The Bikers

This is an account of something that almost happened to me not that many years ago.

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Might as well get it over and done with, I thought, she isn’t going to let up until we’ve been. So we finally went on the long promised trip to the coast; wife and I. It was okay once we were under way; the weather was fine, the roads weren’t too busy and all seemed well with the World.

After an hour or so we were enjoying the beautiful North Yorkshire landscape and remarking on the charm of picture postcard villages as we passed through. No need to rush, nothing to worry about, no time table to rule us; I couldn’t think why I had been putting it off. Then, out of nowhere -and I do look in the rear view mirror quite regularly- six unnecessarily big motorbikes shot past us with a most alarming roar; they alarmed the living day lights out of me.

“F.UCKING LUNATICS!” I screamed at them, following up with a ten second blast of the horn.

They were in the far distance when they had become “crazy bastards”, and long gone by the time my heart rate had returned to normal.

I drove on, approaching each bend in the road hoping to see a flashing blue light and six mangled motorbikes on the other side of it. This, of course, I did not see, and had to make do with imagining it. We passed a road sign that read Bridlington 15 miles. Even now, at my ripe age, I still feel a twinge of excitement at my first glimpse of the sea.

With ten miles to go we passed a roadside restaurant with six motorbikes standing outside. “WANKERS!” I yelled at the riderless objects. Their riders didn’t hear me, of course, but my wife certainly did, as the force of the exclamation was enough to slightly part the hair over her right ear. There was another blast on the horn, and although any bystander would not have known what it was for, I hoped the wankers would. I soon forgot about the bikers and started to think about gentle waves dissolving on the white sands of sun kissed beaches. This reverie lasted until the next road sign displaying the word “Bridlington”, when I was abruptly snapped out of it.

I was thinking about fish and chips as we drew into the harbour car park, and how we would soon be sitting on the harbour wall eating them. British seaside fish and chips, yes siree. We stepped out of the car and I had a good stretch to the sound of screeching seagulls and the smell of fish. Yay! we’re at the seaside.

My back was to the car park entrance when the shiver ran down it, but I didn’t need to turn and look to see what was making the deep, vibrating growl that caused it, although I still did. They came gliding into the car park like ravens and stopped directly opposite us. Six leather bound riders dismounted and turned to face us, and although I couldn’t see their eyes through their visors, I knew they were all looking at me.

Oh the relief when they took off their helmets and I saw that those of them who still had hair were crowned in snowy white. Two of them walked round in small circles, slightly bent at the waist and holding their backs. There was a moment of slight anxiety as they all strode purposefully towards me, but they all hurried on past in a dash towards the public toilets at the edge of the car park. Wankers, I thought to myself.