adventures
of a retarded giant and reluctant ancient motorcyclist
Happy
Henry
Parisian Prelude
I am still, even to this day, unsure exactly what kind of madness it was that possessed me to venture abroad on an ancient British motorcycle with a sex starved, moronic mammoth on the pillion. The last time I’d departed Great Britain during the Second World War, when there was little choice in the matter. Happy Henry, my determined pillion, would, pointed in the right direction, doubtless have majored in military action - frightened the wits out of the Germans, anyway - but in civilian life was a total menace, a giant of a man with the brain of a child, who had thrown his tyre-iron through the back window of a big BMW the last time I’d given him a ride.
Although I didn’t dispute the choice of automobile, he was banned from the pillion after that. After all, when riding a motorcycle that had neither insurance nor road tax the last thing I wanted was to draw the attention of the authorities - the lad was easily bored, often liked to stand on the seat and wave his extra large tyre-iron through the air in a menacing manner. Though it has to be said that the bass rumble out of the exhaust of the BSA A10 twin tended to have the local police force on edge, though to what was left of my ancient hearing the exhaust resonated, quite properly, to the beat of Rule Britannia... ultimately, the plod took one look at my pudding basin helmet, goggles, trench coat and waders, decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
The BSA 650 twin was still, more or less, running; the addition of a few consumables all the preparation needed for the epic journey from the North of England to France, a testament to its fifty year-old design. The reason for such longevity, admittedly, down to a series of owners who had never taken the motor over 5000rpm - the lad’s penchant for twirling the throttle all the way around to the stop soon curtailed by a slap around the groin from my walking stick.
Henry was elated at the thought of French women - the lad was even rebuffed by obese British pensioners - but frightened out of his wits at the thought of going through the Channel Tunnel. His mantra for the day was, I can’t swim, I can’t swim... such was the idiot’s lack of logic that he was overjoyed when I conceded that we could go on the ferry.
Neither Henry nor I were in anything approaching regular employment and, left to his own devices, the useless layabout would’ve happily lived off the state. Not something I could ever contemplate and I trained the lad in the art of painting houses. We’d just finished some old dear’s semi, Henry precariously waving a brush at the wall from the top of a too short ladder - you couldn’t take your eye off him for a moment as he was easily distracted and not unknown to head-butt his way through a window or put a foot through a roof.
The result of such labours, five hundred quid in used twenties. Henry wasn’t allowed near serious money as the blighter would leave us in penury within hours, much to the satisfaction of the local hookers. Five hundred notes might not go far in a modern household but we only had ourselves and the motorcycle to feed, could sleep rough if necessary.
The journey down to Dover took three days. Any modern machine could’ve blitzed down the motorway in half a day but such main roads were an invitation to immediate arrest, not due to speed but because of the generally illegal nature of the machine. A series of neglected B-roads tested the ancient suspension, whilst the intensity of the rain - not far off a tropical monsoon - and howling gale checked out the efficacy of our unconventional clothing. Drowned rats had nothing on us. Henry kept muttering impolite soliloquies on the state of Blighty, couldn’t understand why we weren’t on the ferry yet.
Birmingham stands out in the mind for the sheer stupidity of its landladies, who wouldn’t let Henry nor I cross the threshold of even the most dilapidated bed and breakfast establishment. Even my mention of having fought in the war didn’t gain us ingress, something about not allowing tramps on the premises - bloody cheek! We ended up sleeping under an abandoned railway arch, refugees from a Dickensian novel. Even youthful Henry was, in the dusty atmosphere of dawn, cramped over from muscle spasms due to the all-prevailing dampness. The clown actually had the audacity to moan about his condition, totally lacking any degree of stiff upper lip, the youths of today.
Dover was a dismal sight, what we could see of the place through the omnipresent rain. No sooner had we stepped foot in the ferry terminal, taken off our outer layer of clothes to reveal ancient leather jackets, holed jeans and scuffed boots, than some likely lads from passport control descended on us. Henry looked frightened out of his wits by the uncalled attention, whilst I kept muttering that I was in the war, you know. Hustled off to a room where a plain-clothes guy tried to work out if we were international drug dealers, terrorists or merely rich eccentrics. Luckily, they didn’t turn their attention to the BSA.
Eventually, we were allowed on to the ferry. Henry spent the entire journey drinking cans of beer whilst eyeing up the middle-aged women off for a sojourn in France, making crude gestures with his hands whenever he saw someone who was particularly well endowed. He knew that even his extra large, chrome plated tyre-iron was no match for my walking stick, managed to keep himself in check. I kept to orange juice - would’ve been foolish in the extreme to arrive drunk in charge of an ancient motorcycle in a foreign country where the driving skills were minimal; a drunken giant on the pillion with a penchant for unpredictable movements when he became overwhelmed by boredom. No, stone cold sobriety and full possession of my faculties needed.
Our first taste of French life not encouraging. No sooner had the lad set foot on solid ground, he threw up about ten cans worth of beer. Admittedly, the giant had to push the BSA and myself off the boat as the resolutely British twin objected to a sojourn on foreign soil by refusing to start. At least the fool had the good grace to regurgitate his beer over some gleaming Audi monstrosity that took up far too much room. The windscreen blades worked ferociously to clean off the muck; sensibly, the guy took one look at Happy’s massive bulk, decided not to venture out of the vehicle in remonstration.
The incident brought us to the attention of irascible Frog customs officers who decided to enliven their day by strip-searching us. Henry looked totally perturbed, kept muttering that we weren’t gay, conveniently letting off a massive fart just as some rubber-gloved fascist approached. They waved us off in disgust, not far off gagging; gibbering away in French - no doubt a long list of insults, forgetting that we saved their bacon in the war.
The BSA deigned to start first kick as if it had just come out of the showroom. Henry was already muttering about going home, not finding anything, other than the lack of rain, to his liking but I perked him up by mentioning the delights of Paris. A few hours on the open road with the BSA strung out to 65mph soon put that incident to the back of our minds, bathed in the fineness of the sun and stirred by the relative lack of cars.
At the first fuel stop I was perturbed by the natives’ lack of understanding of the English language, even when I raised my voice and spoke to them as if they were retarded children. I then spent the next hour worrying if I’d filled the tank with diesel or some unleaded muck that would ruin the ancient twin’s valves. The motorcycle vibrated ever onwards. The French countryside didn’t look that different to England, though the ever bright sun was certainly not what we were used to.
A strange noise, like a banshee wailing or an engine about to overheat due to lack of oil, had me frightened out of my wits for a moment until I realised it was merely Henry grunting out his obscene version of the National Anthem. The lad so distracted by life in a foreign country that he had yet to brandish his tyre-iron at any innocent motorists. A couple of times, some ancient French car had sauntered across our path as if we didn’t exist but a hefty lunge on the handlebars saved us from death and the lad had no time for immediate retribution.
Our arrival on the outskirts of Paris coincided with the disappearance of the sun, the night’s shadows blitzed by the headlights of the vast numbers of Citroens and Renaults driven by obstinate madmen who refused to give an inch to a mere motorcycle and didn’t seem to have any concept of traffic laws. I shrugged my shoulders in what I hoped was a Gallic manner and promptly joined in - more from a lack of any choice than natural inclination.
The low rev torque of the BSA was still more than a match for modern tin boxes; the fury of the open pipes in a low gear enough to have the French cagers craning their necks trying to see what kind of airplanes were about to implode on their heads. So disoriented by the sight of a mere motorcycle making the racket that they actually gave way. I felt like bursting into Rule Britannia as we sped through the French streets with little idea of where we were going.
I could feel Henry twitching in frustration, having just confiscated his extra large tyre-iron - so big he had to carry it inside his jacket rather than up his sleeve. Unarmed, the lad wasn’t totally harmless, having buckled the roof of one tank-like Volvo with his mere fist, though he spent the next week muttering about the resulting pain. Unfortunately, Henry’s brain circuits didn’t actually incorporate any kind of long term memory, the lad living happily in the present, not beyond the realms of possibility that he might start thumping the French cages. I’d lectured him before we left Blighty that France was different - the police carried guns and the locals didn’t have a sense of humour!
We eventually pulled up next to a large station that looked a bit like Kings Cross gone wrong. The surrounding houses made the BSA appear an icon of modern engineering. Immediately, we felt right at home, even if Henry’s strange lurching waltz up and down the street caused some consternation in the locals - the lad was far too large for the pillion perch, ended up with cramped muscles and restricted circulation. The passing resemblance to a particularly demented, oversized gorilla didn’t go unnoticed.
We’d heaved the BSA up on to a piece of vacant pavement, causing a wave of disgruntled pedestrians to flow on to the madness of the road; as if choreographed, they gave annoyed Gallic shrugs amid much muttering. Only Henry’s size saved us from retribution. Wandering through the district in search of a hotel, Henry eyed a kiosk giving off the carcinogenic odour of bad meat, and before I could stop him had ordered hamburger and chips. The hairy monster who served up the delicacy gave every impression that he would happily take out any meandering canines as a source of meat. Henry didn’t seem to notice, was on a second helping before I waved my walking stick at his groin!
In deference to being in a foreign city, I had actually handed the lout his chrome plated tyre-iron under the stricture that he would keep it hidden under his jacket. There were lots of small hotels but every time we entered one we were met with total horror. Usually, some small infant was summoned to inform us that the hotel was full, as if the owners would fall dead on the spot if they uttered a single word of the English language. Sometimes we were just waved away in disgust. Henry and I quickly came to the conclusion that they were a thick lot, these French.
With the disappearance of the sun, the spring weather had turned even colder than in England and life under a railway arch didn’t inspire. After about two hours of being rebuffed in a way that would leave the average English landlady in awe, having little idea of exactly where we were or where we had left the motorcycle, we blundered into a large but seedy building... the guy behind the desk actually spoke English. Of course, he wasn’t French, Algerian by the look of him.
