Life in our street was a neverending adventure, as far as I was concerned. Not least, because it was populated by a band of boys who roamed the streets wild and free, playing what seemed like endlessly wild and dangerous games.
Every now and again, a miraculous discovery would change the face of play, introducing a brand new dimension to otherwise ordinary days.
Not very many of the boys on our block were credited with a Discovery - but each aspired to produce at least one in their lifetime. Much like a submission to the Nobel Price committee, hopeful boys would periodically deliver inventions or discoveries to the bretheren for approval.
Standards were high. Dreams were dashed. Many were disappointed but acceptance would guarantee legendary status on the street: Discoveries were elevated to iconic status, shared by all, kept in secret places and revered by everyone for as long as it could hold our imaginations:
Four plastic trays with 96 shiny .22 bullet cartridges, regimentally kept in batches of 24. These were taken out regularly and played with at length: We would divide them amongst us, and play shoot-em-up by throwing the cartridge as hard as we could at our victim, carefully collecting them all after the carnage, lovingly replacing each 'bullet' in its hole on the tray.
"Aaaarrggghhh! I'm out of amo!" became just about the sexiest words on the street.
Then, there was the metal object, most likely from "outaspace", as decided by mutual consent, after much debate. Square, the size of half a brick and twice as heavy - it had a copper rod sticking through it, which, if pushed through to the other side would MAGNETISE it!
A dog's skeleton, completely intact, canines grimacing in the sun and an abandoned pram, still sporting all four wheels, formed the rest of the prized Discovery collection.
It was with much pomp and circumstance therefore, that I was invited to view a New Discovery one day. It was a sign of my rising social status on the block, that the boys even thought of me - let alone consider me worthy of sharing a New Discovery.
I was duly blindfolded and marched to the derelict shack behind our row of houses. After vowing utter secrecy, I was allowed to remove the blindfold to behold the precious object: painted on the wall, was a lifesize portrait of Donald Duck in the most elaborate, bright, Disney-esque colours and detail.
It was magnificent! The solid colours glowed almost otherworldly in the dusty, crumbling room - a far cry from the murky comic books and black and white television screens that was our world. For a moment, it felt as if you hold your breath, Donald Duck would jump off the wall and splutter: "Hello folks!"
A moment of awe passed...
"Oh yeah" I shrugged, "I made that when I used to be twelve."
A stunned silence descended. I, more stunned than any of the boys gaping at me: confusion, disbelief and awe, jostling for space on their faces.
Like most of them, I was turning seven later that year.
"Wh... when did you used to be twelve?" asked one boy, saucer eyed.
Now, I knew for definite that I DID used be twelve. Obviously a long, long time ago - which explained why I couldn't remember much of that time.
However - I was pretty sure I would have remembered doing THAT painting.... but since the lie was out there, I couldn't bloody well retrieve it.
"Oh, a looooong time ago"
I'm not sure whether the pendulum of faith swung in my favour that day because of my bare-faced confidence, or the fact that I was a girl, which imbued me with a certain aura of weirdness/anything is possible.
The stroke of genius is breathtaking: firstly, the painting was so incredibly fantastic and ethereal, that it could only have been done by some sort of mythical creature, someone that could only be TWELVE - an age that seemed completely unatainable from where we were, in the SINGLE DIGIT age group.
Since there was no-one on our street, or in fact, in our neighbourhood or on this planet, that was as old as TWELVE - no-one alive could contest that it was completely plausible that it is an age that occurs in some parrallel universe, in reverse chronology.
Additionally, in case they felt that I should be tested, I reasoned very honestly that it was impossible for me to create such a painting at this moment, since I am only six!
Clearly, when I was twelve, (er...years before I was seven) my painting skills were far superior – as one would expect from a twelve year old.
The concept was so incredibly confusing and audacious, that it didn't occur to any of the boys to question the veracity of it.
Whatever the reason, in one master stroke, I overcame every possible obstacle, including being a girl, in my quest of becoming a fully accepted as "one of the boys".
