RAMBLINGS OF A CHOPPER PILOT I'VE HAD BETTER DAYS!

PART 2

THE RS WAS MY OHSORELIABLE DAILY WORK TRANSPORT, MOST OF THE TIME, SO WASN’T USED TO RACKING UP SIGNIFICANT MILEAGE IN ANY GIVEN DAY. BASICALLY, IT WAS A VIBEY LITTLE THUMPER, AND THERE WERE SOME ELEMENTS OF VIBRATION THAT ONE HAD TO ENDURE.

Anyway, we set off for the Magna Carta again. The right-hand throttle grip, very slowly, kept working its way off the handlebar, and this happened every twenty or so miles – my journey to Essex, apart from being rather ponderous, was punctuated by trying to hit the grip back on rather too often. My arse and legs needed regular breaks too, and I felt quite knackered by the time I arrived just after lunch. I entered the gate, paying my fee, and feeling rather uncool on my little Honda – I’m a lanky six foot three, and the RS is a small bike in comparison. Does anyone care though? I really don’t think so…

I parked up on the rally field perimeter, and chucked the rucksack down next to the bike. My immediate focus was to find a burger, and sink my first pint dead quick. As I scanned the in-field, I recognised a guy I’d met at another meet (Kent, the Bulldog, Crazy Daze, can’t remember which) – ‘Cowpat’ (never asked him why he was nicknamed that, probably an ex-cowman called Patrick). His ride was a head-turning Mad Max-type rat trike with two lemonade bottle bottoms as clock housings, and a halved and hinged alloy beer barrel as a topbox, and was pretty cool. He gesticulated to me to come over to where he had a pot hanging from a steel tripod, steaming over a neat little gas burner. “Help yourself to a plate of chicken and spuds, Nobby, you look like you need some grub.” The day was suddenly looking up!

“Poo, what’s that TCP-like aftershave you’re wearing, Nob?” he said, and I had to explain the medicinal pong, and the morning’s events. He was much amused, and drew off a full plastic mug of scrumpy from a barrel perched on a bale, and handed it to me. I thought ‘life doesn’t get better than this’, closed my eyes, raised the receptacle of heaven’s nectar to my parched lips and... f**! F**k!

An effing wasp, unseen on the rim of the mug, had stung me on the top lip! My host rolled off his bale, convulsed in laughter, holding his aching sides. I can’t remember much of the next half-hour, except for the shock of searing pain and my throbbing lip, and you all know a wasp sting lasts a fair old while. As well as that, I now had an instant speech impediment, like the one you get after a dentist’s filled your tooth, but I continued to try and enjoy the cider, and the first glass was followed swiftly by another. I guess you do have to see the funny side of it all – my account of the day’d certainly amused Cowpat, especially the last bit as I tried to talk with a pronounced lisp.

Passing by a trade stall, a mirror showed my ugly fizzog

– to the uninitiated it suggested my face’d had an altercation with someone’s fist, and wasn’t a pretty sight. The party was warming up though and, as the day wore on, the pain seemed to be subsiding; maybe the cider was working its anesthetic magic? The bands played, the beer flowed, day turned to night, and the party went on. I love the smell of a rally atmosphere with the odours of damp, trodden grass, spilt beer, tobacco, patchouli oil, and barbecues, infused occasionally with a whiff of armpit or weed.

Then I remembered – SHIT! I hadn’t put my tent up!

I exited the beer tent, gathered my bearings, and staggered out into the moist night air to find the camping field. By this late hour a few hundred other bikes and trikes’d populated the field, and tents were everywhere. Bugger! Now where had I put my bike?

After a few pensive minutes I wracked my severely clouded brain cell (singular), made toward the outer hedge and, to my relief, there was the RS standing forlornly amongst more exotic specimens.

As I stood there, I felt the hint of a fine drizzle on my face, and by the time I’d extricated the tent bag, etcetera, from the groaning rucksack, it was raining properly. Tent erection with a pathetic one-candlepowered torch, feeling a tad pissed, in shit weather, is not a recipe for a stress-free camping experience, but thankfully a kind soul opposite switched on his headlight and lent me a (sober) third hand. I owe this man a beer!

It was now time to turn in, so I entered the musty interior of my flimsy abode, placed my helmet, gloves, boots and general stuff under the fly-sheet, and crawled further inward to unravel my ever-so-thin sleeping bag, awkwardly shuffling down inside the clammy bag, using my rolled jacket as a pillow. A few vague spinning minutes passed, and I thought, ‘Hang on a mo’! I’m getting wet!’. Drips splished on to my forehead, and I fumbled for the torch. On closer inspection there seemed to be numerous small holes and abrasions in the inner tent at the top, so I left the (relative) comfort of my bag, crawled outside on my knees and shone the torch beam on to the fly-sheet. Bollocks! There were more bloody holes in it than a Swiss cheese and, after careful inspection of the base of the rucksack, I knew why. No, it wasn’t shed mice damage – the friggin’ road’d shaved off one corner of the rucksack (and the tent) during my spill. F**k! This was not one of my better days!