Into The Sunset

It’s 1981, I’m 16, the very proud owner of a pre-loved (secondhand) Vespa 50 Special and it’s time for my first rally, I was as giddy as can be. The chosen venue? Keswick.

Another amusing scooter story from the past.

Those with a good knowledge of scootering history can already see this story’s punchline, but before we get to that gem, it’s fair to say my adventures started long before the actual rally began. Although the local scooter club had warmly welcomed me, they weren’t altogether too keen on riding the entire journey to Keswick with me at only 30mph. So a cunning plan was hatched – I’d set off first, we’d meet in Settle and camp somewhere before heading off again together the next morning.

I’d always hated maths but could now see the point of those strange puzzles: “Stan rides a scooter at a speed of 30mph and his friends ride scooters at a speed of 60mph. What time should Stan set off...?” You get the picture. I set off with a change of clothing and an industrial bin liner pilfered from work to sleep in. I had an RAF greatcoat and the tent was being carried by the others, I felt my rally kit was quite comprehensive, what could possibly go wrong?

I buzzed slowly on my little journey to Settle and having bought some crisps and pop (I’m 16 remember) I sat down to wait. Unfortunately my O-level maths had failed to take into account important factors with which I’d later become very familiar, such as: no one sets off on time, someone always breaks down, and no group can pass a filling station without needing to refuel, visit the toilet or smoke a fag.

Time came and went, as did a pie, a couple of Mars bars and more pop. Darkness fell and the pubs kicked out. I was feeling slightly ill from all the junk food and it was clear that the plan hadn’t worked. My club was nowhere to be seen. With my scooter now attracting unwanted attention from local drunks, I decided to set off into the darkness without any real plan.

Several miles down the road my spirits lifted, during one of my shopping trips the lads from the club must have obviously ridden by, because in a field I saw headlights, tents and a fire… brilliant! Turning off the road I was surprised to find my headlight illuminating someone who clearly spent more money on tattoos than at the hairdressers. For the benefit of younger readers, in 1981 the legislation that united bikers was still a bureaucrat’s fantasy. There was real animosity and biker gangs had (deservedly) fearsome reputations (think Sons of Anarchy without shampoo, showers or TV glamour); inadvertently I’d only gone and ridden into a bloody bikers’ campsite!

“Hello young Mr Mod, what brings you to our soirée on your small capacity moped,” or words to that effect greeted me. Being a well brought up lad with nowhere to run I just told the truth. Shaking his fat bearded head, he told me to park up and gestured to a tent saying, “Get your head down in there lad.” Frightened of what would happen, either by refusing or accepting, I nervously settled down, being joined later by other bikers, making for a very cramped and somewhat stinky tent. In the morning I emerged dazed, yet unscathed and with a bemused wave I set off for Keswick.

What followed at the rally is part of scootering folklore. I can honestly say that we met up, walked into town and ended up drinking in a little hotel. Rumours reached us that pubs were closing early but we enjoyed good company, eventually staggering back to the rally site. It was a scene from Mad Max: riot shields, petrol bombs and a burning theatre. We sat dumbfounded until eventually allowed back to our scooters. I still don’t understand the vandalism – our tent was wrecked and my scooter lay on its side. Drink driving law was suspended and we were told to “Get out of town.” I spent a very cold and wet night in a lay-by, sleeping in my industrial bin liner, arriving home the next day to find the rally had made national news. It wasn’t the warmest greeting I’ve ever received!

In retrospect, as a gangly 6ft 2in teenager, I now realise that I looked more like a circus act on my small frame than the ‘Ace Face’ I then aspired to be. Nevertheless I learned more about riding in those first crazy 12 months than I did over the next decade. Predictably my 50 Special lived fast and died young. By my 17th birthday it had been tuned, blown up, crashed, sprayed and ‘repaired’ so many times that it was broken for spares after being taken in part exchange, never reaching its first MoT. Rest in peace old friend, like so many of your kin, gone but not forgotten.

Rumours reached us that pubs were closing early but we enjoyed good company, eventually staggering back to the rally site. It was a scene from Mad Max: riot shields, petrol bombs and a burning theatre