One could almost say, I was admitted into the male inner sanctum, because I "dazzled them with science."
...Still works today : )
Wednesday, 9 May 2007
Friday, 4 May 2007
I didn't have many girl friends as a kid.
Well, actually. I had none.
In fact, thinking back, I don't recall any girls in our neighbourhood – I’d think it had something to with me being ‘that girl that always plays with the boys’.
This state of affairs was carefully orchestrated by me: my social position of "honorary boy" in the neighbourhood did not come cheap. Maintaining it took cunning, intelligence and UN-esque diplomacy:
It started on one of those days when I was wedged inbetween our postbox and my mum's rhodendendron bush. I used this position of hiding with great success when I tired of being my brothers' coffee making skivvy. (Remarkably, I was taught by my darling siblings, to make a perfect cup of coffee at the eager age of five, and encouraged to practice this art several times a day.)
From this position, I was able to while hours away, spying on the boys in our street playing what seemed like endless wild and dangerous games.
On this day, a huddle of boys sauntered over to me.
"Do you wanna play Cowboys and Indians?" - Boy, staring at a spot to the left of me, trying to look bored and completely disinterested.
"Okay then. If you want to", me, trying to sound macho and worthy of such an honour whilst furiously trying to work out what a COW BOY would look like.
I considered the dilemma of where exactly the cow's UDDERS would go on such a boy - trying to imagine whether one would be required to moo, or talk...
And an indeehan...???
"What do you wanna be, Cowboy or Indian?"
Like a rabbit being assessed by a pack of starving dogs, I sensed the gravity of this moment: several pairs of eyes were rivetted on me.
An expectant hush descended.
My throat felt dry.
COW BOY or INDEEHAN?
My whole life, my future and the future of mankind pivoted on this one single question...
"Indeehan?" I croaked, praying fervently that that was the COOL answer. Surely no-one would want to be an UDDER BOY!
"Okay then."
I was jubilant! I made it! I did it!! Whatever an indeehan was, I was going to be the BEST dang indeehan these boys have EVER seen! I skipped after the gaggle of boys... let the games begin!
My bounce was cut short when the boy in front abruptly spun round and glared at me: “What are you doing on my land, Indian?”
I froze momentarily, groping for an appropriate response.
“They cant speak English!” “They’re here to KILL us!” , one of the boys screeched dramatically.
I didn’t need any telling that this game has heated up, and something reeaaally exciting was about to happen.
Facing my new enemies, and so as to not raise any suspicion, I very slowly inched my head round.
With my eyes rolling in the sockets, I stole a furtive glance over my shoulder: I wanted to see how many of “us” there were:
Behind me, the street stretched into sad, deserted emptiness...
“There’s HUNDREDS of them!”
“Run for cover!”
“BANG! BANG! BANG!”
Boys scattered in every direction in utter mayhem, falling over each other as they ducked behind trees and shrubs, clearing the street within seconds, shooting wildly as they did so!
Ooohhhhh I get it! I’ve seen this game before!!
I unholster my gun, aim at a boys head poking out from behind a tree and fire in turn: “Bang! “Bang! Bang!”
Silence.
“No, STUPID!”
“Indians don’t have guns. You have to DIE when we shoot you!”
Thus started my mastery of the genre of faking death in every grotesque, horrorsome and bloody manner conceivable.
I took to being a tribe of Indians like a duck to water:
On a daily basis, I contorted, convulsed, spasmd, gurgled death rattles, bloodcurdling screams, collapsed, twitched and foamed spit from my mouth – often receiving direction from my murderers:
“No! I shot your head off! Walk like a zombie with no head!”
Overnight, our street became home of the toughest, meanest rabble of Indian killing marksmen this side of the Mississippi – Some were so good, that they could shoot me dead, before they’d even turned a corner. All it took to fell me, was shouting Bang! Bang! on the approach and by the time they got within line of sight, I’d be writhing and spitting in my final death throes.