A room with two beds for a 100 francs a night. Up rickety steps went we, dodging peeling wallpaper, into a small room just long enough to fit two single beds. It did have a washbasin and bidet, more peeling wallpaper and a noisy radiator. We’d stayed in much worse. Henry eyed the bidet with disbelief, grunting something about midgets, bounced up and down on the bed and tore a few large swathes of wallpaper off the wall. It was obvious he was getting bored...
Took us another two hours to find the bike. Some local moron, one of the few who could bear to listen to English, had directed us to the wrong station after Henry had done a reasonable impression of a steam train, albeit one that included destroying someone’s dustbin and denting a nearby car - Henry had perfected the two left feet dance that usually ended in tangled limbs and mass destruction. The local made a fast exit, a look of total disbelief writ deep in his face.
When we finally found the BSA, a local porker was poking at the venerable machine. Our motorcycle gear gave us away. He fired a stream of incomprehensible words at us, jowls and stomach wobbling away as if defining corruption, but eyed Henry carefully, patting his gun in reassurance. People always eyed men with Happy’s bulk carefully. Eventually, he shrugged and walked off. As if in defiance of its examination, not to mention the deep cold of the night, the engine fired on the first kick and made a lovely racket, reflected off the ancient stone walls of the houses. It was nearly midnight by the time we’d stored the BSA in the hotel’s forecourt.
Henry totally disgruntled at the time wasted, pulled at my sleeve, pointing in the direction of a couple of street cafes we’d seen earlier. I was tempted to allow him to go off on his own but letting a sexually starved, mentally retarded giant loose in a foreign country was just asking for trouble. We plonked ourselves down at the first outside table, Happy Henry endearing himself to the locals by knocking over an adjacent table and almost breaking the cafe’s plate-glass window when he leaned back only to have the flimsy chair spring rearwards. No harm done to the idiot’s head.
The beer was horrendously expensive, the cheapest red wine ordered. The lad grimaced, almost spat out the liquid elixir on the first taste but by the time he’d finished off a bottle he was calling for more as if to the manor born. I had to restrain the drunken lunatic from buying drinks all round. The locals looked profoundly aghast at the sight of Henry emptying a bottle without recourse to a wine glass.
A few bikes flitted past, mostly scooters and those silly French mopeds with the motor over the front wheel... not the kind of Velo I wanted. One kid, on a flash moped - no helmet or anything - flitted up on to the pavement opposite and grabbed a girl’s handbag. Before I knew what had happened, Henry launched a nearly full bottle of wine at the fast retreating back of the youth. The bottle hit him just below the head, drenching him in wine. The bike wobbled, the thief dropping the handbag but escaping.
Happy received a round of applause from the locals and a free bottle of wine from the bar but the girl scuttled down the road to retrieve her handbag without a backward glance at the grinning giant. The atmosphere thawed a little and some of the locals even managed the odd word of English, though not without a pained expression... mostly old boys who seemed to know how to enjoy life and consumed wine at a faster rate than even Happy Henry.
Pleasantly drunk, we staggered back towards where we thought the hotel should be. We quickly became lost again, streets that looked familiar in the minimal glow of the lamps turned out to lead nowhere useful. Suddenly, Henry gave a cry of delight, sped off as if trying to do a four minute mile. Jogging after him, as fast as my aged heart and lungs allowed, I finally caught up with the smirking ogre and after the blurred vision cleared up a little I saw why he was so excited...
Half a dozen women lounged against walls, sporting skirts so short that the top of their black stockings showed a hint of suspender belts. As we neared, Henry jigging around like an excited four year-old, I saw that they were so well made up that in the glow of the street lamps it was impossible to discern their real age. Henry liked a woman with a bit of meat on her, after demanding 200 francs from me, chose the largest of the bints and was pulled down a dark alleyway. My last sight of him, he made an exaggerated gesture with his hands in front of his chest whilst grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
I had no choice but to hang around trying not to look like a complete idiot, eyeing up the predatory women, thankful that sex was a memory hidden well in the past. Throw in the huge range of modern diseases; I had no qualms about staying well out of their range. After a couple of minutes, Henry started shouting abuse whilst the new love of his life responded in a surprisingly deep voice...
I wasn’t going into that alley even to save the lad’s life, seemed like a hole in the universe, a point of concentrated evil. Besides, Henry was big enough to look after himself. He came running out with a bloodied, torn up face and fear deep in his eyes. We scampered up the road like the end of the world was nigh. Henry appeared turbocharged, leaving me in his wake... half a mile later I was ready to expire, could only just see Happy in the far distance.
There was no sign of the hooker, the lad reluctantly clomping back to where I was sagged on the pavement, both sweating and shivering at the same time as if all my internal organs were about to implode. Well, I was a bloody-minded old-age pensioner! The fear on Henry’s face - what was left of the skin, anyway - displaced by a dumbfounded look that would define a village idiot. He stuttered in his idiomatic matter that few could comprehend, that the lady was, in fact, a man dressed up in women’s clothes.
Talk about gormless idiots. The thought of Henry, full of lust, grappling with a transvestite, only realising at the last moment the state of play, hit my funny-bone... pain replaced with hysterical laughter. I looked up through tears to find Henry eyeing me as if I had gone completely off my head, which only intensified the laughter. Only the thought that the idiot had lost 200 francs for nothing pulled me back on to the straight and narrow, gave the lad a few slaps around the knees with my walking stick.
Needing to avoid the whore, we spent a good half an hour locating the wine bar and then the hotel, more by luck than judgement. Wouldn’t have liked to walk the streets on my own at that time of day, lots of surly locals hanging around looking for an easy victim; Henry’s outrageous bulk and disgrunteld, sexually repressed visage kept us safe.
Two French bints lounged in the hotel’s lobby; both young and well shaped, they at least looked female. What we hadn’t noticed before, a stairway to a basement with a couple of doorbells at its entrance, the girls’ names written under them. Turned out we actually had a brothel on the premises! Henry studied one of the girls for a long time until he was sure the gender was correct. The cheeky blighter then demanded another 200 francs; at this rate we would soon be bankrupt.
Henry gave no impression that his aborted attempt at sex, less than an hour earlier, had made any impression on his brain, his shot memory promoting a rare state of immediate gratification and living in the present that would make a Zen Buddhist envious. The lad clomped down the stairway, a mad grin plastered all over his face whilst I levered my weary way up three flights of stairs to our room.
Happy wasn’t far behind, beaming with happiness at a job well done. Not even perturbed by the lowly slung bidet which he used like a urinal, a delinquent firehose that went on for a good five minutes. The lad then collapsed on the bed, immediately falling asleep, emitting a sonorous bass reverberation that joined in with hissing radiator and my own cackly breath. Exhausted by the day’s happenings I soon fell asleep.
The next morning I gave the BSA a good going over, adjusting things and tightening up the bolts. Henry was only allowed to pass me the tools, the last time I’d let him adjust the chain it ended up so tight that the back wheel refused to turn. The Algerian viewed our antics with some distaste but didn’t actually throw us out on to the pavement. I offered to paint his hotel in return for free lodging for a few weeks and the guy agreed straight off, the local artisans charging outrageous money. It would give Henry something to do, anyway, and take his mind off the delights in the basement - already badgering me for more money! I told the lad if he finished the front of the building by the end of the morning I would fund another basement session.
The four storey building had balconies running across the front on each level, no ladders needed. Henry’s outlandish height had its uses. By the time I’d adjusted the valve clearances to perfection, the lad was halfway down the building working up a furious sweat; there was nothing like a bit of incentive! I decided an inspection of his work was in order, clambered up the rickety fire escape at the side of the building that was built into the end of the balconies.
Henry’s work a touch slipshod around the window frames but nothing a little gentle touching up couldn’t cure... Henry was so absorbed in his fantasies that he didn’t realise I was standing behind him. When I tapped him on the shoulder with my walking stick he leapt a good yard in the air, screamed and swung round. The large paint brush wobbled through the air at my head, causing me to leap backwards, only the balcony was in way.
Thumping into the dodgy stonework of the balcony, I almost tipped right over. For a moment I thought I was safe, readying my mind for a long diatribe on Henry’s failings only to have any such thoughts cancelled by the stonework giving way. I had half righted myself so the vertical fall through two stories was more or less upright.
In retrospect, I am able to recall an army lecture in 1945 on the art of falling from a great height, the main point being to bend your legs as you hit the tarmac. My mind was so wracked by the sudden fall from grace that I had no time for coherent thought. My life didn’t pass before me, my only recollection a flash of intense pain as my feet hit the deck...
My next sight was Henry jigging around like a demented chimpanzee, the cause of his angst a hospital ward full of young French nurses wearing short skirts and stockings. His outrageously engorged member threatened to catapult out of his jeans at any moment. Embarrassing. As was my lower right leg in a white cast. Given that I was naked beneath a hospital gown, I suspected the clown had commandeered the monetary stash from the envelope I’d stuffed in my underwear.
My first reaction to finding myself in a hospital was to flee. Before I could impart a master plan to the lad he’d given me the thumbs up, grunted something about the BSA and clomped off towards the exit. Whatever pain-killers that’d been administered to my innocent body had an almost euphoric effect, causing me to fall into and out of sleep in a strange and disturbing manner.
The next day Henry returned in full motorcycle regalia - waders, trench coat and ex-army boots - and, as if reading my mind, demanded my release. One of the wonders of the European Community - perhaps the only one - no payment was needed as they would claim off the British government; just sign about twenty different forms.
