AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Proper big grin now, sets his cheek off twitching. ‘Ninety-five percent of Harleys ever made are still on the road.’
I shrug, not getting it.
His lips quiver as he breaks the punch line. ‘The other five percent made it home.’
I nod my inward groan.
‘So, what have you got out there?’ He moves to the little window.
‘It’s a Harley Spor…?’ I start.
‘Sportster 1200.’
OK, smug git, we know you know it all.
‘It’s a good-looking bike, right?’ I say.
‘Aye, all chrome and no knickers. Why do Harley riders chrome all their parts?’ Pause for me to shrug. ‘Makes them easier to spot on the side of the road.’
‘Yeah, very funny.’ I move away towards the line of display bikes.
The bikes start with a 1910 Triumph: like a bicycle with a long thin petrol tank strapped below the crossbar, tiny engine at the bottom of the frame. Move along a few more, reading the quirky potted histories. 1926 Royal Enfield with like proper footplates and leg guards: This model is especially suitable for ladies’ use, or for the gentlemen who do not wish to wear motorcycle clothing. A weird little 100cc Corgi, like a glorified lawnmower: Wartime machine for paratroopers, not very successful as the wheels were too small.Pause in front of a frigging beautiful 1956 Velocette, all curvy black and shiny chrome. The geezer makes his way across.
‘Now here’s something might interest you.’ He beckons me to a display featuring an old-fashioned trials bike with big rutted tyres.
‘Nice,’ I say. ‘What is it?’
He points to an enlarged sepia photo of a woman dressed in leather tunic and cloche hat. Smiling demurely by a similar bike.Miss E Sturt. Scottish Six Days Trial Silver medallist with her 1930 Scott 596 Sprint Special.
‘Wow! A woman racer!’ I look across to more photos of 1930s riders ploughing through bog and rocky moorland.
‘The Six Days Trial used to come through Lochgillan, and this,’ he points, ‘is the very same bike.’
‘The one she won on?’ I’m all wide eyes.
‘Aye. And it still runs, though it needs a bit of tinkering.’
The bell rings from the booth and I turn to see a lanky young man in a bright red cagoule. Hair dripping like hasn’t bothered with the hood. The museum geezer gives him a brief glance and turns back to me.
‘Oldest motorcycle trials event in the world, started in 1909 pausing only for two world wars.’ He gabbles on with too much detail about the gruelling slog through the Highlands. I glance at the young man, making his way towards us, pausing a few yards away. The geezer’s back stiffens as he makes a point of not noticing.
‘I’m after doing a bit of a display about the Trials, mock-up landscape, you see?’ He waves his hand to illustrate.
‘Yeah, you should do it, right?’
The lad steps forward, waving a tenner. ‘Excuse me.’
The geezer crosses his arms in tight, pulls his heavy lined frown.
‘Am I OK to come in?’ the lad asks nervously.
‘We’re open to the public,’ the geezer snaps. Grabs the money and heads for the booth.
The lad stands in front of me. Wet hair plastered across his forehead. He wipes the back of his hand across his eyes. Moves along to the next display. I shift to stand near him, looking at the fifties Panther and sidecar stuffed with a family of manikins against an old seaside poster. The sidecar holds kids in chunky jumpers with plastic ice-creams. Mum in headscarf and sunglasses on the pillion seat. Dad in battered leather and weird Tommy helmet with earflaps.
‘What’s with old fashioned families being so frigging smiley?’ I ask.
The lad jolts to look at me – quizzing with heavy-lashed eyes. Pulls out his phone and takes a photo of the tableau.