Needless to say – I rapidly rose up the ranks to “most favoured playmate”, an honour which I could easily orchestrate to flow over into other “boys only” domains.
I had stumbled on the key that swung the door of a ‘man’s world’ wide open to me:
Play like a boy, but never, ever beat them at their own game.
Well, actually. I had none.
In fact, thinking back, I don't recall any girls in our neighbourhood – I’d think it had something to with me being ‘that girl that always plays with the boys’.
This state of affairs was carefully orchestrated by me: my social position of "honorary boy" in the neighbourhood did not come cheap. Maintaining it took cunning, intelligence and UN-esque diplomacy:
It started on one of those days when I was wedged inbetween our postbox and my mum's rhodendendron bush. I used this position of hiding with great success when I tired of being my brothers' coffee making skivvy. (Remarkably, I was taught by my darling siblings, to make a perfect cup of coffee at the eager age of five, and encouraged to practice this art several times a day.)
From this position, I was able to while hours away, spying on the boys in our street playing what seemed like endless wild and dangerous games.
On this day, a huddle of boys sauntered over to me.
"Do you wanna play Cowboys and Indians?" - Boy, staring at a spot to the left of me, trying to look bored and completely disinterested.
"Okay then. If you want to", me, trying to sound macho and worthy of such an honour whilst furiously trying to work out what a COW BOY would look like.
I considered the dilemma of where exactly the cow's UDDERS would go on such a boy - trying to imagine whether one would be required to moo, or talk...
And an indeehan...???
"What do you wanna be, Cowboy or Indian?"
Like a rabbit being assessed by a pack of starving dogs, I sensed the gravity of this moment: several pairs of eyes were rivetted on me.
An expectant hush descended.
My throat felt dry.
COW BOY or INDEEHAN?
My whole life, my future and the future of mankind pivoted on this one single question...
"Indeehan?" I croaked, praying fervently that that was the COOL answer. Surely no-one would want to be an UDDER BOY!
"Okay then."
I was jubilant! I made it! I did it!! Whatever an indeehan was, I was going to be the BEST dang indeehan these boys have EVER seen! I skipped after the gaggle of boys... let the games begin!
My bounce was cut short when the boy in front abruptly spun round and glared at me: “What are you doing on my land, Indian?”
I froze momentarily, groping for an appropriate response.
“They cant speak English!” “They’re here to KILL us!” , one of the boys screeched dramatically.
I didn’t need any telling that this game has heated up, and something reeaaally exciting was about to happen.
Facing my new enemies, and so as to not raise any suspicion, I very slowly inched my head round.
With my eyes rolling in the sockets, I stole a furtive glance over my shoulder: I wanted to see how many of “us” there were:
Behind me, the street stretched into sad, deserted emptiness...
“There’s HUNDREDS of them!”
“Run for cover!”
“BANG! BANG! BANG!”
Boys scattered in every direction in utter mayhem, falling over each other as they ducked behind trees and shrubs, clearing the street within seconds, shooting wildly as they did so!
Ooohhhhh I get it! I’ve seen this game before!!
I unholster my gun, aim at a boys head poking out from behind a tree and fire in turn: “Bang! “Bang! Bang!”
Silence.
“No, STUPID!”
“Indians don’t have guns. You have to DIE when we shoot you!”
Thus started my mastery of the genre of faking death in every grotesque, horrorsome and bloody manner conceivable.
I took to being a tribe of Indians like a duck to water:
On a daily basis, I contorted, convulsed, spasmd, gurgled death rattles, bloodcurdling screams, collapsed, twitched and foamed spit from my mouth – often receiving direction from my murderers:
“No! I shot your head off! Walk like a zombie with no head!”
Overnight, our street became home of the toughest, meanest rabble of Indian killing marksmen this side of the Mississippi – Some were so good, that they could shoot me dead, before they’d even turned a corner. All it took to fell me, was shouting Bang! Bang! on the approach and by the time they got within line of sight, I’d be writhing and spitting in my final death throes.
