Storms and Stonehenge

For once this is not a story of a breakdown or a near-death experience. It was a bit of a brown trouser moment mind you, although by then I was far too cool for brown trousers. Yeah, right.

I’d left Exeter in bright sunshine. A perfect day, and I was riding along the A303 when I literally saw the clouds roll in from absolutely nowhere and the rain began. Rain was a bit of an understatement actually. Let’s call it a monsoon! So much so that I was soaked right through before I could stop the bike and change into the waterproofs I’d brought along.  

So I got back on the bike and carried on riding. Then the storm started and it got really wet. Then I saw lightning strike a tree some distance ahead of me, and then I saw it strike a hill not far away. There I was on my demon-possessed metal bike in the middle of nowhere and not a car in sight. I was just a tiny bit worried. Only a tiny bit. OK? Was this yet another coincidence, a hell-driven storm from absolutely nowhere? I think not.

I carried on riding through the downpour, since there was literally nothing I could do about being struck by lightning. In due course, I saw Stonehenge on the left-hand side, and I thought, why the hell not? There was no one around so I parked the bike, climbed what was then a low fence, and capered around in the stone circle like a mad thing while the storm raged around me, screaming and yelling as if I’d been possessed by a demon myself. I later put this whole incident down to the said diabolic influence of Yellow Peril.  Obviously.

Then I went ‘OK I’ve done that' and rode the rest of the way home without incident. Like you do.

While I didn’t realise it, that was the end of the big stories of Yellow Peril. That summer, I decided I’d had enough of being a labourer and someone had told me that I could make a minimum of £200 a week as a motorcycle courier. Well, that was true, but you were under so much pressure to get stuff in that if you weren’t in London from Slough in 20 mins they were on the walkie-talkie thing they lent you, saying ‘where the hell are you!’ and you had to take massive risks filtering traffic In London, every minute of every day, thrashing your bike to death, just to make deliveries. One guy in this company got prosecuted for doing 100+ miles an hour filtering through traffic. He got away with it because he claimed that it was impossible and the judge believed him. He told us he’d actually done it.

It all came to a head for me when I hit a speed wobble at an indicated 92 mph. You normally accelerate out of one of those, but on Yellow Peril, I literally had nothing left, and I ended up on the central reservation of the motorway and I was damned lucky not to hit it. Yet another brown trouser moment courtesy of Yellow Peril and in fact a near-death moment that effectively makes a lie of the first paragraph, even if this isn't the thrust of the story. 

You understand therefore why I finished my 2nd week, collected my pay packet and never looked back, and spent the summer fibre-glassing the inside of oil rig cabins for the princely sum of 1.50 per hour. They took me back essentially because handling raw fibreglass was so horrible that no one else would do it, but at least it wasn’t going to kill me! (though the raw fibreglass did make me feel like hell every night)

Why I Learned to Hate Spokes

I’d just worn out a tyre – and I mean really worn it out. It was balder than Yule Brynner after a close shave. It was one of those Bridgestone tyres of the era that came with the bike, which were hard as nails and lasted for ages but weren’t great for actually sticking to the road. As I recall Bridgestone makes good tyres today, by the way. Anyway I digress, and to get back to the point I’d had it replaced with an Oxford tyre which had massively thick treads and was square like a car tyre; but that wasn't a concern.  Yellow Peril handled like a boat anyway and I thought it’d last. In the event it didn’t and here’s why.

I was travelling back to dad’s from Exeter going along the A303 at about 60 mph when the rear tyre blew out, and I mean it really blew out! One second it was functioning as normal and then it just wasn’t there at all.  

The bike jack-knifed like those guys you see doing speedway circuits and I was in a lot of trouble. There was a car right behind me and if I’d gone down it would’ve run over me with the obvious results. Yet another brown trouser and indeed near-death moment courtesy of Yellow Peril to add to the ever-growing list. Thanks.

Anyway, I fought the bike onto the side of the road and brought it safely to a halt. That was not a bad piece of biking as I remember it and I’m quite proud of it. 

However, the car was off over the horizon with never a backwards glance. Thanks a bunch! Though with the complete lack of ironic waving or general mickey taking I am pretty sure they got away with it since my bike's superpower wouldn't have kicked in.

I took stock. I was in the middle of nowhere with no means of communication. There were no mobile phones back then. I needed to get to a phone and do whatever I had to do to get rescued. With no AA or RAC membership that meant a call to dad on a workday. Thankfully I remembered his number! I just hoped he wouldn’t be too mad.

Dad being mad, always such an angry man

I think it says something about the bike that I didn’t even think much of what I had to do and just got on with it. I pushed the bike about 5 miles to the nearest garage (I didn’t want to leave it on the side of the road) made the call and took the wheel off the bike while I waited. Yep, I had enough tools with me for that to be quite routine.

Dad came straight out to my rescue, for which I was and am forever grateful, and we got the wheel to the nearest bike dealer, which was in Amesbury, and they put a new and far more expensive tyre on. When they took the old tyre off (which I’d ruined by the way) they discovered that the people who’d done the previous tyre had neglected to put rim tape on the damned wheel! The only surprise was that it had taken that long to cause a puncture. 

I put the massively inconvenient timing down to the diabolic influence of Yellow Peril, and this is the root of why I hate spoked wheels. (Above and beyond the obvious inconvenience of cleaning and adjusting the damned things). 

Tyre weld was added to the tool kit. Sigh. (I did need it later on in a much more mundane way, for those who might have a vague interest).