MY BACK PAGES

My relationship with Dave grew. He took me drag racing, he said it would be good for my starts. He was right, but it was the fanatical element that intrigued me. This was demonstrated by a Swiss team who had driven all the way to grotty, wet, grey Blighty to race. Hans or Sven, I can't remember, reckoned it was racing the English that gave them an edge in Europe. Maybe they didn't have enough cold damp air at home, maybe they loved fish and chips, but I got that travel would be a big part of my life.

The hooligan element within me was very strong. I needed no black-masked heavily ventilated cloak-wearing lord to convince me of my path 'to the Dark Side'. I was there, willing and able, and when the police would demonstrate what knobs they were on a motorcycles, there was no holding back.

After this "White Helmets" demonstration yours truly had to step up to the mark, just like Eddie Kidd or Evel Knievel, I had to do an enormous motorcycle jump. My mate had broken his arm falling off his YZ490, which had survived unscathed. He had the job at the 'big show' to jump three cars.

That job was now mine. I know it was just three cars but they were big ones. With a massive tuition session (22 seconds of Mark shouting at me) and huge rehearsal (fired the evil beast up and rode it into the arena) my career as a motorcycle jumper was about to 'take off'.

"Flat out in second!" were the instructions; I hit the ramp flat out in fourth. It was mid-flight (when I looked left and could see the tops of telegraph poles) that I realised he was almost certainly right. I eventually landed a gazillion yards past my mark. There was a cracking bang, I hit all of the anchors, plus put one foot down and slid the bike sideways. It stopped about three feet from a rope, behind which was a mass of screaming, shrieking, crying with fear, parents who had all pushed their kids to the front, so they could get a good close look at the stand-in idiot on the dirt bike.

There endeth my jumping career. I also ended up with a thick swollen ear when Mark's dad found out I'd busted his little soldier's frame and he and I were not under any circumstances to show up at any more of the organiser's events. Ever.

The hooligan element also runs deep within the vast majority of my fellow motorcyclists. These three rode around the course on the IOM with very lightweight pillions. As there was a huge crowd outside the Highlander (no longer) they performed relentless ride-bys. The art of entertainment was not lost on me.

It quickly dawned on me that money was needed, giant chests of the evil stuff, to get me out on the track with the really fast boys so I embarked on a career as a 'Dispatch Rider in the smoke' with a life expectancy less than a Boy Scout mercenary in Outer Mongolia.