Needless to say – I rapidly rose up the ranks to “most favoured playmate”, an honour which I could easily orchestrate to flow over into other “boys only” domains.
I had stumbled on the key that swung the door of a ‘man’s world’ wide open to me:
Play like a boy, but never, ever beat them at their own game.
Thursday, 3 May 2007
My left foot
I have always argued vigorously and righteously against changing into full bike gear, when going on a short hop.
What is the POINT of taking 15 minutes to kit up to the tees, just to spend 10 minutes on the bike - to THEN have to spend another 15 minutes unkitting on the other end!
So - on this auspicous occasion, I sneaked out, making sure my partner - a.ka. Brigadier of Road Safety and Constricting Clothing Enforcer - don't spot me riding his gixter, with my CATs on.
Still can't figure out how it happened - but riding along, I became aware that my shoelace had come undone, and it was tangled around the gear lever.
To the point where I could not lift my foot of the lever.
Sh*t.
Approaching a red traffic light, I decided that THIS was a very minor little problem, and all I had to do, was put my right foot out when I pull up. I can then lean over, and untangle my lace and eh presto!
"Put your RIGHT foot out... Put your RIGHT foot out... Put your RIGHT foot out..."
Pulling up, my LEFT foot, as if endowed with a brain of its own, AUTOMATICALLY shot out - followed in prompt succession by the rest of my body - and then the bike.
SERVES YOU RIGHT, I managed to think momentarily, before an excruciating pain shot up my ankle as we all came crashing down on the tarmac: my LEFT FOOT, myself and the gixter.
Since I was still practically TETHERED to the bike, which was now on top of me - or more particularly, on my left foot - I was stuck. Immobilised. In the middle of the road, at a traffic light. In the middle of London.
The reaction of the motorists next to me, still brings me out in a cold sweat to this day: all four passengers were staring at me frozen, mouths agape, as if witnessing an unspeakable horror:
Great!
I like to believe that I sounded calm and authoritive.
The alternative, that I wailed like a desperate banshee through my helmet - doesn't bear thinking of.
Either way - it seemed to have the desired effect and suddenly three different car doors flew open - including a black cab who pulled up behind me!
Within seconds, one bike, and one DEEPLY EMBARRASSED rider was standing upright again.
"Alright love?, you hurt?" The cab driver looked me and the bike up and down curiously.
"I'm fine! Silly me." I hissed through clenched jaws, trying desperately to look and walk normal, although my foot felt as if someone tried to amputate it with a monkey wrench.
Getting back on, I prayed: "Please, please, please sweet Gixter, I'm so very, very sorry about this. PLEASE start and let me get the hell out of here."
A few blocks down, I pulled into a quiet alley, out of sight - and finally got the chance to scream in pain! F****ck that hurt!!!
I quick squizz revealed that thanks to the cushy limb material it landed on, the gixter sustained no damage.
Phew! It means I have been spared the greatest punishment: the wrath of Road Safety Brigadier. If there's no damage, there's no trace, which means I don't have tell him.
My deceit would have been perfect: for days I managed to bravely bear the pain of walking around without limping, on a foot swollen to elephantine propotions.
After day 4, I slowly started relaxing: I was home dry... he need never know what happened between me and the gixter.
Therefore, I almost suffered an apoplexy, when, sitting quitely at my desk on day 4, he suddenly leaned over, did a double take and bellowed: "You have COME OFF THE BIKE!, HAVEN'T YOU?!!"
Shit!
"I DONT BELIEVE YOU!!! YOU HAVE DROPPED MY BIKE, HAVEN'T YOU??!!"...
How on earth..?
It turns out, in the heat of my embarassment and the strain of hiding my foot injury, I didn't realise that I had grazed my elbow.
So there it was: proudly blooming red and accusing, a fresh scab. Damning evidence, sitting on my left elbow like a first prize rosette.
Not only have I been busted - but I've forfeited whatever sympathy mitigation I could have milked from my foot injury, by hiding it for four days!