The French weather turned violent, purple clouds threatening a massive downpour. Henry pointed at a strange looking vehicle, a boat-shaped structure precariously perched on a central wheel. As we neared I was able to spy that the BSA was attached to the other side of the unlikely sidecar. Where the hell the lad had found such a dubious device I have no idea. Slightly longer than the motorcycle I was able to stretch out my legs inside, although there wasn’t much elbow room.
Whether by design or modification, there was no way to open the door from the inside, though I could wind the window down on the motorcycle side. The idea of Henry in charge of such a vehicle left me in a total panic, but locked in with a damaged leg I had little choice in the matter. The extra mass of the sidecar turned the venerable twin totally lethargic, not helped even by Henry’s conviction that the only way to change gear was to rev the engine out to the maximum. Noise and vibration rattled around the steel structure, a perfect form of torture.
Henry couldn’t understand why all the cars were charging straight at him, until I tapped his knee with the walking stick a few times, shouting at the top of my voice, keep the throttle in the gutter. Total perplexity on the clown’s face until he realised that foreigners drove on the wrong side of the road.
The lad’s technique was quite simple, that of brute force over any other skill. Emboldened by the fact that he no longer had to worry about a two-wheeled vehicle falling over and reassured by the meagre top speed and pathetic acceleration, all he had to do was exert all his excessive muscular force in the direction he wanted to go. The fool’s lack of memory did mean that he often forgot there was actually a sidecar attached... there was no chance of my drifting off, no chance of taking my eye off the lad for a moment!
I had to keep the window open, harshly tap the giant’s kneecap with my walking stick every time my life was threatened by a fast approaching cage or lamppost. There were times when this didn’t work. He’d aimed the monster through a gap, down a one-way street, that was only just wide enough for a solo A10... fortunately, the pile of garbage in our path gave way to the hefty construction of the sidecar. Poor old Henry ended up covered in what looked like the leftovers from a Chinese restaurant, a look of total befuddlement on his face as he tried to figure out why his day had been ruined by dead food falling out of the sky.
Our exit from Paris was in high spirits, the lad sweeping over to the wrong side of the road and careering the sidecar along the pavement for a good twenty yards, scattering pedestrians - one spirited old French dame whacked the top of the sidecar with her brolly. Henry swerved back on to the tarmac proper, just in time to avoid a lamppost. A parade of French industrial might in the form of locally produced cars, blared merrily on their horns as the lad skittered back on to the correct side of the road.
No real damage done, though. The same couldn’t be said a few miles into the countryside. The old BSA was slugging along at 45mph, sounding more like a pile-driver than a motorcycle, Henry beaming from ear to ear at being in control of the dubious device, when a bloody big Doberman shot out of nowhere. Henry has a certain fondness for canines but not when they come barrelling out of the ether on a destruction course.
The first I knew of it, Henry screaming an oath, trying to twirl the combo on to a new course but merely lining up the front of the sidecar with the path of the charging beast. Looked like something out of a horror movie. The robust structure of the chariot won out, but not without nearly breaking my leg again and leaving a large dent in the front of the structure. The incompetent idiot in tears as he viewed the dead dog, taking no notice of the long stream of invective I threw at him. If we’d stuck around to argue the toss with the police, we doubtless would’ve been regarded as heroes for taking out such a wild beast.
Henry didn’t go above 20mph for the next ten miles, the bars wobbling in his hands... the resulting vibration resonated around the chariot like having a dustbin stuck over my head whilst half a dozen youths training to be in metal band got to work! Eyeing the BSA, bolts seemed to be twirling off before my eyes, one of the silencers half hanging off. Henry seemed to think all the noise and vibration quite normal, reluctant to find a sweeter spot in the engine’s rev range.
Happy hadn’t noticed that the brakes were but barely working, the excessive mass of the combination rendering the old drum brakes wholly inadequate. They might work well once a day but that was it. Henry much preferred to use the sidecar, which protruded a good foot beyond the front wheel of the motorcycle, as a battering ram - even more revelatory than whacking cages on their roof with a tyre-iron. Unless, of course, you happened to be inside the sidecar nurturing a broken leg! Erring car drivers were in for a hard time!
There was, perhaps, something in the sight of a six foot six inch giant who’s girth was made all the greater by an ex-army greatcoat, sat upon an equally unlikely vehicle, that frightened the hell out of drivers, even irascible French cagers. When the combination descended, rattling, shaking and roaring, upon innocent motorists about to impede our progress, the reaction was, I can tell you, not one of indifference.
Through the distorted vision offered by the Perspex screen, cars seemed to suddenly career out of our way. Those normally afflicted by myopia suddenly had a miraculous restoration of vision... surprising what a good old bit of intimidation achieves.
However, Henry’s elevation from the pillion to the controls had been sudden and unexpected, his road sense wholly lacking. Even with the sparsely populated countryside, careering across France wasn’t exactly a brilliant training ground. No real surprise that the idiot hit the side of an erratically driven Citroen, sending a vicious spasm of pain up my right leg. I almost felt sorry for Henry, harangued from both sides, the idiot stood there with his fingers in his mouth, moments off bursting into tears.
Oddly, after being battered by the charging canine, further damage was limited to a bit of scratched paintwork on the sidecar whilst the poor old cage looked a write-off. The lad was, at least, advanced enough in the art of survival to give a false name and address, a mythical insurance number and get the numberplate slightly wrong... the local still gibbering away as we thundered off into the countryside.
Whilst fumbling around in the sidecar I’d found a pile of hardcore magazines, instant arrest if the customs into the UK stopped us. I suspected that after his run in with the transvestite Henry was desperately studying the female form to make sure he didn’t make the same mistake again. Disgusting stuff, I threw it out of the window - naked pictures flying past the giant, crouched form of Happy Henry. God knows what the locals thought.
On and on droned we, fortunately leaving the storm clouds in the distance, our spirits lifted by the heat of the sun and the rhythm of the road. France seemed an endless vista, somehow reluctant to let us out of its grasp. Despite being full of foreigners who couldn’t speak English I rather liked it and thought we might return. I didn’t fancy my chances on a broken leg, though.
Calais finally found, the ferry a blur and the only recollection of Dover was a custom’s officer fighting hysterical laughter at the sight of Henry on the combo. Darkness fell as we left the town, the BSA’s lights refusing to work. Pulling well off the road, I had a half reasonable lodging in the sidecar but poor old Happy was out in the cold. Accommodation was out of the question, the fool had only 120 notes left from our stash. He whined that the sidecar had claimed most of it but I suspected repeated trips to the basement a more likely cause of impending penury. The lad banished to a nearby forest to fend for himself.
In the morning, Henry did a passable imitation of an icicle, but ten minutes sat of the vibrating BSA, the engine gave off enough heat to thaw him out. Totally lacking in any stiff upper lip, he twitched, swore and grunted as circulation reconnected to his extremities. He wore a demented look as we hit the road again, totally ignoring my commands to give the machine a good going over. I had the last laugh, more torrential rain defined our path up north to the Midlands; I could barely see out of the sidecar but winding the window down a touch I caught a glance of a sodden Henry, water streaming off him in his self produced gale.
Amazingly, the BSA’s electrical system resisted the elements all the way to the outskirts of Birmingham. Henry, already confused by a bizarre array of ring roads, suddenly found a misfire knocking 20mph off our speed and realigning the BSA in front of a car. Unfortunately, the car contained two uniformed officers of law and order who demanded that we pull over. In its sluggard condition there was no way the combo could escape. At least the rain had stopped.
Pulled up on the side of road, huge lorries thundering past, the cops took their time going over the machine. They seem half frightened by Henry and highly amused as yours truly struggled out of the sidecar. Don’t know what they were looking for but they told us we were lucky they weren’t in traffic or we would’ve been for it. Like, I needed to be told.
The misfire caused by a rotted HT lead... no problem as I had a stash of spares. No problem except that trying to bend down sent spasms of pain up my leg and back. Henry hacked away at the magneto with all the élan of primate encountering a stone tool for the first time but a few smacks around the ear brought him into line. Half an hour later we were on the road, old Happy convinced that he could find employment as a mechanic!
The BSA was having one of those days, deciding to cut out as if suffering from fuel starvation. Henry had all the patience of a hungry five year-old, kicking the engine and swearing his head off. The lad reluctantly pulled the fuel line off the carburettor, turned on the tap and sprayed the whole bike with petrol. That end was okay, anyway. Turned out to be crud in the carb but I nearly did my back in getting down to it, no way such a relatively delicate component could be subjected to Happy’s heavy-handed regime. The original petrol tank was rusting from the inside out... Henry’s powerful knee-clamp had probably loosened some of it off!
Birmingham in a general state of decay, genteel in areas but mostly of a desperate nature. We tried a few large houses in a state of neglect but all seemed to have been converted into grotty bedsits; no chance of a paint job. Hobbling around on the walking stick didn’t put me in the best of moods. We decided to backtrack to Redditch where in the dim and distant past I lived for a couple of years. Much more upmarket.
Soon became involved in a curious race with a pack of scooters. Hundreds of the awful things crowding us in, making rude gestures at our splendid conveyance and Henry’s attire. They appeared unable to go much faster than ourselves but a few of the parka-clad imbeciles had the audacity to kick out at the venerable BSA as they sneaked past. I handed Henry his tyre-iron, which he immediately waved in their direction; scattered them for a moment.
They were soon back. I could see Henry coming up to the boil, all I hoped was that he wouldn’t forget he was supposed to be controlling the outfit as well as attacking the scooterists. Happy managed to lightly whack one on his lid with a blow that would’ve given him a headache for the rest of the day if his head hadn’t been protected. The rider reacted as if he had become very drunk, half collapsing over the bars, the machine wriggling all over the road, careering into a couple of fellow scooterists, before he managed to regain control. Six bikes ended up on the tarmac.
