Thinking back, it's all my brother's fault!
Andrew's been into bikes for as long as I can remember and has had a black Yamaha XJ900 for almost as long. In the Summer of 1990 I was taking some holiday time at his place in Germany when he made his annual pilgrimage to the Dutch TT at Assen. He and his friend Manfred were both taking their bikes, Manfred had his wife on pillion and I was invited to accompany my brother.
The trip there was fairly uneventful. I spent most of it struggling with the waistband of my borrowed leathers (not the roomiest of fits!) and trying not to melt my bootheels on the Yam's exhaust cans whilst I got used to the riding position. Once there, the Andrew/Manfred military operation took over and with stunning efficiency had us quickly located on comfy camping seats in prime viewing position washing down schnitzel sandwiches (delicious!) with cold cans of diet coke. My own trips out tend to have all the organisation of a Mexican fire-drill... I still don't know how he does it!
The day was hot and sunny, the racing was good and so was the company. When the schnitzel ran out we moved onto ham and cheese (amazing how much food you can fit into two sets of panniers!) and went round with the sun lotion again. Andrew and Manfred stood for the races and sat for the national anthems, 125cc riders bashed fairings, the delicate racing scent of two-stroke and tortured rubber filled the air... It was a truly great day, but this story really starts with the trip home.
The Dutch have been holding their TT for a lot of years and (unlike the yearly fiasco with the Isle of Man ferry) have the organisation down pat. On leaving the parking areas, all cars queue to funnel down one route and all the bikes ride merrily down closed roads on their own. That year I counted at least four huge fields filled with motorcycles; many thousands of bikes, all of which were routed out the same way.
This route is the same every year.
All the local people know this.
And so, for about thirty miles outside Assen I rode pillion on my brother's black 900cc Yam, four abreast down closed roads lined five-deep with people who had come out to watch the spectacle of several thousand motorcycles passing by. Andrew, of course, was showboating; letting the speed fall off until we were barely moving, then snapping the throttle open and accelerating hard for the hundred metres back to our original position in the procession. At traffic lights, four year-olds played peep-bo from behind their fathers' legs, people cheered, pretty girls waved...
This sort of thing is very good for the ego!
The crowds eventually thinned out, we rejoined the normal road system and Andrew and Manfred started to make more serious progress. It was a lovely summer's evening in Holland. The canals were mirror-calm, the leaves of the trees were dancing in the early-evening sunlight, the air was warm and the bikes were sure-footed on the smooth, dry roads.
In Germany, however, it was a different story. A summer thunderstorm had been working itself up all day, and was now just about ready to have a proper tantrum! The clouds ahead were black and menacing, the air held an ominous yellow tinge and forked lightning split the sky in the distance.
Not being completely stupid we ducked under the cover of a petrol station canopy to get into our rainwear. Mine was a borrowed one-piece, and an even worse fit than the leathers! I'm six foot tall and this thing was way too short for me. It was, however, waterproof and from the look of the sky ahead that was definitely appropriate... Manfred was worried about being the touch-down point for one of those lightning strikes. I was more concerned with the wind which was picking up markedly and was starting to make the tall XJ kite a little.
We set off again, and the next fifteen minutes hooked me on bikes:
We ran the edge of the storm. The roads we were using were your typical two-lane country roads with good surfaces and enough twists and turns to make them interesting. Andrew had this idea about outrunning the storm and making our way around the far edge, so our speed felt barely subsonic. To our left was an achingly beautiful summer's evening, golden light over country fields and a cloudless cyan sky. To our right lay tempest and damnation, night-black clouds, thick sulphurous yellow air ripped apart by vivid forked lightning. A musical equivalent would be having the Pastorale Symphony played gently into one ear and the Ride of the Valkyries blasted into the other.
It's a span of time that I can still remember exactly, every sight, sound and sensation...
And then the road turned to the right and we got seriously wet! The rain was whipped around in curtains by the wind and still managed to bounce a good couple of feet off the road when it landed. The lightning was blinding, the thunder deafening, the rain... ...er, wet! My borrowed waterproofs did an honest job, but there are limits! When we got home I poured a good half pint of water out of each boot and the leathers took all the next day to dry.
It didn't matter; I was hooked. Still am!
Later that summer I developed a pressing need to be able to travel from Burton-on-Trent, where I was living, to Belper (the first and last time in recorded history that anyone has ever had a pressing need to travel to Belper!). On the restricted budget I had at the time a second-hand learner-legal bike just about fell within my reach. When the pressing need left my life I kept the bike and it still put a smile on my face.
I've replaced it twice since then and, despite all the years that have passed and everything life has thrown my way, the things still manage to put a smile on my face and keep it there.
What other reason do I need?