the
other one came from a family of bikers and was here to get his CBT as a rite of
passage. I have exactly an hour and half of riding under my belt.
After about half an hour or so, I was seriously doubting my ability to make it around the next traffic cone let alone mastering the open road. Every time I looked up, the three lads had completed their manoeuvres and were lined up on their bikes, arms folded across their chests, like the three horsemen of the apocalypse, waiting for the fourth horseman to catch up! But catch up I did. Steve, my instructor, (handy – has same name as husband) had a similar obsession with alcoholic related penance. His rules were, if you hit the horn instead of the indicators, you owe him a bottle of vodka and a similar fine for leaving the indicators on after turning. I was starting to think Carl and Steve had some sort of side-line in hooch retail.
Whilst practising on my own on the side runway, another rider
passed me and I received and returned my first nod, biker to biker. I mentally
punched the air, as I could not have let go of the grips if my life depended on
it!
Steve, who should also be canonised, kept positive and upbeat. He
announced during a short lunch break that myself and the younger lad would be
going out on the road with him first. We donned high-viz jackets and one-way
radios. Steve warned us he would not be able to hear us and we devised a horn
related signal in case there was a problem.
After a false start when the young chaps’ indicators stopped
working, we were off. In convoy, we followed Steve to Acol, Birchington,
Westgate and surrounding villages. We indicated, turned, approached
roundabouts, left roundabouts, sped up, slowed down, stopped and started. Steve
coaching us all the way over the radio. We stopped at a petrol station and
filled up and Steve told us we were doing great and were now homeward bound.
As we entered a dual carriageway, Steve encouraged us to gain a
bit of speed and before long I was cruising behind him at 55 miles per hour
with the wind in my hair and the open road ahead. This is what it’s all about!
With the rapture of a gospel choir member, I lifted my helmet clad
chin and sang at the top of my voice;
“Got my motor runnin',
Head out on the highway, Lookin' for adventure, And whatever comes my way”
(With slightly adjusted lyrics, of course) and then the euphoria was cut short by the sudden thought that my instructor may have fibbed about the one-way radio and could, at this point, have his helmet full of my dulcet tones! (Had he also heard all the expletives that had peppered the whole trip?)
(With slightly adjusted lyrics, of course) and then the euphoria was cut short by the sudden thought that my instructor may have fibbed about the one-way radio and could, at this point, have his helmet full of my dulcet tones! (Had he also heard all the expletives that had peppered the whole trip?)
But I carried on, because in my head I am on a
huge cruiser with big chopper handle bars and foot plates up by the fork so you
can rest your legs on that long-distance trip from coast to coast. Shades
on, open face helmet, the sun blazing on my bikini clad shoulders…. It all
starts to get a bit Daisy Duke then so I’ll leave that to your imagination but
suffice to say, I was feeling very pleased with myself.
Shoulders finally relaxed and a grin that was
almost dislodging my helmet, we arrived back at base. I graciously accepted my
CBT certificate (with my Action man gripping hands).
I now jump on the back of hubby’s bike with
renewed respect and awe. I’ll never be able to ride his Triumph because I can
barely reach the floor when I sit on it, but one day I will ride alongside him on my own two
wheels.
Wednesday 5 October 2016
Leader of the pack
Having mastered
our first tour and several mini tours we are now feeling very confident with
all things bike and decided it was time to join a Gang!
There were two
possibilities: We already knew about a café just out of town where bikers
congregate once a week and fill the car park with a colourful display of bikes
and riders. We searched the web and found, fortuitously, another club that
meets in a pub just a couple of streets away from our abode. Staggering
distance actually, although we would be going by bike so no imbibing would
occur.
The café club
Facebook page professes a warm welcome to all new comers, so we polished the
Triumph went for a short ride and then pulled into the café car park ready to
embrace our new Brothers. What ensued was akin to that famous scene in “The
American Werewolf in London”. David and Jack enter the pub on the Moors and
walk straight into a game of darts being played by the locals. The whole pub
stops and looks at them and the Brian Glover character utters those foreboding
words “You made me miss my shot”
We were met
with a few hooded looks over tea mugs. No hearty back-slaps, no welcome Brother
and Sister, where do you hail from on that shiny, new beast? Indeed, just to
add to our popularity a police car pulled in shortly after us and several
nervous types loitered by their machines poised for a quick getaway. A few
people glanced at us and the bike but no one made eye contact. We ordered a cup
of tea and hung around for a while but the warm welcome must have taken the
night off. So we jumped back on and went home.
We’ve dealt
with a few cold shoulders in our time so unfazed, the following evening we
attended the second group. Here we were met by Warm Welcome’s younger brother
Luke Warm Welcome! Not many members had come by bike and several people were
sitting nursing pints in civvies so it was quite hard to tell who was in the
club or just drinking at the pub. We made ourselves talk to a couple of people
and discovered that this group offered not only a raffle but our Holiest of
Grail, the weekly RIDE OUT. And it was planned for the following Sunday!
Sunday, first
thing, like two kids on Christmas morning we were up, dressed, leather clad and
raring to go. The bikers meet at 9 am for a 9.30 am start. A minute past 9am we
pulled into the pub car park - which was absolutely empty. We chuckled at how
keen we were and waited impatiently, looking up expectantly at every
approaching engine sound. Finally, after about 20 minutes, to our relief, two
bikes pulled in and we made friends with Brian and John. These two excellent
chaps took us under their faring and offered to take us on a ride out to Herne
Bay for a spot of breakfast.