Henry dropped down the large gap between fourth and third gear. The sidecar body shook, rattled and rolled as he wound the revs on, the speed creeping up to almost 70mph. The Perspex screen a blur, the floor vibrated viciously and the whole outfit weaved, wallowed, through the curves, although such was the bulk of the device that it was impossible to raise the sidecar an inch off the ground.
Overtaking a Ford Orion, Henry only just realised the width of the combo and he narrowly avoided taking off the side of the rusted heap. Coming back on to our side of the road, the sidecar wheel dug into the grass verge, hit a huge hole, the whole outfit sliding around and ending up in a hedge facing the wrong direction. Henry beamed down upon me, figuring he was in dodgem car or something!
Fortunately, the scooterists were nowhere in sight and the engine was still running. The low speed torque drove the antiquated vehicle out of the self-made ditch as if it was some ancient tractor. The only real damage, to my lower leg which was throbbing like it had been run over by an artic, after I was thrown out of the seat into the side of the chassis. Only with extreme reluctance did Henry hand back the tyre-iron; once a little violence was let loose from his system he was unwilling to revert to his more angelic self.
Redditch a waste of time, rich bastards taking one look at us, threatening to phone the cops. Henry threw a fit, sulked, then locked me in the sidecar and pointed the combo south. Took no notice of my diatribe. Getting above himself, a taste of good sex had turned his mind! Henry was so resolute that he refused to stop for anything - junctions, red lights or other vehicles. He just sat there, only half in control of the meandering vehicle, ignoring the cacophony coming from the protesting engine... it says a lot for the venerable twin that it achieved the capital city in one sitting.
The one good thing about London, the surplus of houses in need of paint - we could easily undercut the prices of local builders. I hoped we could hit a rich vein of middleclass money, desperate to keep up appearances. As always, we lived in anticipation.
We parked up behind a closed petrol station just past Willesden. The high life would have to wait. I had the sidecar for a kind of comfort, Henry was sent to a far corner, armed with a few bottles of cheap French wine, where his snoring and nocturnal tantrums would be less intrusive. After digestion of half a bottle of wine, I slipped into the slumber of the dead to the accompaniment of scrambling rats and the gentle ticking of a cooling motor.
In the morning all hell broke loose. A bearded Jew in traditional rig was ranting at Henry that we should vacate his land at the earliest moment, brandishing a stick which was only ineffective in that Henry was almost twice his height - I could see the lad searching for his tyre-iron, forgetting that I’d confiscated it again in retribution for locking me in the sidecar. I struggled to leave the confines of the chariot to explain that we meant no harm, but before I freed myself the ignorant lout started crashing his stick on to the sidecar’s body. Such was the fury that the stout walking stick actually broke in half. He walked off in disgust, muttering something about summoning the police.
Our quick exit was delayed by the BSA’s refusal to start. Evidently, the old gal had tired of carting too much mass too rapidly from one end of England to the other. I felt a certain amount of angst myself. Henry had no option but to push the combo whilst I hobbled along behind. Once hidden from any lurking officers of the law, I had the leisure to thoughtfully study the engine whilst Henry leapt up and down on the kickstart. If nothing else, it would burn off some of his excess sexual energy. Had to give him points for trying, though not for technique. After about 30 kicks brute force won out, the motor clattered into life.
The run into Central London more or less a straight line but it took 90 minutes in the rush hour traffic. The motor overheated, the sidecar rattled nastily and I could smell the iron barrels melting. Henry didn’t look too happy, either... if looks could kill, the midday news would’ve been full of the sudden death of hundreds of car drivers. I hid the massive tyre-iron under a heap of clothes and tools. Rolling into Kings Cross, the motor locked up solidly.
I wasn’t that worried, felt that it would all loosen up once allowed to cool down. No sooner had Henry leapt off the saddle to help me out of the sidecar, than no less than six cops pounced on us. The bastards were on one of their periodic clean-up drives against drugs and hookers. The perpetrators having gone elsewhere they were evidently bored out of their heads, judging by the way they threw everything that wasn’t bolted down on to the street. Fortunately, our lack of clothing changes or even washing over the past few days meant they thought twice about strip-searching us!
My carefully crumpled and oil-stained-to-oblivion documents of dubious providence were not met with much amusement but they’d had their fun and games, the thought of more paperwork appeared too much trouble for such a minor collar. We spent the next hour putting everything back where it belonged, by which time the motor had, as predicted, freed up nicely. A distinctive rumble from the engine sounded expensive!
I flicked through a grubby copy of Motorcycle News to find a nearby breaker who sold British stuff and we wobbled off in that general direction, Henry trying his hardest to finish off the motor. The lad, by now in a foul mood, appeared to be perfecting the art of the close shave, leaving a road littered with smashed wing mirrors. As he was using the sidecar half of the vehicle as the means of destruction, I found this a trifle disconcerting at first but was eventually reassured that the tank-like thickness of the metal would not give way to the flimsy construction of the modern automobile.
Even a Volvo owner was forced to swerve on to the pavement to avoid having his pride and joy crumpled beyond recognition... I felt like running up the Union Jack but restrained myself; the large cosmopolitan population of London would probably have mistaken us for National Front supporters and strung us up!
The breaker’s dog, some huge, vile crossbreed straight out of the depths of hell, went for my throat as I hobbled into the establishment. Henry nowhere to be found when his tyre-iron-wielding expertise was actually needed. The dog’s neck almost snapped off when he was brought up short by his lead - thank god! The beast, rearing back on hind legs, was as tall as myself and looked like it ate bikers for breakfast. I gave him a smack on the head with my walking stick, almost falling forwards into his grasp. The beast thrashed on the end of the metal chain like it had rabies, foam frothing out of its fang infested mouth until the owner appeared. He looked suspiciously at the bloodied head of his mutt whilst I tried to imitate a harmless, crippled senior citizen.
He eventually admitted that he had a pristine A10 bottom end, mine for 600 notes. Piss off, my reply. I had to hobble out as rapidly as possible whilst he tried to untie the beast... that’s London, for you! Nearby there was a hotel of sorts. One of those six storey Victorian edifices that had been carved up into tiny rooms. Henry parked the bike half on and half off the pavement, a constant trickle of oil already adding to the character of the area. 30 quid a night wasn’t exactly cheap but my aged bones screamed for a comfortable bed and hot bath.
Before such civilisation could be obtained, I instructed Henry to remove the BSA’s engine... quite easy to extract even if your only artistry is that of wielding a five pound hammer. Henry didn’t look too strained as we smuggled the engine and our tools up three flights of stairs to our room. Henry relegated to handing me the tools, so I couldn’t really blame him when a pint of oil splattered over the floor. Transpired that the main bearings were shot. A lot of telephoning followed, a shop located that could fit a new set. Henry dispatched on the underground, clutching the oily crank assembly as if his life depended on it, still attired in waders and trench coat as it looked like rain... he turned up at one in the morning, claiming to have gone around London five times on the underground trying to find his way back and had ended up walking about ten miles!
In the morning, after a night full of intermittent sleep caused by Henry’s snoring doing a passable imitation of a pack of pigs in heat, I rebuilt the engine and met the hotel’s owner as we carried it back down to the street. He didn’t seem to believe me when I told him we took it out for safe keeping each night. After fixing the engine back in the frame, I left Henry to perfect his kickstart act whilst I tried to placate an irate hotel owner after he’d inspected our room. Henry’s lustful dreams added a broken bed to the carnage of a ruined carpet and oil splattered walls. The only good thing to come out of the conversation, he didn’t phone the police.
Unfortunately, all the benefits of hotel life were negated by the mess resultant from putting the engine back in. We ended up as filthy as before we’d had our showers. My offer of a discount paint job on the hotel hadn’t gone down at all well - can’t please some people - although as most of the front of the last hotel we’d tried to do had ended up on the pavement after the balcony collapsed, perhaps we ought to avoid such buildings in the future!
A whole day wasted trying to find some work but even cutting the rate to that of slave labourers didn’t impress any potential employers - the BSA was now spraying out a fine mist of oil that left poor old Henry covered from head to foot, along with my own oil impregnated hands and face, didn’t exactly inspire trust and confidence in would-be employers! We tried the rich, the poor, countless shops and even the odd decayed industrial building. Henry was sulking again as I threatened him with a good Gunking and jet-wash, then force-fitting him into an Oxfam suit!
We rolled up at a B & B in Acton, of all the desperate places. Run by some old Polish bat, it was cleaner than the last hotel and five notes cheaper but she seemed reluctant to let us occupy one of her rooms even though we had stripped off the outer layer of oil stained clothing. Perhaps it was the way Henry was leering at the old dear’s bosom. I wearily dug out the notes and told her we wouldn’t need a receipt; they disappeared with a rapidity that would do a magician proud!
Next morning we were given our marching orders. Other borders had complained about Henry’s snoring and grunting, the lad had broken another bed and demolished a wardrobe, and the final insult was the way he consumed a breakfast meant for six all by himself. With thirty notes left, and absolutely no sign of work, it was time to get serious.
Despite the wild ride under Henry’s tutelage, my leg had almost miraculously fortified itself, I could actually fit on the pillion! I never ascertained the extent of the break but evidently not major. Unbelievably, the sidecar was welded on to the BSA’s frame. Henry stood in open-mouthed dismay as I gave him a dressing down for potentially ruining the bike’s frame. Four hacksaw blades later, Henry had finally freed the venerable motorcycle from the abortion. The Polish landlady kept giving us the evil eye from her front garden but you learn to ignore these things. No idea what she made of the abandoned sidecar left in front of her house.
