RALLY VIRGINS, PART 3
WE all made it through the slippery gate riding skills test, and parked up near Grub. One of his crew came over – he was short, as wide as he was tall, leather cap with what looked like half a pheasant stuck to it, bottle-rim glasses, and cheeks so red it reminded me of St Nick himself.
“Hi, Staff’s the name,” he offered, his puffy hand out. “Kick back and relax, get your camp sorted before you start drinking.”
“What was this old bloke on about?” I thought to myself – we were young, and clearly knew better, so we headed for the beer tent. He just looked at us as we trooped past, grinned knowingly, and raised his eyes to the heavens. As the bookingin tent was right next door, we all piled in to see what all the fuss was. Rabbit was inside, along with a female of indiscernible age, drinking cider out of a plastic litre bottle.
“Hello boys!” she beamed at us, “booking in, are you?”
“Err, yes please, miss,” I stuttered.
“She ain’t no miss,” roared Rabbit as he roughly pawed one of her boobs, “that’s my Mrs!” They both fell into rolls of laughter. “They call me Tinkerbell, Tink for short, on account that I am nothing like her,” Mrs Rabbit said, and she wasn’t wrong in that statement. “What’s your club name?”
I puffed up my chest, “Mob In The Corner Motorcycle Club” I announced. Tink scribbled it down. “Miles?” she said. I had no idea what she was on about. “How far have you come?”
“Thirty-two miles,” I said, and then for some unknown reason, added, “both ways.” Cue more laughter.
Rabbit came over and handed us a paper with a list of the weekend’s entertainment, and pinned to it was my very first rally badge – a small, round badge depicting an arse sticking out of a clump of grass. It felt like a medal to me, as I gripped it and wandered out of the tent. We all stood around gazing at our first rally badges, carefully pinning them to our jackets or cut-offs – we had made it!
Three hours later, all of it spent in the beer tent, we were pretty inebriated. One of our mob said they were going for a lie down, and we then remembered we hadn’t put up our tents. As we staggered out of the bar, and over the field, we could see a huge bonfire, and the first strains of a band setting up in the beer tent began to filter over the site. The atmosphere was building. Getting the kit off the bikes was easy, reading the directions on how to erect your tent while nine-sheets-to-thewind less so. Groups of bikers were now steadily arriving, not many were as young as us, but at least there were a few more small bikes arriving – MZs and CZs mostly, but still small.
Ground sheet down and pegged, I only managed to hammer my fingers twice – good job Adnams make a great pint of painkiller. Then it all went wrong. I managed to fall on one of my tent poles, making the front entrance look as pissed as I felt. As I tightened up the guy ropes, one side of the outer tent started to rip, where it’d been bounced down the road. Eventually my hovel was erected and all that was left was to pump up my air bed – time for another pint then!
In the beer tent the band’d kicked off – no idea who they were, but the noise they made was fabulous to my young ears. The marquee was filling nicely now; a good few hundred assorted bikers and their ladies were embarking on a serous drinking and partying session. As the evening wore on, the volume of the bands, and the frenzy of the dancing, increased, and that, mixed with the amount of alcohol I’d consumed, served to make me feel quite light-headed – so out of it in fact that I almost missed my name being called over the P.A. “Trev from the Mob In
The Corner, please can you and your club members please make your way to the stage?” It had to be broadcast twice before it registered that Rabbit was on stage, beckoning us towards him. Amid much cheering and jeering we all eventually made it to the foot of the stage.
Looking up, I could see Grub standing to one side, and Rabbit holding a microphone like he was born to it. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed, his voice seeming to come from every direction, “we have an announcement for you all!” He continued: “Standing before you, we have a newly-formed motorcycle club made up of these fine young men,” and he spread his arms as if to embrace us all. We all looked at each other nervously – what is all this about? “This weekend is special to these lads, as it is their very first rally!” With that, the marquee erupted and, suddenly, the crowd seemed very close.
“Boys,” Grub was leaning off the stage, and shouting at us, “just relax and enjoy this!” We still had no idea what was happening.
“Five!” shouted Rabbit, “four, three…” The crowd in the marquee were surging now. “Two, ONE!” As if it were a sign from God himself, the air filled with all manner of fluids (well, not quite all…), and within seconds our pristine little group was soaked through. Our hair hung limp over our lowered heads, and the crowd was roaring its approval at our dishevelled state. The next deluge came from behind us as Rabbit and Grub emptied two buckets of God-knows-what over us. “Welcome to your first rally!” he shouted, and from all around us bikers came forward and slapped our backs, gave hearty handshakes, and welcomed us like long-lost friends. Pints were shoved into our hands, and the band started up again, pumping out a rousing rendition of that Cliff classic ‘Congratulations’.
And so the evening went on – we never had to buy a pint, all manner of folk came over and introduced themselves, and our damp pockets filled with rally invites from all corners of the country. I sat down to take it all in; the little club I belonged to’d been accepted by these hardened bikers all around me – the thousands of riding miles and cubic capacity difference between us didn’t seem to matter. The realisation hit me hard – this is a brotherhood. They don’t know me, yet they talk to me as if they’d known me for years; I’m accepted at face value, no need to strut or posture. That was the moment I changed – no longer just a motorcyclist, I was now a biker.