A deranged howl marked my three cylinders redlining at 14000 RPM as I dropped a gear, a dab of front brake coming over the ridge, pass through the wood line, into the right hander at around 9000 revs and sixty-five miles per hour. Tuck in behind the Mercedes Sprinter van, another dab of brake, down another gear, 12000 revs in second, slow to forty to avoid piling into the van.
The long sweeping bend opened out into a nice wide straight, I checked my mirror, there was the single light of the Ducati I'd just screamed past burning, he was holding about fifteen to twenty feet behind me. Check forward again, road clear. Mirror, flick the indicator, throttle, lots of throttle, third gear, out and let the furious acceleration take me past the sprinter and away.
Fourth gear came in at ninety, I let the power build again and changed up quickly, short shifting through fifth to sixth and a gentle 8000 on the rev counter as I cut my speed back to below the ton; points and a fine I can take, losing my licence would be an annoyance I can live without.
I checked the mirrors again; the sprinter was almost half a mile behind me but coming up fast was a low flying aircraft. The gap between us closed in a remarkably short period of time, something black and noisy blasted by me at what was probably in excess of a hundred and forty miles an hour, a growling howl from the exhausts proving my identification skills were lacking, it wasn't a fighter jet, it was the Ducati. One of the new V4s, in black. Nice, maybe £25, £30 grand. No wonder the rider wanted to be the fastest thing on the road and in a straight line he was proving he was, he probably had two more gears to go at that speed. In the standard spec they were good for nearly two hundred miles an hour.
Where he was having grief was in the bends, my 2012 Triumph Street Triple may only be 675 cc to his 1100 and 106 horsepower to his more than 200 but it was nimbler in the twisty stuff, the three cylinders were pretty torquey so I could power through the bends without compromising on speed and I was a better rider. I'm not a race rider, but I've been riding bikes along that road since the day after my seventeenth birthday when I took the four hundred pounds I'd saved working in Homebase to buy myself a Suzuki RG125, and over nine years I'd got to know it quite well.
I focussed on the road ahead, it dipped into a slight incline with a bridge crossing a small stream at the bottom then a sweeping left-right S bend, clearing the woods on the left then down further to a hard right around an old stone-built barn, it wasn't a particularly challenging route at normal speeds but if you were proving your dominance by going faster than everyone you needed to be on top of your game.
I flicked down a couple of gears and applied the throttle to the 'on' position, I'd let Signor Ducati occupy the attention of any traffic cops up ahead and pushed the little red Triumph up to the red line in fourth, the surge of acceleration pulling at my arms.
Fifth came in at ninety-seven and kept going up to one-twenty. I backed off slightly as I came up to the bridge, raising my bum off the seat to take the bounce as I hit the small hump-back. Ahead I could see the Ducati's rear light shining bright red as he flapped his way into the left-right double, his speed cutting from the ludicrous one-fifty or so. In his overreaction he'd lost concentration and dropped to the mid-fifties. He must have really pooped himself when he hit the bump and saw the bend coming in.
I took him on the outside at a hundred and ten, bursting back out into the early summer sunshine as we cleared the trees. I reached up with my left hand and quickly flipped down the internal sun visor in my helmet, then pulled out to pass a Vauxhall Astra hatchback, giving the driver a brief wave of thanks as I left him in my wake. Never hurts to be polite when you're breaking the speed limit. I have heard it can save you from a 'driving without due care and attention' charge if you get busted. Also, why wouldn't you?
My mirrors told me I was on my own again, the Ducati was trapped behind the Astra, no, here he was now as a Land Rover appeared round the right hander. He hit the anchors and pulled back in behind the Astra. I dropped down to fourth, leaned over hard, hanging my bum off the side, and feeling my boot scrape on the road as I angled ostentatiously into the bend, leaving the woods behind on my right I hurtled down the valley.
The road continued to the right in a gentle climb before hitting a series of increasingly aggressive bends up the ridge line. I was shuttling between second and third all the way to the top where the road joined a dual carriageway for a few miles before cutting off to the left and my destination for the morning.
I pulled into the car park at '@Lacie's' at nine. I glanced along the rows of assembled bikes, spotting a couple I recognised. Nick and Phil were there, Nick's a mechanic and amateur racer who comes out to play on Sundays when he hasn't got a race meeting and the weather's nice, he wouldn't dream of getting his shiny R1 wet. Phil's a vet, large animals mainly, horses and cattle, he rides a BMW GS 1200, done out in all the gear to go around the world like he's Charley Boorman. In fact, I know he's done some significant miles on it, last summer his wife flew down to Greece and he took the bike down over four days there and three back, so we tend not to give him too much stick.
I pulled in, swung my leg over to a few appreciative glances, and pushed my bike back to park next to them. I took my helmet off and let my hair down, combing it out with my fingers, growling at the itch from being crammed inside my Shoei XR1100. I dumped my gloves inside the helmet and left it on my fuel tank, unzipped my leathers halfway down the front and stashed the key in my inside pocket, taking out my purse.
I was wearing my lighter set of summer leathers, all black, one piece and very snug, with just enough flexibility to let me move and breathe. They were tight enough that I couldn't wear a huge amount underneath and today had opted for a bralet top and big pants, trust me, you don't want to be trying to adjust a thong under your leathers at ninety miles an hour. The bralet was quite demure when I put it on but when the firm support of the top half of my suit squeezed, my 36D chest pushed out like Dolly Parton. I quite liked the effect, particularly with my slightly longer than shoulder length jet black hair and my boots that had a two-inch heel, giving me a bit of an Emma Peel vibe. Check with your parents who Emma Peel was.
I looked at the boys, "Whose round is it? Tea, tea, and tea?" They looked back, dumbstruck. I rolled my eyes; half zipped my leathers to cover most of my boobs and tried again. "Mmmhh? Sorry, oh yeah, Tea please" I gave a snort in mock exasperation and went into the café; while I queued the Black V4 rolled in, the rider spotted my bike and rode over, parked up and switched off. I waved over and made the internationally recognised signal for "drink?" Nick asked what he wanted and shouted "Coffee.."
I returned five minutes later with four China mugs filled with something brown and steamy, Sharon behind the counter seemed convinced it was three teas one coffee and in feminine solidarity I felt duty bound to agree with her, it took a bit of a stretch of the imagination though.
I checked the newcomer, he had short cropped blonde hair over a high forehead that may be a touch of receding hairline. It was quite a nice forehead, with blue eyes and a straight nose leading to a smiling face filled with expensively capped and straight teeth. His firm jaw and trim body shape hinted at lots of gym work or a physical job.
The boys had already introduced themselves, so I held out a hand. "Millie." He took it and responded "Matthew, Matt. Thanks for the brew."
We chatted about the journey through the woods to get to the café, I confessed that I knew the road really well but kept my opinion that I'd beat him whatever his familiarity with the route to myself.
The carpark at the café was well filled with bikes and riders, all mingling and checking each other's machines. Matt's V4 soon gathered a little crowd of onlookers, and to be fair it did look very pretty as it sparkled in the early summer sun.