The lad, armed with spit and polish, spent the next three hours cleaning the bike. Whilst doing the rebuild I’d found almost every component nearly ruined, a combination of too many miles and far too much exertation in carting around the sidecar. A complete rebuild was way beyond my means but the engine still ran well enough to fool anyone not conversant with the breed. BSA A10’s were classic motorcycles that fetched serious money. Another round of telephone calls, whilst Henry worked furiously on the BSA, revealed a couple of classic dealers who were interested. The finishing touch, very thick engine oil to stem the leaks and quiet down the rattles.
Henry, inspired by thoughts of another foreign sortie, a reformed character, directed the venerable motorcycle on the merest hint of throttle in fourth gear. The first dealer went for the plot, overwhelmed by the thought that all the cycle parts were still original... 1500 notes richer we headed back into town on the underground. We’d even thrown in our authentic motorcycle gear, London weather turning surreally hot as soon as we sold the motorcycle. Happy was burdened with a large bag of tools and clothes, muttering in complaint under his breath.
Henry demanding a side trip to Soho, whilst squirming around in his seat, eyes darting from one young lady to the next. Left to his own devices, Happy would’ve reduced us to penury within an hour in some neon dive or caused havoc by squeezing the backsides of any women within easy reach. He kept eyeing my walking stick, wondering if the momentary pleasure was worth the resulting pain.
As Oxford Circus rumbled into view, the lad leapt up into the crowd, forced his way through and jumped on to the station concourse. I had no option but to hobble along in his wake, cursing the commuters for their lack of civility to senior citizens but the combination of ex-army boots and a sharp edged walking stick allowed me through the momentary vacuum created by Henry’s violent exit. He’d left a few anguished women in his wake but the train’s closing door cut off their complaints. It was only after the train departed that I realised the cunning bugger had left my life’s accumulation of tools and all our clothes on the train!
Fresh air, near freezing point, drifted over the exit from the tube station, the sun disappearing over the horizon. Henry marched off in the direction of Soho, leaving me at the mercy of loitering muggers and other undesirables. The density of the dispossessed almost equalled that of the good citizens. The lad, realising I had all our monetary means stashed in my underwear, allowed me to catch up, only to demand a few hundred quid for his merriment. He took no notice of my complaint that I had just sold the love of my life and a period of mourning should be entered into.
Luckily, the whole of London’s police force was concentrated in Soho, another drive against illegal enjoyment. Henry’s jaw fell down around his knee-caps, spitting out a litany of complaints against the heavy-handedness of the police. At least the continentals knew how to enjoy themselves. The police appeared confused by the combination of a retarded giant and crippled pensioner, such disbelief allowing us to get out of their range before they turned nasty.
Happy Henry then demanded that we return to France, gave every indication of walking all the way to Dover if necessary. Once a certain idea gets into the idiot’s head there’s no arguing with him - you either go with the flow or let him go off on his own. The sheer stupidity of visiting France, returning, getting halfway up north then returning to London, and then going back to France again, didn’t seem to penetrate the lad’s thick skull. At least my leg was getting stronger with each passing day!
The ferry to Calais was full of scum. I kept next to Henry who despite his massive bulk was nervous enough to have unfurled his tyre-iron. We were instantly recognizable as motorcyclists, thanks to our ancient leather jackets and jeans; quickly joined in the lounge by a few other bikers. Thankful for their presence, if the worst came to the worst, we could stand back to back, fend off the football fanatics.
A couple of the bikers couldn’t keep their hands off each other, Henry kept giving them confused glances, not sure what they were up to. Decked out in brightly shining full-leathers, they admitted to owning identical race replicas, compounding their sins. The other guys a scruffy bunch, happily getting pissed out of their minds without a thought for French plod. Henry immediately joined in, determined to excel in something, anything.
The football louts well drunk before they even set foot on the ferry. A huge gang of them clustered around the bar, grabbing passing grannies, tossing them in the air and throwing them across the room, making obscene gestures. The fleeting glimpse of underwear had Henry all worked up! Half a dozen or so of the hoodlums would periodically drop their pants, make loud farting noises - a truly delightful sight and smell; one of the gay bikers so agog he knocked his glass of wine off the table! And we were in the bar where they seemed less in number if not brain power!
To pass the time we started talking bikes. Tall tales and stories of wild times. One of the group had a bike for sale. Our spirits rose as he described this paragon of British engineering. Our mouths watered when he mentioned the low down stomp, the incredible reliability and the fact that it had gone around the clock at least once... and was all set up to do it again. When he mentioned that it was a BSA, I saw Henry momentarily flinch in lust, or perhaps horror. The let down came when he revealed that it was a 1944 BSA WD20.
Still, everyone agreed that it would be safer in the bowels of the ship, dodging the spite of enraged seamen, rather than staying in the bar with the football louts who had found a new form of entertainment - upending any likely looking innocent, shaking him until all his money, keys, Durex et al fell out. We descended into the vibrating hulk of the ancient ferry, with Henry to the rear, waving his tyre-iron in a threatening manner.
I had actually ridden a WD20 before, should have known what I was letting myself in for. I am actually old enough to recall these things when they were new, used as cross country despatch machines by demented army DR’s. The engine, a gutless big sidevalve thumper, its only virtue that it would run on just about any fuel you could concoct in war rationed Britain. Its chassis, with girder forks, minimal tubular frame and lack of rear suspension, as vicious and wicked as its engine power was mild and constipated.
That was when it was new. The creature before our eyes, even in the dim lighting of the ship, was a rolling piece of mechanical wreckage that looked like it should be in the back room of a museum awaiting restoration. The owner assured us that it ran a lot better than it looked - how else had it got here from Derby? The bike was still in its camouflage green paint speckled with rust in most places where the copious oil leaks hadn’t protected the surface.
I sat on the sprung saddle, disconcerted to find that it wobbled sideways as well as bouncing up and down on its tired springs. The seat height would’ve impressed a midget but Henry didn’t look too happy on the tiny pad that served as a pillion perch. Judging by the near hysterical laughter of the other bikers we looked quite a sight! Even using my left leg, the engine casually burst into life with little effort, there being a lack of such modern convention as an actual ignition switch.
It was the exhaust note that did it. Reflecting off the sides of the ship it bounced through the hull, a soft sonorous sensation that suggested there were still a few miles left in the old beast... the seamen who descended on us were obviously tone deaf, cursing and swearing they didn’t seem impressed, telling us we were endangering the safety of the ship and we’d better get back upstairs or else. Luckily, all the football hooligans were corralled into one of the lounges, locked in and left to tear each other to pieces. Judging by the noise, they were wrecking the place, generally getting into the right frame of mind for their football match.
We made a note to avoid their destination, moved on to the serious business of determining a fair price for the vintage motorcycle sulking in the depths of the ship. We naturally pleaded poverty, backed up by our ancient clothing. After a few more jars, 250 notes changed hands for the documents and everyone seemed in high spirits. Henry clumped around noisily, berating the ferry company after they announced we would be a few hours late docking due to industrial action in France. The continuous diet of lager caused the lad’s face to blossom in redness and what there was of his mind to pontificate loudly.
We were first through the ferry doors. On the metal surface of the ship the BSA felt terrible - yes, I was back in control, there was enough movement in my foot to let me operate the gear lever - I suspected that the French doctors had needlessly cast my lower leg. In my excitement at ownership of a new machine, I forgot to check the tyres - they were almost down to the inner-tube. Also a lot of vibration as I powered up to 15mph in first gear. It lessened to an appreciable degree as I got her into second, although the machine gave such a lurch that Henry was thrown off the back of the minimal seat.
The first I knew of it, his size twelve’s whizzing past my earlobes. The giant hit his family jewels during the exit - he was always a clumsy soul - rolling around on the floor roaring with the pain of it. A long queue of cars soon formed, the drivers wondering what the hell was going down. Eventually, the lad was persuaded into an upright position and agreed to get back on to the bike. It wasn’t my fault if the damn clutch was shot, was it? But try imparting any kind of logic to a sex maniac whose future performance was threatened by sudden castration!
We lurched out of the port without further incident, on to some proper French roads. I managed to remember that these damn foreigners drove on the wrong side of the road and hurried the bike along as fast as possible to get out of the stinking hellhole of Calais. The WD20 has a lot in common with a Honda step-thru - the performance similar, the BSA would only reluctantly creep up to 45mph, the whole machine rumbling like some steam train going up an incline.
The girder forks as shot as the clutch, didn’t wallow so much as lurch from one point to the next. Wobbling every which way on the seat added a very strange sensation - like I was still on the rolling deck of the ship. Hitting a large bump was akin to being punched in the lower back by an enraged boxer who’d just injected himself with half a gallon of adrenalin.
The only way that Henry could stay on, by clamping me around the waist in a disgustingly intimate manner. I became so disturbed by this that I let the lad have a go at the controls, my right ankle was also seizing up... The lad took no notice of my lecture on the intricacies of clutch control. No surprise that he stalled the machine five times, anger bubbling out of his body. The sixth attempt resulted in a massive wheelie, fortunately I’d wedged myself between the fool and the pillion footrests.
For a moment, the bike seemed almost vertical. I had the distinct impression that my head was about to be torn off by the tarmac. The next thing I knew, Henry in a total panic had thrown all his considerable weight forward and grabbed everything in sight. The front wheel hit the ground with a horrible howling noise and, because it was locked solid, his gorilla-like grip overcoming the reality of the front brake’s tiny size - the bike tried to cartwheel forward. Luckily, the lad had the sense to let go of the brake and in a horrendous buckling leap, proper forward motion was finally achieved.
When the lad pulled over a few hundred yards down the road we were both badly shaken and I felt a distinct need to find a public convenience. I took the controls once again. In an hour we’d done less than 20 miles down the back roads to Paris. Not good enough. I told Henry to hold on to my shoulders rather than the intimate bear-hug, which meant he threatened me with bodily dislocation every time I changed gear!
