The Barn Find Unfinished Journey

Smiling a thank you at the assistant behind the post office counter, I walk away, my business concluded.

As I make my way to the door, on my right, I spy a large cork noticeboard, upon which are pinned a number of business cards and handwritten advertisements. There, among the notices for missing cats and kids' bicycles, I see it: a small postcard, handwritten in a woman's handwriting...

FOR SALE 1955 Triumph motorcycle 650cc £2500

My interest is immediately piqued, and I take a quick photo on my phone to record the details, noting, as I do so, the use of an old landline number, not mobile.

As I ride home on one of my many other classic motorcycles. I can't help but ponder what exact model this 'for sale' motorcycle is.

It's obviously cheap--perhaps too cheap... And probably been left in a back garden to rust in the rain for years and is totally ruined. I determine to phone the number as soon as I get home anyway; my curiosity is killing me.

Phoning the number, it rings for a long time, then is answered just as I'm about to give up, by an elderly woman. Much to my surprise, the bike's still for sale, and after enquiring about its condition, I'm given vague answers.

The woman admits that she "does not know much about motorcycles." In any event, I arrange to go see it the very next morning.

Arriving at a ramshackle 1930s bungalow, I knock at the door and am greeted by a grey-haired lady in a tatty padded housecoat and slippers. She leads me around the side to a wooden-doored garage, and after pulling some overgrown creepers clear, I swing the door open with difficulty and squeeze inside into the half gloom. There, under a filthy dust sheet, is the recognizable shape of a classic Triumph... With some trepidation, the cover is pulled off, expecting the worst.

It's filthy dirty, has some surface rust, but is complete and original-- a Tiger 110. Even the chrome luggage rack on the tank and 'pedestrian slicer' front number plate are still attached. What a barn find!

I ask if I can pull it outside into the daylight, to take a closer look. As I heave it off the stand and manoeuvre it through the door. She explains that it was her late husband's, but she has a registration document in her name. He had crashed it sometime in the 1960s, before they were married, had subsequently rebuilt it, but then only ridden it for a short while before loosing interest. The faded 1972 tax disc in its rusty holder bears out the possible truth of this story.

I resolve to buy it there and then, but feeling slightly guilty about ripping off an old lady who's out of touch with values, I give her £3000 in cash instead of the original asking price. She was overjoyed.

The bike is collected the next weekend, and upon getting it home, it's cleaned and partially disassembled to give it a thorough check over and service. Much to my astonishment, after a day of fiddling, it starts and sits on my driveway, ticking over nicely. Even the lights work! In fact, it's looking quite smart with its black, silver, and metallic pale blue colour scheme. I'm both delighted and amazed at my good fortune.

It's subsequently given a short test ride and then a trip to the MOT centre, where it passes. On the open road, I gingerly open it up... The twin exhausts crackle nicely, and it easily reaches 70mph. But I don't take it any faster as I don't yet trust the engine not to explode (in the way only classic British bikes can do!).

A couple of weeks later, I have a little more confidence in its reliability and arrange to meet some friends, at our local bikers' hangout on a Wednesday night to show off my new find.

The ride to the Ramblers Rest Café near Maidstone is around 25 miles, and I thoroughly enjoy myself sweeping through the curves of the fast bends on the way. The late afternoon sunshine intermittently adds to the warmth of my leather jacket.

At the café, my mates are regaled by my tale of how I'd found the bike, and all agreed it was both a lucky find and another fine acquisition for my collection.

On the way home, the evening light began to fade, so the headlight was switched on, but progress remained brisk... I hoped it would stay functioning until I reached home. But the road ahead was also illuminated by the light of a full moon that started to peek from behind the clouds, so I could see ahead clearly.

Suddenly, the temperature started to drop... and I reached up to my neck to make sure my jacket was fully zipped up. As my hand returned to the handlebars, suddenly I lost power! Not all power, but some, as if I were carrying an extra heavy load. Naturally, I pulled over and checked the engine for anything obviously wrong. Nothing could be observed, and mysteriously, at tick over, nothing seemed wrong.

