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……