What is the POINT of taking 15 minutes to kit up to the tees, just to spend 10 minutes on the bike - to THEN have to spend another 15 minutes unkitting on the other end!
So - on this auspicous occasion, I sneaked out, making sure my partner - a.ka. Brigadier of Road Safety and Constricting Clothing Enforcer - don't spot me riding his gixter, with my CATs on.
Still can't figure out how it happened - but riding along, I became aware that my shoelace had come undone, and it was tangled around the gear lever.
To the point where I could not lift my foot of the lever.
Sh*t.
Approaching a red traffic light, I decided that THIS was a very minor little problem, and all I had to do, was put my right foot out when I pull up. I can then lean over, and untangle my lace and eh presto!
"Put your RIGHT foot out... Put your RIGHT foot out... Put your RIGHT foot out..."
Pulling up, my LEFT foot, as if endowed with a brain of its own, AUTOMATICALLY shot out - followed in prompt succession by the rest of my body - and then the bike.
SERVES YOU RIGHT, I managed to think momentarily, before an excruciating pain shot up my ankle as we all came crashing down on the tarmac: my LEFT FOOT, myself and the gixter.
Since I was still practically TETHERED to the bike, which was now on top of me - or more particularly, on my left foot - I was stuck. Immobilised. In the middle of the road, at a traffic light. In the middle of London.
The reaction of the motorists next to me, still brings me out in a cold sweat to this day: all four passengers were staring at me frozen, mouths agape, as if witnessing an unspeakable horror:
Great!
"Can ANYONE possibly STOP STARING and HELP ME get the bike OFF MY LEG??"
I like to believe that I sounded calm and authoritive.
The alternative, that I wailed like a desperate banshee through my helmet - doesn't bear thinking of.
Either way - it seemed to have the desired effect and suddenly three different car doors flew open - including a black cab who pulled up behind me!
Within seconds, one bike, and one DEEPLY EMBARRASSED rider was standing upright again.
"Alright love?, you hurt?" The cab driver looked me and the bike up and down curiously.
"I'm fine! Silly me." I hissed through clenched jaws, trying desperately to look and walk normal, although my foot felt as if someone tried to amputate it with a monkey wrench.
Getting back on, I prayed: "Please, please, please sweet Gixter, I'm so very, very sorry about this. PLEASE start and let me get the hell out of here."
A few blocks down, I pulled into a quiet alley, out of sight - and finally got the chance to scream in pain! F****ck that hurt!!!
I quick squizz revealed that thanks to the cushy limb material it landed on, the gixter sustained no damage.
Phew! It means I have been spared the greatest punishment: the wrath of Road Safety Brigadier. If there's no damage, there's no trace, which means I don't have tell him.
My deceit would have been perfect: for days I managed to bravely bear the pain of walking around without limping, on a foot swollen to elephantine propotions.
After day 4, I slowly started relaxing: I was home dry... he need never know what happened between me and the gixter.
Therefore, I almost suffered an apoplexy, when, sitting quitely at my desk on day 4, he suddenly leaned over, did a double take and bellowed: "You have COME OFF THE BIKE!, HAVEN'T YOU?!!"
Shit!
"I DONT BELIEVE YOU!!! YOU HAVE DROPPED MY BIKE, HAVEN'T YOU??!!"...
How on earth..?
It turns out, in the heat of my embarassment and the strain of hiding my foot injury, I didn't realise that I had grazed my elbow.
So there it was: proudly blooming red and accusing, a fresh scab. Damning evidence, sitting on my left elbow like a first prize rosette.
Not only have I been busted - but I've forfeited whatever sympathy mitigation I could have milked from my foot injury, by hiding it for four days!
Wednesday, 2 May 2007
The Mystery of the Bent Spoons....
At the age of six, I was preoccupied with trying to figure out why all the spoons in our house, had mysterious bends and kinks in the handles.
