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Sharp intake of painful breath. ‘No, please, don’t,’ I plead.
He looks doubtfully at me. Shit, don’t show you’re bothered.
‘Honestly, there’s no need. As you say, it was my fault.’ I try a weak peace-making smile.
He shrugs, Adam’s apple wobbling over his polo shirt. Rattles his keys in his pocket.
‘Do you want me to stay to see if the bike’s working?’ he asks, gazing over at his car.
‘No, I’ll just sit on the bank for a bit, have a cig. I’ll be fine,’ I say, casual as I can.
‘You shouldn’t be on that bike, but I suppose that’s your funeral. Just bloody make sure it’s not someone else’s.’
I give him a nod, knowing he’s right.
He turns and gets into his car, pulls back onto the road and he’s away. Thank fucking God for that. I take some shallow breaths holding my side.
My legs wobble as I clamber onto the scrubby bank and sit on a clump of thick moorland grass. Grapple with my helmet strap. Try again with gloves off. Hands shaking as I fish the cigarettes from my inside pocket. The packet’s squashed – fumble desperately for one that’s not broken. Please. I just need a frigging smoke. Find one that’s only bent – more frustration trying to light it. Hit of the smoke straight to my head, dizziness overwhelming the pain of inhaling. Still, I clutch at my left side. Maybe I’ve broken a rib. Fuck knows.
The Basic Rules from the bloke in the café. Idiot, I thought I knew better. Stick Amy on the iPhone, why don’t you? Because you are sucha natural motorcyclist? Forcing Martin to get me this bike against his better (yes, better) nature. What would he think to me not even noticing a simple left turner in a queue of traffic? If that guy had called the police! Maybe he still will. What if he like memorised my number plate?
I inhale too deeply, making me cough, splitting my side with pain. Slide my hand under my jacket, feeling for any damage. Nowt sticking out, maybe just a cracked rib? My left leg hurts when I touch it, hopefully just bruising. My leathers have scrape marks all down them. You wanted to look less shiny and new, right? Scratched up bike to match, how’s that for Street-Cred, girl?
I lean on my elbow to look at the poor battered Harley. The guy was right: I shouldn’t be riding it. Shiver as I finish my fag, suddenly cold. Fucking Amy Winehouse dragging me into an emo-trip about Alice. The bike was my escape and now it’s obvious I can’t handle it. Twist of disappointment in my gut as sharp as the real pain. How much did I have riding on this trip? I stub my fag into the peaty damp soil. Position myself to lie back with my head resting on a grassy tussock.
Massive amount of sky up here. Thin clouds drifting towards the distant flat-topped mountain. Smells of damp earth, trickle of a stream beyond the bank. A tiny bird hovers high, trilling its song. I could sink into the earth and drift with the clouds forever. The bird makes a sudden dive for the moorland. I shiver again, cold seeping, brain numbing. Close my eyes to drift in it.
The roar of a passing motorbike jolts me to sit up. Panic checking the Harley hasn’t gone. It leans on its stand, mud-spattered and abandoned, still a dull shine from its damaged tank. Am I really giving up on my pride and glory that easily? Get back on the horse, is what they say. I take a painful breath. If I just ride carefully, find a campsite, make sure the bike’s OK. Think about Martin and Stan and their tales of scrapes and falls. Every biker comes off at some point, usually when they get too cocky, right? Less of the Invincibles, more of the Basic Rules. No more frigging music. No more head fucks.
I push myself up and stagger to the bike, still clutching my side. It goes through me how sad it looks. I pull out my phone for a picture to mark its first knock.
Fuck, the screen glass is smashed. As if! I gulp down the tears as I stare at the screen. All the pieces are held in and it seems to be working. I take a picture featuring the scratched tank. The image is visible under the smashed glass. It’ll do. I re-zip the jacket on the tighter setting. Feels better like that around the ribs.
Turn the ignition, heart pounding, please, please God. It sputters with the spark and dies as soon as I give it throttle. Try again, the same. Come on now, where there’s spark… Again. Yes, the engine roars. Yay! I mount the bike and study the map on the tank bag. Just a few miles away from Hawes. There’s got to be a campsite around there. Engage the clutch and slip into first, nervous as fuck as I indicate to pull out. Easy does it, up to second, slow around the bend, straighten into the road ahead.
There’s a low cloud rolling in as I come down from the moors and I whoop out loud at the campsite sign. Made it to safety in one piece! Got back on the horse, right? I park the bike and haul myself off, my left leg stiff and sore as I limp to the campsite shop. I register for the night, buy more fags, a few cans and some chocolate, and spot the extra strength painkillers to complete the supplies. The woman directs me to a secluded spot down by the river. I pull off my helmet, hear the gurgle of the brook over the stones. It’s like this place was waiting for me. Refuge from the danger road.
