This is my entry to the winter holiday 2020 contest, I hope you enjoy this story enough to vote and read my other stories. If you follow me you will also get notifications of any new stories as they are published.
This story is based in the 1980s, within the sub-culture of motorcyclists or bikers, so the vernacular may be a little courser than is usual in my stories.
Biker humour may not be as perceived as such, we are a funny lot, abusing and ridiculing our friends, as they know we love them, really. Maybe it is just a British thing, I don't know, I can see friends from 30 years ago and we still drag up long forgotten insults, but we love each other all the same.
Please note that in the 80s we weren't as gender aware as we are now, I have tried to reflect this but please note that I don't intend any insult or injury to anyone based on the terminology held within this story.
So let's jump in our time machines and go back to 1984.
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"Hey up, wanker." I greeted Chris `the unsmiling' as I wheeled my big Suzuki GSX 750 backwards out of the garden gate. I'd brought the bike to cheer me up after I separated from a long term girlfriend, 6 months ago. She wanted to get engaged, and buy a house and I wanted a new motorbike, and go see places. I fell in love with the big Suzuki as soon as I walked into the local Kawasaki Centre. It was a part exchange for the latest whizz bang rocket ship kwaker. But this Suzuki was something else, first of the 16 valve, double overhead cam engines, with a large rectangular headlight and a huge instrument panel, plus I could afford it.
"Oi, oi tosser." Chris replied, sat on his bike, not even bothering to switch off the engine or take his helmet off. He was sat on an identical model, although his was red and mine black. He'd brought his after his old single overhead cam, 8 valve Honda blew up a few weeks back. It was up for sale in the local paper, cheaper than mine and less millage, it was a gift he couldn't refuse.
"What do you recon? Along the A371 and drop down the valley to Bennie's Burger van? Then we can do either the A3447 `death valley' or B2754 `stinky river' runs?" I asked as I pulled on my old black AGV helmet (we had nicknames for everything, but we knew exactly what we meant).
After a morning's overtime I was keen to get to the burger van, about a 50 mile scratch (meaning a fast run, insinuating we would scratch our footrests on the road when cornering) then we would have the options of about 4 different loops, giving us options of anything from a one to a 3 hour ride, before going to our favourite pub for an evening pint. Both of us rode similarly in speed and ride style, fast & furious, taking no prisoners.
It was a Saturday in early summer, and we were keen to get some miles under our belts. We often rode together, we knew each other well and would ride close together, knowing exactly when and where to give the other room. Other riders either couldn't keep up or we were outside of their abilities and we would have to warn them off. So despite having several social groups we hung out with, we would often end up riding alone with the other 5 to 8 riders hanging well back or just left behind.
I fired the bike up, choke out, warming it up as I pulled gloves on and zipped up my leather jacket. Looked across with a confirmatory nod and we were off. We dodged through the usual Saturday happy shopper traffic through town and once out of the city limits we were upping the speed as we headed to the hills. As I rode, I would imagine being a fighter pilot as I zipped past various cages (cars), often at double their speed, always exceeding the speed limits, ticking cages off one by one, with the odd glance in my mirror knowing Chris would be there grinning underneath his tash.
We arrived at the burger van in great spirits. The sun was out and there was an excellent collection of bikes parked outside the van. We squeezed into a slot, kicked our side stands out and stepped off our bikes. Nodding at each other, smiling, pleased with our performances. At the van we ordered, paid and waited, not knowing anyone stood around we just nodded politely confirming our inclusion in the brotherhood of bikers. Knowing the freedom that a bike brought, unlike cagers (our term for a car driver).
Burgers in one hand and polystyrene cups of tea in the other, we walked along the row of bikes, appreciating each one with grunts of approval with mouths full of burger.
"Ere, you two boyfriends or something?" Came a shout from two scruffier than normal guys sat further along on a fence.
"Fuck off, wankers," Chris replied laughing. "Left your scooters at home?"
"I suppose you two girls have consecutive number plates?" Laughed the one with shoulder-length blond hair, "So, which one of you goes on top?"
"Ha bloody ha, nothing wrong with owning decent bikes, unlike your scooters, left them at home?"
"Fuck off, sissy slow suzooks, you need a kwaker to go quick," said the dark, curly-haired one. As they both stood up and walked towards us to talk.
This was all typical pleasantries, and banter, and nothing unusual. They both had Kawasaki's, one a nice dark green Z650 and the other a silver Z750. All four of our bikes were a little dated, even by 1984, and looked a little out of place with some of the newer and far more expensive machines in the layby. All of our machines had relatively high mileages and were tatty work horses, certainly not in show room condition like others in the row. Soon the male testosterone was out of the way and we were discussing the best ways to oil a drive chain or what was naff about the latest rocket machines nearby. All being way outside of our price ranges.
After a brief discussion of routes and best roads, Chris had a new road he wanted to try, our new friends joined us and off we set. Chris set a blistering pace, just to see if our new companions could run with the bulls, so to speak. At every glance in my mirror the blond-haired guy was hot on my heels, not bad for a 650.
An hour later and we were in North Wales, running through some great scenery and came across a lake, so Chris pulled in to a layby. We all dismounted and sat on a stone wall admiring the view and discussing who had done what to upset various cagers, or who didn't slow down at whatever / slow moving lorry, or how fast we went round a bend. All good typical biker banter.
Sam, the blond-haired guy with shoulder length hair, looked quite young and was built like a stick, being as thin as a rake. Wore a scruffy and obligatory scuffed leather jacket (as we all did), with a Black Sabbath cross on the back. He wore a large thick baggy jumper and tight leather jeans with Doc Martin laced boots. His mate Alex, who looked a lot older, with a chin full of stubble, wearing his scuffed leather jacket, with a denim cut (a denim jacket with sleeves cut off, emblazoned with badges and band badges with a large Thin Lizzy motif on the back). They lit up cigarettes and enjoyed a puff.
"Hey why don't you come down our club one night, we do rally's and stuff?" came the invite from Sam.
Without Google Maps, the description was simple, "You know Merryhill? As you ride through, turn left at The Globe and the lane narrows and goes down a steep hill with high hedgerows, as it levels out take the right fork and you will end up at The Bear."
"Every Sunday night we're there, come on down, don't worry there're no subs or chairman, we don't do prospects, we just do whatever we want, when and how we want." Came the invite.
That Sunday we went down. It was a great ride, about 25 miles, way out of town. We found the pub ok, the car park full of an assortment of older bikes and as soon as we walked in the bar, we knew we would fit in. The bar was full of long-haired bedraggled bikers, a few tats on shoulders and arms, some with cuts, some in thick jumpers. Alex was there and introduced us to one and all. It was perfect mayhem to us, a darts game in one corner, a pool table in the other and in between various loud, extravert bikers all chatting at once, with loud music playing, all in a haze of thick smoke. Helmets cluttered the entire bar, left in any vacant space, on shelves, tables and bar stools.