It was like a
magical mystery tour with a side order of puzzlement. We followed these two
gents on their big bikes over hill and dale. Just when we thought we knew the
route they were taking, one of them would leave an indicator on for 5 miles keeping
us on the edge of our leather seat for a non-existent turn off. But there is no
denying the thrill of a group ride out. Following the Leader of the Pack (or
whoever volunteers to ride up front): The sense of belonging, the anticipation,
the frown of concentration through gravelly, unfamiliar country roads and the
little gasps of recognition as the winding route brings us out onto more
familiar highways.
We parked up on
the seafront in Herne Bay and got to know our new friends over a Full English. John
took the lead on the way home and took us on yet another route back. As we
entered our home town we peeled off with a cheery wave having been invited to
join them any Sunday for a Ride Out. Holy Grail found, sipped from and booked
for every Sunday from now on (weather permitting).
Maybe one day my
Steve will be Leader of the Pack.
Friday 23 September 2016
Returner Riders
Steve and I are returner riders.
As a teenager I would get my friend to drop me home on the
back of his bike and stop about 6 houses away from mine so my Dad didn’t hear
it. I borrowed a huge helmet which would probably have shot off with a sneeze.
When Steve and I first started dating over 23 years ago, he
had a sexy, grey Virago, the approaching sound of which used to fill me with
giddy anticipation. We travelled everywhere on it visiting the rellies at
weekends. We were always laden with bags, ruck sacks (front and back) and, I am
ashamed to say, thought a few extra layers were good enough protection. Ah the invincibility
of youth!
Then Steve used a Honda CBR 600 for commuting for a while
(with full gear). The responsibility of 2 young children and a daily ride highlighted
the need for better safety wear for Steve and meant that I did not really ride
pillion at all.
Two decades later a change of circumstances and lifestyle
has resulted in a joint mid-life crisis and the purchase of a beautiful, brand
new, Caspian blue Triumph Sprint GT.
Now I distinctly remember sliding on and off the Virago
like a nubile gazelle back in ‘93. Sadly 23 years of wear and tear on the old
knees appear to have worn away any antelope-like agility much like the synovial
fluid in my joints. I am also a smidgen wider in the girth. So I have had to
become rather innovative at mounting and dismounting the bike, using a tug on
my right knee to get my leg over the saddle and a really unattractive hopping
motion to get off. The hopping dismount follows a nasty little incident on our
first big ride out. I was dismounting at the petrol station which is a slightly
different movement with the top box and both panniers on. A little last minute
twist is required which in this instance meant I slipped off the pedal and then
just kept going backwards in the direction I had been turning. Flat on my back
between bike and pump and landing on the pump plinth edge on my ribs. I’m not
sure if they broke or bruised (or both) but they are still a little painful a
few weeks later. It made me very aware that leathers and helmet are great but
if you really came off it would hurt like hell. So after some consultation with
helpful hubby I now place left foot firmly on ground and do a hopping pulling
thing to get my right leg through. More ‘gazelle caught in a man trap’ these
days.
But as a mature lady I really don’t care what I look like because when I
am on that bike I am 18 again – every time! Because, even if I do say so myself
I look rather good in my new Triumph leathers. Slimming and biker chick cool
with a bit of a Suzi Quatro thing going on with the hair. (There is no cure
for helmet hair. After extensive research with bandannas, pin curls, plaits,
bunches and hair nets I have gone with the shove some sun glasses on my head
like a hair band after removing helmet!)
So we have just returned from our first big adventure on
the bike: a seven hundred odd mile round trip to a beautiful French town just
north west of Dijon. The trip through the tunnel was seamless and the tone was
set for the whole journey by the French border control chap who didn’t even ask
us to remove our helmets but merely looked at our passports and nodded to us
both and read out our names with a thick French accent, “Stefan et Jessica”
We got some great tips from another biker couple on the
train who advised us to stop every hour and indeed we found frequent stops were
needed in order to get some feeling back in the rear end and extremities.
The view is quite different from the back of the bike. With
the height I can see a bit more than I might from a car. The French countryside
is extremely picturesque and we did take some of the minor roads so we could
enjoy the tiny villages with their fabulous old architecture surrounded by
rolling countryside.
After 2 nights and a day in a pretty medieval village we
made the journey home. This was even better as we made several short stops and
perfected some wriggling and stretching moves that made for a more comfortable
journey. The 4 hour wait at Calais in the full black leathers in 30 degree heat
is an entirely different story but all in all this was a fantastic first mini
tour.
One final little mention of how I really appreciate the
biker community camaraderie and etiquette. Motor bike riders nod to each other
as they pass. A nod of mutual respect. Back in the day this was a forward nod which has evolved, these days, to a short, sideways inclination of the head. On the motorway in France (as here in
the UK) we often received (and returned) a wave from bikers on the other
carriageway. There is also a great foot wave where a fellow biker overtakes and
then extends his right leg by way of greeting and acknowledgement. There is
even a wave or nod between pillions. A single motion which seems to say “Only
we know”. Only we know the thrill of riding on the back of a bike with the
sound and strength of the rushing wind, with the onslaught of smells and the
raw delight of the open road and elements. Only we know that focusing on the
nape of his (or her) neck, sometimes, is enough……
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)