Progress of a sort eventually established. 40 miles on the bike then a ten minute rest and recuperation stop in some backward French village. A crowd always gathered, as incredulous about the bike as about us. Henry looking more and more like a scarecrow as in the last dice with the tarmac he had managed to split his jacket up the back and tear large chunks out of his trousers.
One old dear came out of her quaint cottage with a pile of clothes that belonged, we learnt after a series of increasingly desperate hand signs and facial tics, to her dead husband. He must’ve been a big man, as they fitted Henry quite well, although his large boots were now revealed by too short trousers. In reality, the lad was suddenly transformed into a typical Frenchman, right down to the beret he was sporting at a jaunty angle, much to the joy of the old girl who seemed to be eyeing him somewhat less than innocently.
I decided we’d better depart before Henry caused an international incident, no telling how desperate he’d become after his taste of French sex. Perhaps it was old age or creeping senility, but I soon found a certain comfort in chanting gently to the BSA, in rhythm with its exhaust, make it to Paris, old girl; make it to Paris... seemed like an eternity before the outline of the great city appeared, as if by magic just as the sun was setting - it was then that I discovered that, yet again, we had no lights!
Henry cheered from the pillion, waved his beret in the air. The lad never gentle in his movements, his wayward momentum sending the bike into a massive wobble that redirected it to the nearest ditch. The brakes appeared to have no effect on forward momentum, the bike giving a sudden lurch forwards that sent us into the ditch. Well, me, the lurch actually resultant from Henry stepping off the bike, the sudden lack of mass adding to the speed. A final insult from the cretin whose sole concern was preservation of his already battered maritals.
In my youth, when equipped with two working legs and cutting edge reflexes, most likely I would merely have kicked away from the bike, flying through the air; ending in an artful somersault to rub off the momentum. No chance of such an easy escape, these days, the bike thumping down on my left leg. By the time Henry had the wit to pull the offending machine off my limb, felt like I was suffering from third degree burns. Didn’t look anywhere near as bad as it felt but I could hardly stand let alone control a motorcycle. Besides, with no lights my night vision was on a par with a blind man.
There was no stilling Henry. Even after I lambasted him for a good ten minutes, he wanted to be in the heart of Paris and would damn well walk there if he had to. Of course, the cursed BSA emerged unscathed, using my tired body as a cushion. Putting Henry in control of anything mechanical akin to putting sugar in the petrol tank, only a question of time before all hell broke loose.
The lad started off well, his enthusiasm such that he was determined to fire the engine first kick, giving a massive lunge. The motor fired, no problem, but the kickstart carried on in its travel until it hit the tarmac. The ignoramus looked down at the broken mechanism, that was giving off destructive noises as various internal gears self-destructed, as if he had never seen it before. He pushed the bike backward to free the lever and then kicked it back to where it should be, totally ignoring the clanking noises the motor made.
I hobbled on to the minimal pillion, whilst Henry grappled with the clutch and gearbox. Much to my surprise the bike actually moved off, albeit in a series of heavy lurches. Henry had no real idea where he was going, running on instinct. He was crouched over the bars trying to make some sense out of the sparkling convergence of overhead illumination and oncoming car lights, compounded by his having lost his goggles along the way. The only good thing, his passable imitation of a native meant we didn’t stand out as a target for belligerent locals.
A few days further into spring the night air was almost warm compared to the cold of our previous visit and I was idly speculating how nice it would be to sit at an outdoor restaurant testing the local beverages when the BSA appeared to disintegrate under me. No such luck, it was merely Henry standing on the footrests and screaming a lullaby at a couple of scantily clad French ladies who were parading along the pavement. Before the bike went sideways, the lad regained the seat and steered us back on to the correct side of the road. The BSA’s engine, not to mention its exhaust, made far too much racket for me to remonstrate with the randy giant.
I contented myself with the scenery, had to commend the French for not filling their city full of endless lines of identical hovels, as was so popular in Blighty. A little later, could’ve sworn that I was looking at the same buildings again... yes, the cretin was riding around in circles, getting nowhere fast. Happy Henry appeared incapable of comprehending his silliness but with a large sigh made a right-hand turn and was told to keep the moon in a constant position.
In Henry’s mind this meant he had to keep looking up at the moon rather than where he was going. Took about ten minutes for him to hit something. Fortunately, the BSA had decided to stick in third gear and refused to go above 30mph, the potential carnage much reduced by our lack of momentum. Still, whacking into a wall, even an ancient one that disintegrated on impact, isn’t recommended when you already, literally, haven’t got a leg to stand on.
For once, Happy’s large body proved a useful landing pad and I escaped without serious injury. The lad was in a fury of pain, having whacked his marital tackle on the end of the handlebar, bent almost double trying to get his breath back after shaking myself off his back like an elephant dealing with an irritating fly. It was one of the sweetest moments in recent memory but I managed to stop myself bursting into laughter.
Easy enough as a glance at the BSA revealed yet another ruined motorcycle. At first I thought the forks had snapped off but, no, it was actually the frame which had broken in half at the headstock! Conceivably, a local blacksmith could’ve artfully welded it all back together but as the engine probably would’ve expired as soon as we reached the centre of town it hardly seemed worth the effort.
The owner of the garden wall, which was attached to a large cottage, turned out to be a sultry French dame who had rushed out of her bath and was wearing very little. Poor old Henry didn’t know whether he was coming or going, his injured groin instantly restored to functionality but still immersed in pain. The woman eyed the lad suspiciously, doubtless wondering why a colossal cretin was bent double, furiously rubbing his groin.
Assuming Henry was French, she spat out a stream of vitriol but all the lad could manage was a series of grunts. She disappeared for a minute and I tried to pull the transfixed giant away from the scene but there was no arguing with him. The sight of a pair of large breasts wobbling under a flimsy towel was all it took to turn his mind to dust. Given no choice in the matter, my legs were able to propel me along with all the efficacy of a two-legged camel and I was a few yards from the almost upright idiot when the French bint reappeared and threw a bucket of cold water over his head. I knew it was cold because I was partially drenched.
Happy simultaneously jumped a yard in the air and yelped, all his sexual fantasies instantly dissipated. Henry might not be the most intelligent person on the planet but his survival instincts were well developed. He tried for hyperspace, leaving me at the mercy of a nearly naked, mad French woman. I had no qualms about abandoning the classic motorcycle, its worth was undoubtedly far less than the cost of employing some French craftsman to rebuild the ruined wall. Looking back, she seemed satisfied with her instant revenge and unlikely to do something as undignified as pursue a man of such aged status as myself.
Took half an hour to catch up with Henry. Luckily, the water had mostly hit my head, my clothes escaped with no serious ingress. Not so Happy, who was soaked through from head to foot and was found shivering down a dark alleyway, close to tears, trying to squeeze the last of the water out of his beret. I put the lad through a series of vigorous exercises, much leaping up and down, to burn off the water and provide him with some much needed body heat.
The ungrateful lout was still complaining bitterly as we staggered into the Algerian quarter of Paris. We weren’t a pretty sight, Henry walking with bowed legs and dripping water, whilst I hobbled along on my walking stick. Neither was the hotel where we stayed before a pretty sight... due to some curious continental construction technique, the balcony that had fallen into the street had also pulled out a large amount of stonework from the front of the hotel. I quipped to Henry that we ought to enter the demolition business but the lad was in no mood for idle conversation.
I doubted if the Algerian manager would welcome us even if rooms were still available in the ruined structure, so we turned down some back streets in search of a suitable hotel, the lad giving the closed down edifice a lingering glance in the hope that the love of his life might suddenly emerge from its subterranean depths. Even squelching with water Henry’s impersonation of a local allowed us ingress into the first establishment we tried. Our biggest immediate problem was solving the riddle of French plumbing, obtaining a hot bath without flooding the hotel...
Delayed Joys
Any sane person, at least those of my venerable status, would’ve collapsed on to the nearest bed and slept off the rigours of the day. Instead, I somehow found myself trailing after the lad whose mind was split between tracking down the nearest lady of the night and downing a couple of bottles of French wine. I soon made his mind up for him by camping down at the first outside table. The French waiter ignored me, giving the lounging giant a lingering look, spitting out a stream of the local lingo. Even with dampened clothes he could still pass for a native. The lad pointed at a nearby bottle of wine and grunted several times, much to my amazement procuring a much needed drink.
I grabbed the bottle before Henry could upend and empty it. The lad looked astonished at the small size of the wine glass he held in his massive mitt; soon became tiresome to keep filling it up. Happy made more grunting noises, suggestive hip thrusts and rude gestures at a nearby ancient, trying to impart his need to find out where the gals were. Rather than fleeing the scene, the local grabbed Henry’s sleeve and pulled him off down the street. But not before the lad had demanded a few hundred francs for his fun and games.
Of course, his exit coincided with an empty bottle of wine. After ten minutes of waving it in the air, the waiter finally deigned to bring a replacement. He replaced his scowl with an exaggerated bow, muttering something about sugar daddies, his whole body scrunched up in horror at speaking a couple of words of English. Bloody cheek, if I was feeling better I would’ve given him a slap with the cane.
By the time Henry returned, broke and glum-looking, the wine had dissolved the pain in my legs and I was almost in a merry mood. The lad summoned yet more wine with a flick of his massive, beret topped, head. The waiter used the bottle as a microphone, went into a little song and dance before the giant’s disbelieving eyes. Poor old Happy wasn’t sure what was going down, decided to get stuck into the wine.
Henry’s sulking fit, he revealed in a series of stuttering grunts and unseemly hand gestures, caused by his finishing the job before he’d even had a chance to get inside the French whore. He made masturbatory gestures and tried a knowing wink, obviously rapidly going off his head... the waiter was all excited, anyway.
