| Loneliness of the Long Distance Biker
- Excerpt 3 |
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When someone like Deborah alights
in your life it's like a Gad Fly standing on the surface of
water. So free is her spirit, that five minutes after she's
gone, you are no longer sure if she was ever there. I sort of
knew that instantly. By Boot we were best friends, after the
event I was sure we'd probably not meet again. By Oban, the
next day, she was preparing to ride with one of the crew. By
the time I'd paid the bill at our usual hotel, Corran House
and then sorted out the riders, I was, as usual, the last man
to be ready. So the girls could talk knowledgably about motorcycling
it was agreed they be given a ride, and today's journey was
in my opinion one of the best short routes in the world. Robin
had already briefed Helena for 20 minutes, telling her how she
should react if distressed and quite how to sit and ride. My
briefing to Deborah was along the lines of 'hold on like fuck
and DO NOT complain'. For seven hours she sat head and shoulders
above me on the back of my R1 before finally relenting and asked
me if she could rest her legs on my knees as we travelled along.
Early on we sped towards Fort William on roads that allowed
me to catch up the back markers. It drizzled during the morning
but soon the sun came out and as we headed into the west coast
countryside. The views were pleasant enough and the sun and
scattered showers made for a variety of weather that was very
agreeable. I hadn't taken a
pillion with me very often, Hennie couldn't get away from the
children and it seemed somehow not right to ride with another
woman if she was unable to be there herself. After our last
conversation, I decided that now was as good a time as any to
try and feel separated. Why the hell not? She didn't want me
anymore. I had served my purpose and was cast in the role of
a Salmon having spawned, and was now destined to swim upstream
to die. In time I would drift back into the sea and be flung
about by the tide until I floated on the surface belly up. My
skin would go all white, and icky stuff would ooze out of my
mouth and nose. Pity that. The pain was awfully acute, and whilst
it would take many months to continue to get over it (if I ever
could), I decided that as long as there was someone with nice
soft breasts to land on, it's a pain I could bare. So by midday
at Badachro, with me and Deborah lounging in the leather seats
in the Badachro Inn's conservatory over looking the harbour,
the process that would marshal any long term emotional damage
into the nearest bin was thrust upon me.
"Nice bike," she said, after being quiet for most
of the journey, "it feels really nice, do you know what
I mean?" I wasn't exactly sure, and rather presumed she
really did like the bike. Excuse me, but for seven months your
wife says she doesn't want you and then a 26-year-old lingerie
model says she does, what do you do? Well, as a Catholic I'd
struggle, so not being one that eliminated the need for guilt.
As an arch Lutheran / Protestant work ethic orientated socially
aware capitalist, I reckoned that my good works had brought
me the success God
intended and this was my small reward. As a Manchester lad with
a snotty nose you don't say no to nowt. As a man whose tongue
was hanging down to his turn-ups, I suffered immediate paralysis
of any part of my brain, which disagreed with the word 'yes'.
A final quick checklist took me over the ethics barrier: I am
not a monk; member of the Plymouth Brethren; I do like sleeping
with girls and especially like woman in nice underwear. Bingo.
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