Pulling away again, the bike responded sluggishly, but I pressed on home, opening the throttle wider to give her more power. At the same time, I listened closely for any unusual engine noises... then I heard it... "Stephen!". The girl's voice was right close too my right ear... "What the Fuck?!".

I turned round to look back, but of course, there was no one there. So I stopped and checked everything was okay... had I imagined it? Who was Stephen? It's not my name!

Setting off again, I settled into my comfortable riding position and then... "Stephen... it's been a wonderful evening."

This time, I physically jumped, and the bike wobbled all over the lane. I was entirely freaked now, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up... and not due to the continuing drop in temperature.

I pulled over again to make sure my jacket was fully buttoned up, took off my helmet, and for some reason, inspected the inside. Of course, I found nothing as I struggled to see inside, the moonlight now obscured behind a cloud.

Again, I pulled away... full power again. How odd - maybe the voice was some trick of the imaginations or some sort of acid flashback?

Another few miles later, the moon re-emerged, and with it... she was back. "I love you, Stephen - just wait till I get you home." Simultaneously, the engine laboured again.

This time, not only did I hear her, I felt her--the pressure of someone pressing tightly onto my back and arms wound around my waist... This was creeping me out, and along with a cold, clammy presence. My heart was pounding rapidly.

"You're my big bad boy, my leader of the pack." What the hell? Despite the 'sweet nothings' being whispered into my ear, this was definitely no longer fun.

Gritting my teeth, I pressed on home... the messages in my ear getting increasingly erotic. "You can strip off my stockings!"

As I returned home, my unwanted passenger and I climbed up Wrotham Hill, the engine struggling and misfiring. "wait till you see me on my knees!"

The backfiring of the exhaust continued as I passed the site of the old 'Johnsons Café', the notorious ton-up boys' hangout of the 1960s, now long since closed.

The girls voice suddenly became urgent: "SLOW DOWN!" Her cry was accompanied by a severe tightening of the grip around my waist that almost winded me... "SLOW DOWN, PLEASE." I instinctively eased off the throttle and reduced speed...

50mph, "NOT SO FAST."

40mph, "SLOWER."

30mph, "SLO..." The grip reducing noticeably as the speed decreased.

At 25mph, the pleading stopped, but was replaced by the sound of sobbing. But I could still feel her breasts on my shoulder blades, the pressure changing with the pattern of her sobs.

Passing through West Kingsdown, I headed down 'Death Hill', the wide single historic main road (good for an easy 70-plus) at a very sedate 25 mph.

Every time the speedo needle crept past 26mph, the heavy distressed sobbing and cries of "SLOW DOWN!" returned more urgently.

Eventually, I made it home and quickly parked up, turning off the engine to rush indoors. Not even looking back at the Triumph, I left it leaning on its side stand in the garage. Shivering and frozen to the core, I sat on a hot radiator to regain some heat in my bones. I said nothing to my wife and went to bed in silence.

The bike went untouched and ignored for a few weeks... the events of that Wednesday played on my mind, and I didn't sleep well for many nights.

Two months passed, and I could not even look at the bike, avoiding going near it in the garage. It was hidden at the back, under a dust sheet, out of sight.

Noticing the bike's absence, my friends took the piss, saying that "it's British, so it must have broken down," and concluded that's why I wasn't riding it. I was too embarrassed to tell them I was absolutely bloody petrified of it.

It was sold shortly after.

...................................................................................

Opening the throttle wide open, I tore along the dual carriageway on my new Royal Enfield. The gleaming chrome sparkling in the street lights, life was glorious again.

There way ahead, I recognised the shape of another classic British motorcycle. As I rapidly closed in on it, I realised I knew that registration number.

It was THAT Triumph... but someone had since spent a lot of money on it, new chrome and paint, everything restored and fully refurbished.

I looked at the rider as I passed. His fingers were tightly gripping the bars, his teeth gritted, and his face set in a blank, fixed stare.

His speed... not more than 25 miles per hour.