THE RIDE

by

 Vic o'Bradford

 

            We were young and in love.  The world was full of new thrills.  My heart pounded, as it always did when the time approached for my boyfriend to arrive on his motor cycle.  Every Friday he collected me from my parents' house for the weekly visit to our favourite club in town, ten miles to the east, and this was a glorious summer's evening.  

            At a minute to seven I could hear in the distance the subdued growl of the AJS exhaust as he rounded the bend in our road.    I was ready; Vince was never late. 

            "Hello, Sweetheart," he greeted me, pushing his goggles up to his forehead.

            "Hi, Darling," I replied, smiling lovingly into his handsome face as I brushed a dead midge from his collar. 

            "Shall we go?"

            I climbed aboard the comfortable dual seat and settled my insteps firmly on the footrests, gripping his body with my knees and curling my arms around his waist.  He opened the throttle and slowly released the clutch lever. 

             The big engine purred and the bike moved gently forward.  I tightened my hold, waiting for the surge of acceleration.  In seconds it came, a giant force pulling us ahead, threatening to tear us apart and leave me sitting in the roadway. 

            When the forward urge waned we were up to speed, but my excitement was not yet ended:  negotiating the bends on our snake-like route, we leaned precariously down; down and further down towards the road, first to the left, then right, then left, until I imagined my hips would strike the speeding surface. 

            All the time I pushed forward hard on his back as he'd taught me, giving him full control over our combined weight.  Smoothly round each curve we swept, our matching red scarves flying back over my shoulder in the slipstream.  There could be no other thrill like this.  How I loved his daring and his skill.  How I loved him. 

            Steadily we consumed each mile through the city outskirts, past blackened Yorkshire woollen mills with their tall Victorian chimneys belching sulphurous smoke.  The pungent smell, unique to this part of the world, tantalised our nostrils. 

            Ahead of us the sky was changing.  Majestic cumulus clouds began their climb towards the stratosphere, each one lit by the setting sun behind us; when we reached the club there was a new chill in the air. 

            "Brr.... it's looking a bit black over there," said Vince, removing his jacket and slinging it over the handlebars.

            "Yes, and we have no waterproofs with us tonight," I replied, with an uneasy feeling that perhaps this was a rash omission, "it was so nice when we left."

            "Never mind, let's go in anyway and hear some good jazz,"  he enthused.

            Up we climbed, feet clattering on the iron treads of a narrow spiral staircase.  It led up to the roof-space that we knew so well on the third floor of this old-fashioned Pub, known locally as 'The Taps'.  Here was the home of our favourite band that delighted us every week with their traditional New Orleans music.     

             We took our seats at a small round table that carried an unlit candle in a wax-encrusted bottle.  The waiter came over, ducking his head under the low roof-beams.

            "What's it to be, Sir?"

            He took a matchbox from his white apron and our corner assumed a cosy glow as the flame flickered into new life.

            "A pint of your best bitter and a glass of red wine please, Harry," Vince said, as if the waiter didn't know.

            He always served us and we always had the same.

            "You do want wine, Pat?"

            Vince had asked me just to confirm; that was something else I loved about my boyfriend: he was always so polite to me.  Even though our relationship was close, he'd never become inattentive though familiarity.     

             The band unpacked their instruments and settled into their respective places.  Everything was carefully organised in this very restricted space, so that the trombone could slide out, just missing the ear of the pianist bending over his keyboard, and the clarinet narrowly avoided physical contact with the close-by trumpet.

            The opening number was always a crowd-rouser, all seven instruments at full bore.  This week it was 'Ragtime Tuba' performed in fast tempo.  By the end of the third bar, my feet were tapping madly and Vince was beating time with his knuckles on the table-top.

            'Big Bob', a huge, half-cast jazzman, with enormous lungs and a dubious history, was our tuba player.  He was also the band leader, but only during those weeks when he was keeping time, not serving time - and could he blow!  

            By the middle eight, my man was stomping and the glasses were at high risk on our table.

            "Hey, watch the candle, Vince," I shouted in his ear.       

`           A lesser voice wouldn't have penetrated the vibrant atmosphere.

            "Oh, thanks Love.  Good, aren't they?"

            His voice was booming back at me as he thoroughly enjoyed himself, his whole body moving involuntarily to the beat.  The evening passed through 'Basin Street Blues',  'Mississippi Mud' and all the time-honoured melodies of the Southern States, recalling memories of Bessie Smith and ending as always with 'The Saints Go Marching In', which we all sang together in a joyful finale.