Ofcourse, being six, it didn't occur to me to ask someone - instead I spent many hours cogitating the strange phenomenon, and coming up with several inventive and deeply plausible explanations:
God knew I had been eating green peaches off the tree, and this was a sign from Him that I had better stop, or my insides will be twisted and bent;
OR, someone (probably a witch or something) used our spoons at night, to dig graves for nosy children under our house...
My most overwhelming suspicion, however, was that it had something to do with... my brothers.
For a time, I thought that perhaps only I could see the bendy spoons - since my mum and brothers would sit around the table, spooning their porridge into their mouths, handles askew, as if nothing was amiss.
As far as I was concerned, our household was full of mysterious phenomena: my brothers told me that the garage was off limits, because they were experimenting with radio-active materials that would melt my teeth out of my mouth if I came near it.
The thought of my teeth slowly dripping down my chin in a sticky white, snotty fashion, was enough to keep my mind from even contemplating why THEIR teeth were safe.
It was only after a couple of years, that my curiousity and growing distrust of my brothers gave me enough courage to enter the 'forbidden domain':
After careful planning I decided on a strategy involving several short recce missions into the hallowed ground, in particular on Saturdays, when my brothers would disappear in the early morning and not return for hours.
I also took out some insurance via my nightly prayers, reasoning with God that IF my suspicions were right, and my brothers were conducting Satan's business behind the roll-up doors, I could report on it and thereby ensure a more righteous world for all.
I crawled under a gap in the roll-up door for the first time - and my life has never been the same: nothing I could imagine, could prepare me for what lay between those four walls:
Motorcycles in various stages of decay/rebirth loomed in the darkness - handlebars like huge antelope horns, menacingly gleaming in the dim light.
Every breath of space was heaving with amazing and magical things: grotesque complicated tools and shiny spanners and tubes of vile liquid and ice cream tubs full of hundreds and thousands of bolts and nuts and screws and washers...and my mum's missing cooking pot full of thick, black oil.
And bent spoons.
The air was thick with an intoxicating mix of grease and rubber and petrol and breathing deeply, suddenly it came to me:
My brothers are Gods. This is their palace, and all these godly things are theirs and they know how to use all the magnicifent magic potions and where every one of those hundreds of bolts go...and they were the Benders of Spoons, because they could fix motorcycles and resurrect them from the dead and ride them.
From that moment, I was ready to do whatever rites of passage it took, to raise up the ranks until I was legally allowed in their 'inner sanctum'.
That was how I imagined it.
Reality turned out to be slightly less heroic:
"If you don't LET ME, I AM GOING TO TELL MUM ABOUT THE SPOONS AND HER BRAND NEW TEFLON SAUCEPAN that you've S T O L E N !!"
***
Worked a treat! ;)
Ofcourse, being six, it didn't occur to me to ask someone - instead I spent many hours cogitating the strange phenomenon, and coming up with several inventive and deeply plausible explanations:
God knew I had been eating green peaches off the tree, and this was a sign from Him that I had better stop, or my insides will be twisted and bent;
OR, someone (probably a witch or something) used our spoons at night, to dig graves for nosy children under our house...
My most overwhelming suspicion, however, was that it had something to do with... my brothers.
For a time, I thought that perhaps only I could see the bendy spoons - since my mum and brothers would sit around the table, spooning their porridge into their mouths, handles askew, as if nothing was amiss.
As far as I was concerned, our household was full of mysterious phenomena: my brothers told me that the garage was off limits, because they were experimenting with radio-active materials that would melt my teeth out of my mouth if I came near it.
The thought of my teeth slowly dripping down my chin in a sticky white, snotty fashion, was enough to keep my mind from even contemplating why THEIR teeth were safe.
It was only after a couple of years, that my curiousity and growing distrust of my brothers gave me enough courage to enter the 'forbidden domain':
After careful planning I decided on a strategy involving several short recce missions into the hallowed ground, in particular on Saturdays, when my brothers would disappear in the early morning and not return for hours.
