RICK HULSE –THE MUSINGS OF ONE OF THE MOST ELOQUENT THINKERS IN BIKERDOM

NOT ONLY WAS THE YORKSHIRE PUDDING RALLY MY FIRST EVENT IN 12 MONTHS, IT WAS MY FIRST SMACKED ARSE COMEDY SHOW IN FRONT OF A LIVE AUDIENCE IN 12 MONTHS TOO!

Ihad managed to run four ‘virtual’ comedy shows since the onset of the pandemic but, although they were very well received, there’s no way an online show can even come close to the experience of interacting with a live audience whose reactions are plain to see. A year off-stage’d left me with a tangible mixture of eagerness and trepidation as the weekend approached.

I’d volunteered to ride a Can-Am Spyder trike to the event so it could go on the NABD stall in a bid to gauge what level of interest there’d be amongst rally-goers when we raffle it off in 2022. I’d not ridden a Can-Am before so I was interested to see how it compares to the more traditional style of trikes I’ve been riding over the past 30 years or so. We’d stored it at an industrial unit in Bolton owned by an NABD member, due to our own storage facility being full, and fortunately he’d kept it in good condition, so when I collected it, it was ready to go.

I quickly realised that my arthritic knees’re no longer happy on a motorcycle with foot-pegs in a sports position. Then I ran into the first traffic jam of the weekend on the M60 and, after 20 minutes in slow-moving traffic, my left hand began to tingle quite painfully, and I could feel the tendons cramping up. Advanced spondylosis in my neck puts pressure on the nerves that run down to my hands, and this tingling/cramping’s a common issue even when driving a car. Being the eternal optimist I am, I thought ‘using a hand-operated clutch lever might actually prove to be good physio… once I get used to it again’.

I got home and picked Mandy up just in time to set off into a heavyduty thunderstorm, which stayed with us as we met up with our friend Paul Blacklock, and headed for Yorkshire via three long, tortuously slow, traffic jams over the Pennines on the M62 in constant heavy rain. As we crossed Hartshead Moor at a crawling pace in pissing rain, I couldn’t help thinking to myself, ‘Welcome back to rallying, Rick!’

By the time we arrived I could barely control the clutch at all. My left hand felt like a Mickey Mouse glove and, though I could pull the lever in okay, I really struggled to release it with any finesse. Several episodes of stalling as we crossed the rally field were the cause of much hilarity amongst onlookers who obviously think it quite acceptable to laugh at the problems caused by disabilities. Suffice to say that while the world seems to’ve been in stasis for the past eighteen months, my disabilities’ve moved on apace, and the days of riding machines with a manual transmission’re just about over for me. Still, it felt good to be back in a field with a couple of thousand bikers once again!

Friday evening was an absolute joy, catching up with people we hadn’t seen for far too long, drinking like it was going out of fashion and, once again, revelling in the banter and f**kbollockry that inevitably ensues when bikers get together. By the time we headed back to our tent (supplied by Carry Nowt Camping) at 3am, a happy little voice in my head was saying, “Welcome back to rallying, Rick!”

Saturday morning began for me with a hangover-clouded stumble to a portable Turdis, where I produced what appeared to be the result of melting several Curly Wurlys and a giant Pritt Stick together. Then I found there were just three-and-ahalf sheets of toilet paper left on the roll in the holder… With a distraught sigh, I began the depressingly well-practiced art of ‘Porta-Loo Origami’, knowing from the outset that three-and-a-half sheets’d never be enough. Next, I emptied my pockets, and used up all of my fuel receipts for the past month, then finally, after casting a desperate gaze about me, I spotted a Harley-Davidson ‘Live to Ride’ bandana tucked behind the handsanitiser. ‘Needs must when the devil drives’, as the saying goes. Soon that Live to Ride eagle was completely interred (inturd), and I no longer felt like I was sitting on a tramp’s regurgitated kebab.

After copious hand-sanitising, I vacated the dark demesnes of the Turdis and, as I turned to close the door behind me, spotted three full pristine toilet rolls that’d been stacked behind me to my left throughout the whole grotesque incident. With a resigned sigh, I thought, ‘Welcome back to rallying, Rick!’

A few hours later I had the unutterable joy of compering a phenomenal comedy show to a packed marquee with waves of love and laughter coming at the stage like breakers on a Pacific beach. Once again, rally bikers proved to be an audience to die for, and every performer felt the lay-offs of the pandemic finally beginning to wash away into the shitcan of memory. As the final wave of thunderous applause dissipated at the end of the show, a joyous voice in my head once again said, “Welcome back to rallying, Rick!”

I’ll happily admit that much of the rest of the day passed in a somewhat drunken blur, and the ride home on Sunday was every bit as painful as the ride in on Friday’d been but, despite the ravages of old age and disability leaving me totally burnt out for a further three days, I can honestly say, hand on heart, that I’ve missed rallying far more than I would’ve believed possible.

My heartfelt thanks go to Pete Walker and his stalwart team of volunteers from MAG for welcoming us all back to rallying!