Putting up the tent, for the first time, with an aching body strapped into sweaty leathers, in the humid midgeyness, knocks a fair bit of shine off my temporary high. But a simple little tent will not defeat me now, so I pop some painkillers and keep at it. Finally, it’s up and I haul the panniers to my pale blue shelter on the river’s edge. I had thought of going to the pub to eat, but not up for any more friendly advice from blokes who think they know better than a novice bike-chick. Especially when the bastards get proved right. Got my supplies, including a tin of ham and pea soup if I fancy tackling the dinky stove. Count my blessings: the police don’t appear to be on my trail.
For now, I’m cool with lying in the porch, head propped on the panniers, with a can of beer and a fag from the new pack. The early evening light shines through the trees as the cloud clears and the midges retreat. I’m aching and totally knackered. Yes, I managed a cautious ride for another few miles, but my confidence has bombed. Barely sixty miles today and I’m shaky as fuck. Great start, gal! Finish my fag and roll up my hoody to cushion my side. Take another slug of beer and lie back, drifting into the play of light on leaves.
I wake to full-blown moonlight. A breeze rustling through the silhouetted trees. Every bone in my body aches and the night air seeps cold. Fuck, how long have I been crashed for? I fish out my phone, the pain in my rib waking up as I move. 23:15 and the phone’s low on charge. Time for bed, right? I pull out my sleeping bag and find the wind-up torch that doubles as phone charger and radio. Way too much effort – there’s enough light from the moon to drag off the leather trousers and crawl into the sleeping bag. I open another can of beer, rest it in my boot to stop it falling over. Attack the chocolate and down more painkillers.
All I want is to go back to sleep, but now the day’s events are repeating on me like bad food. I drink more beer, finish the chocolate, shift round to smoke a cigarette. Catch myself wondering about Ken. Have the proper kids staged the funeral yet? Fuck’s sake, I need distraction. All I have is the wind-up radio. I lay the fag in the little tin ashtray and start to wind, holding it with my left arm pressed to my side. Giving it all I’ve got with my right arm, counting to a hundred to keep me going. Just about finishes me off, but it’s stopped the bloody mithering. I turn on the radio and try to tune it while I finish my fag.
A lot of crackle and white noise, but eventually the strains of some music. I lie back, propped on the panniers, drink some more beer.
I can’t place the intro though I know I know it. Then the electro drum kicks in and, of course, it’s Talking Heads: Road to Nowhere. Takes me back to the Classic Rock bar in the days of Stan. The radio just about lasts the song out. Fucked if I’m winding it again.
All I can do is lie with my aching side strapped up in my leather. Close my eyes, the sound of the brook merging with Road to Nowherein my head. Image of a ribbon of tarmac snaking over the horizon and beyond. Just being on the road, even if it’s strewn with obstacles, even if it’s going Nowhere, right? Riding it now for as long as it takes.
Who Do You Think You…? – Gethin
I wake to a dull pink light seeping through the red of the tent, after an uncomfortable night of fitful dreaming. As in searching for something with Gran in their house, everything like covered in dust and cobwebs, walls crumbling, windows blanked. Granddad waving his stick and shouting, ‘No, you fools, you should be looking in Scotland.’ Fumbling through the fading dream logic to waking, realising I am in Scotland with only a deep pit of disappointment. It feels early, though I’ve no idea of the time, my phone being dead, and there are raindrops on the tent door. I am so not up for rain today. Not up for today, full stop. I pull my sleeping bag over my head and cocoon myself back to oblivion, successfully putting off the need to pee.
Next thing I know the tent is beaming red heat and my bladder is calling time on excuses. I pull on my rancid jeans and unzip the door. The air is sweet relief from the me-stench and the sunlight bounces off the wet grass. I walk across to the toilet block, taking in the sweep of this site on the dunes, swifts darting through the still air, the sea flat and blue and the unreal feather line of mountains on Skye. I stretch out my arms and pull back my shoulders to take in a lung full. Awesome or what? Could life be possible after all?
Half an hour later and I’m still on a high, topped up with the cheese and ham baguette and can of coke that was breakfast from the camp shop. I take a path over the dunes, long dry grasses brushing my arms, dropping down to acres of sandy beach. I bend to touch the lacy edge of an incoming wave, retreating hastily to avoid wet trainers and licking the saltiness from my fingers.