Fearing another international incident I force-marched the drunken giant down the road awhile, my injured legs further weakened by all the alcohol coursing through my own system. Henry spied a splash of neon lighting flashing in the darkness of an alleyway, pointed the way with his tyre-iron, which didn’t faze the loutish bouncers in the least.
Down rickety steps went we, the descent sending spasms of pain along my legs that coalesced in my spine. The contrast between the muted street lighting and strobe lights left me temporarily blind, walked right into some bint who was all naked flesh and wriggling limbs... by the time my vision cleared she’d disappeared. A strange sight greeted by eyes, half disco and half naked dancers on stages.
Henry was trying to cause an international incident by sitting on his haunches hoping to get a clear view of some young lady’s intimate areas, his eyes popping out of his head as he confirmed her gender. A few whacks around his head with my walking stick brought him to his senses but it only lasted long enough for the fool to buy a couple of beers at 100 francs each. Henry had found heaven, penury had no meaning.
Even my aged eyes were watering at the sight of all the naked flesh, poor old Henry was coming apart at the seams on the back of an unlikely lust, thrusting and grinding his body with his usual lack of grace. A break in the music, a change of dancing gals, Henry ran and leapt up on to the nearest stage, trying to do a striptease as the music blasted back into its dire rhythm.
Jeers and cat-calls greeted the giant’s new vocation, the punters’ fantasies ruined by a half naked village idiot going into head-banger mode. Half a dozen bouncers descended on the lad, lashing out with large batons. Not being entirely suicidal, he leapt from the stage and ran for the exit. I pretended to have absolutely no connection with the idiot and made my own stately exit after the bouncers had run out after Henry.
They were grouped outside, one of them spitting out French at me like it was a communicable disease... I gave what I hoped was a Gallic shrug, knowing that speaking English was akin to asking for a beating. He waved his baton in my fast retreating direction. I found Henry throwing up in an alleyway, clutching his groin where one of the batons had hit home.
We seemed to have wandered into a dreary district, no cafes or women loitering on street corners. Newer houses did much to emasculate the general joy of Paris. Henry and I clumped along until we hit the hardcore Algerian section; full of life but we felt like we were trespassing, the inhabitants cursing and waving fists at us. Only Henry’s bulk saved us from a beating. We felt relief when we found the hotel again, sleep beckoned.
Paris had turned nasty on us, the joy of the city dissipated. Henry moaning about going home as soon as possible but a tiny piece of luck was thrown our way. A morsel, double-edged, but better than a kick in the maritals! A Honda 250 Superdream for a 1000 francs, its British owner desperate to return to Blighty with some money in his pockets.
Henry and I were unanimous in our opinion of this bike - a great load of bloody crap Japanese engineering. We soon sorted it out, mind you. Gears above fourth ignored - whose bloody daft idea was it to put the gearchange on the wrong side? - as with Henry’s huge bulk the engine wouldn’t have pulled a Dinky toy out of a sand pit. As it was, the suspension was instantly down on its stops, would’ve thrown us off the road at serious speed.
I take great delight in destruction-testing Japanese motors. It’s part revenge for all the horrors they committed during the war and partly down to the way they ruined our beloved British motorcycle industry in the sixties and seventies. Despite the great age, the gearbox on this contraption was surprisingly smooth and accurate - only a matter of minutes before I was abusing the box like a juvenile delinquent.
The front wheel often leapt off the ground, down to Henry’s mass on the back rather than any kind of acceleration, waggling around like a snake about to pounce. No-one seemed concerned about a lack of helmets in France, the engine whine and exhaust noise threatened what was left of my hearing. Henry was free to pose with French beret, one massive paw clamped upon his head, the other free to wave at young ladies or make obscene gestures at Frog cagers. Accelerative progress was so slow that there was no need for the lad to hold on to anything.
Top speed was around 70mph but the chassis felt so suicidal that I rarely ventured past 60mph. The brakes had seen better days but then so had we. Henry was carrying a rucksack, which as well as housing his tyre-iron, which he had promised to use only on especially offensive foreigners or British football hooligans rather than cagers in general, contained all our worldly goods.
Was it that surprising that the seat should break only 25 miles out of Paris on a deserted back road? Probably not. In retrospect the incident could be described as comical... Henry shot off the back at a rapid rate and would’ve ended up running behind the machine hadn’t his two left feet caused him to fall over. I suddenly found myself sitting on the bare bones of the chassis, something digging sharply into what were left of my marital prospects.
I skidded to a halt in time to observe persistent Henry still rolling down the road. He’s a tough lad, though, managing to stagger out of the ditch. Not so much bruised as disconsolate, his immaculate French togs covered in mud and torn into tatters. His spare set of clothes in no better shape, having in the past been subjected to a similar tarmac trashing. We made do with the best bits of both and used the rotten remainders as part of a patched seat - bungee cords and insulation tape holding it all together.
Henry reverted to the intimate bear hug, threatening to take me with him if a repeat performance occurred. I had to administer a stream of strong words to stop him turning into a giant John Cleese, thrashing the machine to death with his tyre-iron. Placated him by saying we would head to the South of France, bound to be full of naked nubiles - immediately, he forgot his pains and sported a permanent leer.
Progress was painfully slow. The back roads used exclusively to avoid the platoons of police cars that, just like in the UK, patrolled the main roads. In France, they fined you on the spot, not giving you the chance to give an entirely specious name and address. Speeding wasn’t the problem, it was the long list of mechanical faults and our lack of insurance cover.
After about 120 miles of this agony we pulled over for our first petrol stop. We had a siphoning kit for emergencies but the French were such an ill-tempered bunch that we decided, whilst our money lasted, to pay the extortionate fuel costs. A five litre can of oil cost almost as much as the bike, so that was out of the question.
We pulled into a ramshackle garage with a single petrol pump that looked like you had to hand-pump the fuel. If the horn had worked I would’ve given the place a blast but had to content myself with a few bashes on the throttle. To little avail. Henry despatched to knock on the door - nothing, despite almost rattling the door off its hinges. Jesus, these bloody peasants. After about ten minutes a wizened old man came out of nowhere, started abusing us in French.
He eventually started the pump up and reluctantly filled the tank. I was hoarse from the shouting match! A large crowd had appeared out of the surrounding weeds, watching Henry emptying his bladder, they had come out of nowhere just as the lad had undone his trousers. He was red-faced but couldn’t hold back... I felt the need for a public urinal myself, something to do with the amount of high-pitched vibration the rice-burner was putting out; British bike vibration much more of a manly rumble.
The engine refused to respond to the kickstart, so giant Henry, laden with the rucksack, was persuaded to push the Honda and myself down the road. Not one of the large crowd of locals offered to lend a hand - typical bloody foreigners. Some of them rolling around on the floor by the time the piece of Jap crap deigned to splutter into life.
Henry panting and red-faced, like he’d done ten rounds with some outsize French transvestite. We rolled along the country lanes, not particularly enjoying ourselves - it was probably better than being stuck in an overcrowded coach filled with drunken hooligans but not by much. Another 90 miles rolled by. The sun was setting, so it seemed a good idea to pull into Nantes for the night.
We had no idea where we were going but soon found a cluster of cafes with outside tables; women in short skirts and stockings loitering on nearby corners. Seemed okay to us, anyway. After crawling off the bike and pumping our wretched muscles back into shape, Henry ordered a couple of bottles of wine and started gulping the stuff down at a rate that would give a connoisseur apoplexy.
Henry kept eyeing the working gals, his eyes bulging further out with each bottle of wine. Ten bottles down, mostly Henry as he drank it like water, he staggered upright and lurched over to the nearest woman. She could’ve been a blown up plastic doll for all he could discern in that state. With his tatty clothes and drunken gait, ameliorated by his stutter, he seemed a dead ringer for a meth’s swilling tramp.
He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t check out her maritals with a shaking paw thrust up her skirt, not wanting to be short-changed with another transvestite. For his pains he received a smack to the head that reverberated down the street, seemingly echoing off the buildings a few times before it finally faded away.
Even Henry wasn’t so far gone to avoid such embarrassment, sitting back down to get at the wine again, sulking and muttering obscenities under his breath whilst stroking his swollen chin. The owner of the bar so amused that he gave us a free bottle of red wine - judging by the way the other customers were chortling, it was the event of the decade! After a few more bottles, feeling we’d done much to uplift the lives of French peasants, we decided it would be amusing to ride through what was left of the night.
However, the little Honda had finished its work for the day, refused to start. Our push start ended up in the gutter with myself trapped under both the bike and the clown Henry, who was so drunk he was threatening to fall asleep right there and then! A long diatribe forced the giant to pull himself and the bike off my almost mortally wounded body and we ended up sleeping under the stars in an office car park.
I hadn’t really noticed at the time, but the combination of concrete floor and rising damp did for my aged body. I was seized up solidly. Henry leapt up like a spring chicken, oblivious of the hard night’s rest - typical bloody youth! He managed to pull me upright and push me around the yard a few times, the rising sun infusing my body with some much needed heat.
Six cups of coffee later - blank looks when I’d asked for tea! - I stopped blubbering and could actually see more than a couple of feet away. Henry bloomed under his newly found command status, placed me on the pillion, forcing my legs into position. Happy Henry in charge of an old Jap motorcycle, not a combination made in heaven.
I wouldn’t say that Henry couldn’t read exactly, just that he was very, very slow. He much preferred the educational benefits of hardcore pornography. The only relevance of any of this, that on a relatively fast moving motorcycle it was extremely unlikely that the lad would have any idea where he was going. Not that I could help, neck strain meant I couldn’t turn my head and my only forward sight was Henry’s rucksack. I feared we were going to end up going in circles again.