            "Time to go, Pat," he said, reluctantly.

            Once again it had been too good to leave.  We descended the iron stairs and found that darkness had arrived.  Rain was falling, gently wetting the dual seat, and we knew we were in for an uncomfortable return journey.

            "Oh Vince, can you wipe our seat?  We don't want to start with wet bottoms, do we?"

            He produced a rag from the pannier bag and honoured my request.

            "I think they'll be wet anyway in half a mile," he noted.

            It was understated.  They were soaked.            

            Our headlight picked out the road in front.  Stair-rods of water, mixed with hail-stones, cut down through its beam.  Stinging blows on my cheeks made me wince as each tiny white missile contacted my skin; Vince was having difficulty as oncoming headlights blurred his vision through bespattered goggles. 

            The city was served by trams and we were following one of their routes.  The tramlines were laid between granite sets and sunk well below the surface.  Suddenly I felt the bike wobble alarmingly.

            "What's wrong, Vince?"

            I was shouting in his ear. 

            "The front wheel's in a groove," he called back, "it won't come out."

            There was a hint of terror in his voice and I tensed. 

`           We were doing all of fifty miles an hour.  The rear wheel, beneath me, entered the same groove.  The machine was captive; steering was impossible and my hero could no longer maintain our balance.  Showers of red sparks shot past my leg as the bike came to rest on its side, both of us still astride, but now horizontal, with our right arms hard down on the road surface. 

             "Are you hurt, Love?"

            Vince had asked quietly, extricating himself from the tangle.

            "Yes.... I mean no.  Well, not really.  How about you?"

            I was confused and gurgling, prising myself sideways off the seat.

            "OK, but move!  Hurry!  Get off the road.....  leave the bike.  Now!"

            His voice was suddenly thunderous and I re-acted to it, but it was too late to crawl out of danger.  There was a car coming up fast behind; the driver probably couldn't see us through the deluge and we waited in trepidation for him to run us down.  The vehicle screeched to a halt a few feet from our single tail light, still glowing red on the road, and we breathed a sigh of relief. 

            The man got out and came to investigate.  We were undamaged except, we thought, for bruised elbows.  He helped Vince to lift the bike, pushing it to the pavement, and received a soaking for his trouble.

            "See if the engine still works," he said, "I'll give you a lift if it doesn't."

            "Oh, yes please," Vince replied, with gratitude.  

            The kickstart lever went down under Vince's firm foot.  A responsive burbling from the tailpipes signalled that all was well.  Thanking the helpful motorist for his assistance and - unheard - for not killing us, we resumed our westerly direction. 

            This time Vince kept as near as he could to the pavement, away from the hungry tramlines. Rain was still coming down in torrents, so we stayed below twenty, courting no further disaster as we ploughed on in discomfort.  We were three miles from home when the downpour stopped abruptly, leaving a clear line across the road between wet and dry.  Above us the stars twinkled brightly. 

            "Pat, I think we're out of it," Vince's voice floated on the airstream, "thank Goodness."

            "Yes, thank Goodness," I echoed; "I say Love, can we stop for a minute?"

            He pulled the bike on to the roadside verge.  We dismounted and looked at each other in the glow of the headlight.  Spontaneously we laughed out loud, probably as a means of expressing our relief, rather than through real mirth.

            "Oh, Pat, your sleeve's torn," he said.

            "Yes, and I can see your knee," I replied.

            The damaged skin showed through a great rip in his trousers and it must have hurt; but it could have been worse and we flung our arms around each other in a heartfelt hug.

            "Oh my darling, that was close," he said, as he kissed me tenderly on the lips.     

             We re-mounted and completed the journey.  My mother had heard the approaching engine and was waiting at the door.

            "Patricia, you are late; we've been worried about you."

            She took a closer look in the light of the hallway; a horrified expression came into her face as she saw our bedraggled state.

            "Where on earth have you two been? Did you fall into the river?"

            We were both drenched to the skin.  My hair hung in unruly wet ringlets.  Vince looked like a frogman.

            "Sorry, Mum," I replied, wiping my cheeks with a limp handkerchief, "but it has rained a bit you know."

           

            "Rain?  What rain?  It's been a beautiful evening."

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