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Every part of me wants to tell him to go fuck himself. I’ll make do tonight and get the hell out tomorrow. But then a little voice reminds me that I did turn up on him out of the blue with no money. Now he’s trying to help me out. I take a deep breath, hear the sea breaking on the shore below and feel the salty cool of the air. Fuck it, I do have a right to stay around, why should I be too proud to take a loan from him?
Another breath, shrug of my shoulders. ‘OK, thanks,’ I grab the money and make my way to his truck.
Road to Nowhere – Jez
Swinging round the bend coming out of Chatburn I catch the fat arsed Mondeo in front of me. The A59 straightens across open country with nowt approaching. Drop down a gear and hit the throttle while the Harley roars past him and the road is my own. Fucking natural or what? Up a gear and hit sixty in seconds. After the nervous drag through endless Greater Manchester, finally got the overtaking thing. Got my map on my tank bag. Got my swanky panniers and dinky little tool kit. Tent, sleeping bag, everything I need. The bike eats the road. Got my Harley Sportster Good-as-Dream-Bike.
Slowing down for the thirty through Gisburn, it’s like I could walk faster, could brew a tea on the natty petrol stove. Through the village, turn along the Ribble valley, taking the whole line of cars as soon as the speed limit comes off. Road curving through open country heading for the Dales. Confidence growing with every car I take. I think of Martin riding with me while I practiced. Forced to agree I had a knack for it, though it was all down to his choice of bike for me. Sexy in its own way with curvy black tank and the gold Harley signature. Shiny engine. Gleaming double exhaust. Martin laughed when I said it’s more understated than the V Max. First time he’d heard a Harley called understated. Whatever, he was right, it suits me, and it handles like a fucking dream. A dream bike that’s real and live between my legs. Way To Go!
Cool air whistles through the visor, flashing lines of trees, open fields, grey stone wall. Whiff of manure and damp ditches. Speedo showing eighty. Martin said, keep off the motorways, keep to the speed limit, don’t attract attention. But I can see a frigging mile off on this road. Eye out for cameras, I’ll be fine, right? Would insult the bike to go any slower.
Past the sign into North Yorkshire – Yay! The road dips down to the river and a café with a couple of bikes parked among some ragged looking flags. Suddenly I’m starving.
I order all-day-breakfast and make my way outside. Sit with my back to the bench table to face the bike. Light a fag and stretch my legs out while I gaze at it in awe.
Weather’s cooled in the last day or two, but it’s still hot in my leather. I pull it off to reveal my new biker-chick top. Catch the eye of the guy on the next table. Middle aged, tad overweight, shaved head, and right piggy eyes. Wearing one of those red and white Gor-Tex jobbies that bulks him out. Obviously been waiting for my attention as a cheesy grin spreads over his blobby face.
‘Going far?’ he asks.
‘As far north as possible,’ I say, watching sunlight flash off the bike exhaust.
‘Aye, it’s a good ride up to the Lakes from here.’
I turn to face him with a smug grin. ‘Right to the top of Scotland.’
His eyes take in my new leather trousers, squeaky new jacket and shiny helmet. Only my battered pink Docs, which I wasn’t about to ditch, show any sign of wear.
‘Been riding long?’ he smirks.
‘Well, not really.’ Should’ve kicked the leathers up a dusty road! I stare at the bike again. Leave me the fuck alone.
‘That your Harley there?’ he persists.
I nod, can’t help smiling. My Harley.
‘Suits you, yeah,’ he muses. ‘Not sure the Basic Rule will apply to you.’
I turn and frown at him.
‘The Basic Rule of Motorcycling: behave as if you’re invisible and all car drivers are stupid. But they’d have to be pretty dumb to miss you.’ He chuckles.
I tense my shoulders and look away. I’m used to being in old combats and T shirt. Not learnt to deal with this biker chick look. Fucking creep!
‘Aw, only teasing, love. Nowt wrong with looking the part is there?’
I shrug, pull out my phone. The café girl comes over with my food and I turn to face the table.
‘Well, you should still know the Basic Rules.’ He gets up cradling his helmet. ‘Anticipate the worst. Car drivers don’t see you, no matter what I said; they don’t use their mirrors, and most don’t know the Highway Code. What you have to do…?’
‘Yeah, there’s a lot of dicks on the road,’ I say, getting the music up on the phone. Spin my finger to land on Amy Winehouse as the girl sets the food down. Get stuck into my bacon while Amy starts with Rehab.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he hollers, pulling on his helmet. ‘Good to see more lasses riding. You take care now.’ His squished face manages what passes for a quite nice smile before he makes for a big red and white Honda that matches his jacket.
Amy sings No No No.
The A65 starts to bore me through tame country skirting the Dales. Ready for more of a challenge at Ingleton. Detour onto a little road alongside the long bulk of mountain. The road climbs steadily as I drop a gear for the wide bend taking me up, then dipping and rising into a sharp hairpin. Drop another gear, lean into the next bend, straighten, accelerate, over to the other side for another sharp bend. Up and up – open moor spreading dull greens and rusty browns into the distance. The road straightens and I change up to top. Truly I am in the zone. No traffic, scenery belting past, wind streaking my face. Amy with Back to Blackstuck on a loop.
Soulful cry repeating the chorus of You Know I’m No Good.