The lad seemed happier with the Honda than the BSA, the bike much preferring to be strung out at maximum revs and slammed through the gearbox. The clown hummed loudly his own engine noises to accompany the knocking bearings and tapping camchain tensioner. Progress seemed almost magical, helped along by the lack of cars on the early morning country roads and the sheer brightness of the sun.
Petrol stops our only indulgence. Henry had to straighten out my legs and lift me off the bike, as if I was becoming a living sculpture! At the first stop there was a grocery store nearby, I creaked over there and bought some garlic, renown as a circulation aid. Chewing raw garlic certainly got my taste buds aflame! Henry looked like he was going to throw up but managed to empty a bottle of wine he seemed to have procured out of thin air.
At the next petrol stop I could actually run... but only because the half pound of garlic had worked its way through my system, leaving me in desperate need of a public convenience. I felt half a stone lighter afterwards, the uncalled exercise seemed to have loosened up my joints, albeit in a totally unexpected manner. The vagaries of great age. Henry refused to hand over control of the Honda, sitting there like a particularly malevolent primate.
Henry was so taken with his command of the Honda that he insisted on riding all day long. My neck began to work again, allowing me flashes of signposts with impossible town names on them - didn’t even seem French! Turned out, we were a long way from the South of France.
Roman Ruin
Clamped to Henry’s rucksack I must’ve fallen asleep several times but the lad showed no signs of tiredness after travelling halfway across Europe in a day! Happy thrust the Honda into a group of tourists at a rest stop, headed for the toilet. Of course, Henry managed to get stuck inside, much to the ire of some English holidaymakers but he soon got rid of them with a bout of flatulence. Henry left a wrecked toilet in his wake, the door hanging off on one hinge, causing a local harridan to scream abuse at him but the lad wasn’t fazed in the least, eyeing her up and down as if sex might be a possibility.
Turned out we were fifty miles, or so, from Rome. How the hell we’d got there instead of the South of France, I don’t know. Henry was muttering about beaches full of naked babes but I distracted him with tales of neon nightlife in the Italian capital, not that I had a clue about such things but with Henry in control of the bike he was quite capable of riding through the night to get a look at some free, living beach pornography.
As we neared Rome the lad started cussing, unfurled his tyre-iron and rode one-handed whilst waving the weapon at the millions of ill-driven cages that were coming at us every each way. They took no notice of us, other than trying to cut us up something rotten. Happy somehow made it through the chaos, working on unknown instincts, to another cheap, grotty hotel with a view of St Paul’s about half a mile away. At one point, his lunge at a car roof missed, the bike going into a mad wobble that he only just pulled out of. I was just able to reach around the rucksack and slap him about the head.
In the foyer, Henry disappeared for a few minutes, reappearing carrying two massive suitcases and wearing a huge grin. Sometimes he could show an alarming amount of low cunning. Once in the room, Henry jumped in the air and screamed like a five year-old girl - hordes of cockroaches scampered across the floor. He tried to stamp them into oblivion, his 25 stone made the floor shake, rattle and roll, the whole building rumbling in discontent.
One of the suitcases turned out to be full of woman’s clothes. I didn’t know whether to run like hell or laugh out loud when Henry donned a pair of black stockings, the only items he could persuade on to his massive frame. He tittered across the room with all the élan of the Parisian transvestite hooker. The other suitcase had some large suits of Italian providence, the lad managed to force himself into a bright green one plus red shirt and yellow tie - he wasn’t amused when I said he looked like a walking traffic light, preening in the scarred mirror.
The darkness outside revealed a massive excess of neon lights in the far distance. Even with Henry as a bodyguard, I didn’t fancy walking around some dubious district at night as I could see many real cut-throat characters loitering outside. We had to persuade the Honda into life. Not easy this time, I had to sit majestically on the saddle whilst Henry used all his massive mass to push the bike up and down the street... after about forty minutes, Happy’s enraged mutterings amusing a large crowd of locals who had nothing better to do than watch us, the engine coughed twice and then roared into life.
The thing took off as if fed a dose of nitro, churning out an excess of vibration that would have a Triumph man reliving his youth... I was always a BSA addict myself, so slammed on the anchors and backed off the throttle before I hit something or my heart gave out. The well rotted disc would’ve had owners of vintage tackle rebelling in complaint, not even strong enough to cause the flexing forks any concern.
Engine braking more impressive, like hitting a mushy balloon. I came to a halt, a bit shaken but not much stirred by this dubious device. After a minute or so, Henry turned up, red of face and short of breath. He cheered up a bit when I promised we’d spend the rest of the night frequenting the red light district - once we’d actually located it! Took a while to get there, thrown into a one-way system that fed us on to an expressway - all the cagers apparently drunk out of their heads and immersed in some kind of macho fantasies.
They screamed abuse at us, pointed at our heads, as we crept between their autos. It eventually dawned on me that it might be necessary to wear a crash-helmet. We probably needed some insurance, too! After a couple of hours we managed to find our way back on to the right road and snarled up to the station, but only after sending Henry into the blackest of moods - the rusting petrol tank ran dry, the poor grunt forced to push us miles.
I gave the lad thirty quid, watched from the relative safety of an amusement arcade, after disconcerting a large number of pedestrians by riding the Honda up on to the pavement. Henry had grown increasingly wary, frightened he might once again encounter a cross-dresser. After an hour I began to worry, after two hours I was almost frantic despite winning the jackpot on one of the infernal machines.
Thirty minutes later he rolled up with a huge grin that wasn’t even dissipated by the need to push the beast up and down the road again. I sat in the seat with an embarrassed grin but we hardly merited a glance, there was so much going down on the streets that we were very much the least spectacular happening.
I knew if we didn’t get out of town fast it was the kind of place where Henry could settle down for the rest of his life - he’d once blown hundreds of our hard earnt money on a night of debauchery that kept him grinning for the rest of the month.
The old Superdream coughed into life after about half an hour. I opened up the throttle and we went for a run around darkened Rome. One thing for motorcycles, you don’t miss much from the saddle. Perhaps the most amazing thing, the way we could roar, in a matter of minutes, from some district of profound dereliction, looking like it’d been hit by a typhoon, into an enclave of massive wealth. Most cities have the same kind of contrast but in Italy it was almost as if the rich revelled in the third world aura of many parts of their great cities. There was a meanness of spirit that seemed to stalk the land.
Back at the hotel, Henry was still sufficiently elated not to notice the cockroaches, nor the oppressive heat of the room that seemed to be some perverse form of torture to my aged bones. Despite the deprivations of the ride I found sleep difficult, not helped by having a giant in the next bed who snored like a rhino in heat; still weirdly clad in black stockings.
Years of riding old British iron had taken their toll, my eyesight had become poor, my hands unsteady and my hearing vague. I had my memories to comfort me when times became really desperate but if the truth be told I had devoted too much of my life and energy to the demon motorcycle experience - it had gotten a grip on my mind and as long as I had my regular fix I cared for little else.
In the morning, the hot sun was up before the pair of us. So strange the circumstances of our first day in Rome that we had not even gone in for our usual excessive indulgence in alcohol; for once our heads were clear, our actions relatively sane. After checking out of the hotel, Henry causing a massive commotion when he woke up to find a giant rat trying to chew his member off, we headed for the nearest motorcycle dealer to buy a couple of crash-helmets, not wanting untoward police attention.
Our arrival caused quite a stir, rat bikes being rare in Italy and with Henry perched high above me on the pillion seat, a touch too much for mere peasants to take in at first glance. After the initial hilarity died down they seemed quite friendly - in Italy, the educated half of the populace will wish you a good day, whilst the uneducated part will slit your throat given half a chance. Their English was a lot better than our Italian.
Henry’s mood moved towards elation when he spotted a really huge, chrome-plated tyre-iron, only a quick verbal bashing stopped him going into Ninja moves and wrecking the surrounding display. Only one helmet came close to matching the lad’s massive cranium, needing a few thumps to get it down over his ears. Getting it off again, Henry had to bend over, wriggle it with his hands and at a certain point wrench it off, leaving his jug-ears bright red. The shop also had a nearly new seat for loose change and waved a welding torch at the rear shocks, taking out all the movement but stopping the bike sagging on to its back wheel.
The Honda wasn’t becoming easier to ride. The slightest inattention caused the front end to wobble but it also needed a lot of heft to make the bike move in the required direction. If I hadn’t just bought a replacement seat I might well have let Henry loose with his new tyre-iron, see how long it would take to reduce the rusting heap to scrap. Adding to the horrors, the bike’s back end was now as solid as that of a vintage BSA single my old man used to potter to work upon - each and every road bump was fed into our spines, poor old Henry getting the worst of it.
My wrists already grotesquely deformed from a life misspent at the bars of England’s finish machinery, so the stiff with corrosion clutch and throttle held no terrors for me. Someone not used to British twins might be worried by the way the whole machine shuddered when accelerated from low revs in a tall gear, but not I.
Trying to head out of the city I realised we were going in the wrong direction. A vicious U-turn seemed a natural response. I forgot to mention the manoeuvre to Henry who rolled forward then flipped from side to side as the Honda bounced all over the shop and burnt off a year’s supply of rubber. His screams cut out the noise of all the traffic into which I’d thrown the bike. I joined in with Henry as the bike gave one final, terrifying twitch as I opened the throttle to avoid being run over by some huge artic which saluted my proficiency with a blast of its air-horns.
Henry was still leaping around on the saddle, threatening to fall off the bike until he grabbed me in a bear-hug which almost broke my ribs! Of course, the hack amplified the movements and I wasn’t really in control of the beast, its own momentum taking over on a trailing throttle as I headed for