I also took out some insurance via my nightly prayers, reasoning with God that IF my suspicions were right, and my brothers were conducting Satan's business behind the roll-up doors, I could report on it and thereby ensure a more righteous world for all.
***
I crawled under a gap in the roll-up door for the first time - and my life has never been the same: nothing I could imagine, could prepare me for what lay between those four walls:
Motorcycles in various stages of decay/rebirth loomed in the darkness - handlebars like huge antelope horns, menacingly gleaming in the dim light.
Every breath of space was heaving with amazing and magical things: grotesque complicated tools and shiny spanners and tubes of vile liquid and ice cream tubs full of hundreds and thousands of bolts and nuts and screws and washers...and my mum's missing cooking pot full of thick, black oil.
And bent spoons.
The air was thick with an intoxicating mix of grease and rubber and petrol and breathing deeply, suddenly it came to me:
My brothers are Gods. This is their palace, and all these godly things are theirs and they know how to use all the magnicifent magic potions and where every one of those hundreds of bolts go...and they were the Benders of Spoons, because they could fix motorcycles and resurrect them from the dead and ride them.
From that moment, I was ready to do whatever rites of passage it took, to raise up the ranks until I was legally allowed in their 'inner sanctum'.
That was how I imagined it.
Reality turned out to be slightly less heroic:
"If you don't LET ME, I AM GOING TO TELL MUM ABOUT THE SPOONS AND HER BRAND NEW TEFLON SAUCEPAN that you've S T O L E N !!"
***
Worked a treat! ;)
Tuesday, 1 May 2007
When a girl goes to wheelie school - a true story
“The only thing more pointless than spending 2 weeks getting licensed to jump solo from an aircraft at 14,000ft - is to pay for the privilege” - my thoughts, as I was hurtling towards earth at 120mph, abject terror freezing the spit in my throat, praying that none of the 73 possible things that can go wrong, go wrong, in the 40 seconds from now till safe deployment of my parachute...
Which makes you wonder why, at this precise moment, I'm signing an indemnity form for yet another Completely Pointless activity: wheelie school.
Like any sensible girl, I rang before booking: "Can you teach ANYONE to wheelie - even girls...in ONE day?" The voice on the other side didn’t miss a beat: "If you do what you are told, I guarantee you'll do it." came the confident reply.
Easy peasy then.
Things started going horribly wrong from the outset: from the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the students zipping up a set of tasty leathers over a tanned torso, rippling with muscle…
For f* sake! Someone invited Vin Diesel!!
I was fervently hoping that my fellow students would consist mainly of useless, fat old bikers...and at least one without arms, giving me a small chance of not being the WORST PERFORMER of the day. And now THIS?!!
Having a Vin Diesel-lookalike on a course where you’re about to be deeply humiliated, your
very core of timid, useless femaleness exposed – is like having Brad Pitt for a gynaecologist! And I’m not even wearing any MASCARA!!!!
Which makes you wonder why, at this precise moment, I'm signing an indemnity form for yet another Completely Pointless activity: wheelie school.
Like any sensible girl, I rang before booking: "Can you teach ANYONE to wheelie - even girls...in ONE day?" The voice on the other side didn’t miss a beat: "If you do what you are told, I guarantee you'll do it." came the confident reply.
Easy peasy then.
Things started going horribly wrong from the outset: from the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the students zipping up a set of tasty leathers over a tanned torso, rippling with muscle…
For f* sake! Someone invited Vin Diesel!!
I was fervently hoping that my fellow students would consist mainly of useless, fat old bikers...and at least one without arms, giving me a small chance of not being the WORST PERFORMER of the day. And now THIS?!!
Having a Vin Diesel-lookalike on a course where you’re about to be deeply humiliated, your
very core of timid, useless femaleness exposed – is like having Brad Pitt for a gynaecologist! And I’m not even wearing any MASCARA!!!!
