It’s typical in these sessions for people with ambition to hijack centre stage, once the agenda has been covered, and try to out-shine each other. Old rivalries are thinly disguised by the veneer of debate, one to which you’d best not be fooled into thinking you’re invited. After 20 minutes or so of being an audience member, I slip out, leaving my notebook and jacket behind. This way it looks like I intend to return, which I don’t, not right away.
It’s not just me who feels surplus to requirements and when one person leaves it often breaks the spell. Pretty soon I’m joined in the back office by John, a young lad from North Wales. He’s a good lad, John, and he agrees to give me a lift up to Roy’s garage to retrieve the Black Bullet before they close up for the weekend. The rain is lashing down when we jump into John’s old Golf, which mists up immediately. He asks about the bike over the roar of the demister.
“You going to do it up?”
“No, don’t think so, I like it like it is.”
“You could do it up and sell it for loads.”
“S’pose so, but it’s not like that.”
I’m distracted, the combination of pooling water and conker mash on the road looks lethal. Must remember to take it easy under the trees on the way back.
John switches to chat about cars.
“When I sold my other car, it was a nightmare. Idiots calling me up day and night with stupid questions. I couldn’t relax at home, I hated it. I mean what would happen if I suddenly said "a thousand pounds", or something, without thinking?”
“Was there a danger of that?”
“Yeah, well, when you’re relaxing...”
“You think you might have sold yourself short just to put an end to it?”
“It was like they owned me. They were calling when I was asleep. One bloke from Manchester called and said, ‘how fast does it go?’ I said, ‘it’s a Focus 1.6, you know...’ he just didn’t get it. He said he wanted a fast car but they wouldn’t insure him for it. What do you say to that?”
We pull into Roy’s yard and ‘Yo’ Stuart and Kevin, his main mechanics. Kevin in particular comes over for a chat. He’s usually on the shy side, no shrinking violet, but quiet. He’s got this light in his eyes though, behind his glasses, the Black Bullet has got him all sparky.
“We didn’t think we’d see you til Monday, what with the rain an’ all.”
I pump myself up as this all-weather rider dude and to some degree I do mean it. Christ I’ve done some stupid things - riding in ice and snow - the only thing is, I’m old now and don't bounce like I used to. I’ve crashed every bike I’ve owned, the truth be told, and part of the Bullet’s attraction is its lack of out-and-out speed.
It’s nice to find genuine enthusiasm for this thing that I’m doing and I ask Kevin & Stuart to pose for a photo.
I pay as the boys wheel the bike out front. The rain hasn’t really let up and I’m hoping the damp doesn’t make her hard to start. I get a kickback after three strikes and then she goes, with the throttle held wide open. Appreciative faces look out from the dry, a few slightly embarassed man waves, and we’re off.
It’s good to be out on the road after a day cooped up in the meeting room, needle raindrops etching away the boredom. I shouldn’t be out here with no plate but it's back roads all the way home and I have pretty much everything else. John drives behind and tells me later that I was doing 55mph along one stretch - propelled by sheer exuberance.
Now I’m sitting in the front room looking at a long brown unopened box! My guitar has arrived and I've waited, a little anxiously, until the house is quiet to open it. The thing about dreams is they shouldn't really turn up in a box and confront you. It's probablty best if they don't. The longer and deeper you lust after something, the greater the potential disappointment, so I'm not going to open it now. Maybe do a grand opening tomorrow to show Poz what this 'present' really means to his dad and then of course I'm going to have to tell him he can't play with it. Shit. But what do I do?