I join the huddle of six students gathering around our wheelie guru and god: Jimmy Fireblade. (None of them, I ‘m sad to report, seemed to be missing any arms or legs, so I steeled myself for that familiar “Stupid girl, think you can play with the boys” sinking feeling)
Jimmy talk us through the mechanics of a wheelie and explain his method of teaching in about five minutes flat – and before I can worry whether my bum would look big on a Bandit – we are saddling up!
Jimmy personalises the height for each of our ‘training wheels’ (a nifty mechanism that cuts out the engine if you overdo the lift, avoiding you tipping over backwards). I eye him suspiciously whilst doing the blokes’ bikes – making sure he doesn’t give them some sort of advantage – who knows what these blokes will get up to, to make a girl look dumb!
And off we go! Starting with simple exercises, teaching us throttle control: the aim is to feel, without checking the clocks all the time, where the right revs are – WITHOUT OVERDOING IT. -- Something which seems surprisingly hard for the boys. (I attribute it to too many hours spent over Playboy, exercising their throttle hands too vigorously.)
I, on the other hand, find it hard because of.. well, riding my bike like a girl: 6000rpm on my Duke’s clocks are the equivalent of 2,000ft on my altimeter: only to be reached in veeerrry gentle increments. I have NEVER seen my needle jump from 3,000 to 6,000 skipping all the little numbers in between – and very seldomly in first gear!
I realise soon enough, that 6,000rpm occurs at the point when my butt cheeks start clenching, so holding on to that knowledge, I get the whole clutch, brake, throttle routine down to a tee.
Thankfully, for safety reasons, the closest I ever go to HIM (you know… Mr “If-I-look-THIS-good-moulded-into-leathers-imaginewhat- I-look-like-WITHOUT-them”) or any of the other bikers, is the width of the landing strip. Or just far enough so I can eye them from a distance, frantically checking if they’re progressing any quicker than me.
Jimmy is an exemplary teacher, building up the exercises along with your confidence, and before I know it, my front wheel is doing little baby pops off the road. Heeeeehaaaa!!!
I notice with utter joy, that I was keeping up with the others – and dare I say, even outdoing them on occassion – IN YOUR FACE BOYS!!!
However, as the day wears on, the utter POINTLESSNESS of this starts to register: WHY am I here, on a GOD FORSAKEN airfield, bathed in sweat; crotch pounded numb against the tank, thanks to my throttle hand’s DILIGENT persistence to flick the throttle shut in midair?
My clutch hand is contorted into a permanent claw and my teeth worn down 2mm due to vice-like jaw clenching whilst my mind is locked in a hypnotic rythm:
RELAX YOUR ARMS….. EYES ON THE HORISON…. LET THE BIKE DO THE WORK….. KEEP THE THROTTLE OPEN….. READY?...... DEEP BREATH..…
clutch in…throttle open…clutch out…release brake…front wheel UP! UP!...
F@@@@@@@CCCKKK!!!!
Involuntary flick! Throttle shut. Front wheel CRASHES down… … aaaand again: RELAX YOUR ARMS….. EYES ON THE HORISON….
By now, Mr Diesel could strip naked and do wheelies standing on his head and I wouldn’t pay him the least bit of notice. I have eyes for one man only: Jimmy Fireblade.
He seems to be everywhere at once (quite possible, considering he hares along the airstrip on one wheel at around 140mph!), constantly checking on our progress, riding alongside and giving advice. He even lets us ride pillion whilst he performs the most majestic of wheelies, giving you a very real demonstration of what it should look and feel like.
The most rewarding moment of the day, comes when I execute an almost respectable wheelie and looking up, see a grinning Jimmy watching, giving me the thumbs up. I could die right here, and go to heaven….
At the end of the day, all my fellow students – (what a lovely bunch of chaps!) are happy that they can confidently lift the front wheel in a controlled manner. A couple progressed to bringing it back down gracefully. And I’m happy that my performance was not a disgrace to womenkind.
Back at home, my Duke is waiting patiently under its cover for the daily commute on Monday: boy, have I got a surprise for it!
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