Wheels

In June 1976, I was four years old and living in Bangor, Northern Ireland. The country was enveloped in an oppressive heat haze; driven by a combination of burning Ulsterbuses, exploding petrol bombs, and a record-breaking summer.

Our driveway was developing a treacle-like sheen from the midday sun, as I circled around Action Man on my little red scooter, sweat glistening off my tanned skin. Julie, my six-year-old sister was merrily wheeling her bike up to the black gates at the top of the slope.

‘TING-A-LING-A-Linggggg…. here I come little brother, ready or not,’ she called.

Her sun-bleached ponytail began to bob from side to side, as she came peddling down towards me through the heat haze like a mirage. Nearing the bottom of the hill, Julie’s eyes suddenly widened, her playful smile turning to a grimace as the bike tires bounced awkwardly over my Action Man.

Flying over the handlebars like a ragdoll, her hands and knees scraped over the melty ground, filling her torn skin with grit. Goldie the Labrador next door, lifted his ears as she screamed, then took a much-needed lick from his water bowl. My mother promptly appeared, scooped Julie up, and whisked her away for emergency repairs. She would soon be covered in pink Germaline. There would be more screams.

Sensing an opportunity, I grabbed her bike and wheeled it up the drive. Sitting awkwardly on a bike too large for me, I scrambled for the pedals and set off down the hill. Making it halfway, I fell off to the side and bumped my head; no helmets in those days! Back up again… Off! Again… Off! I was starting to bake and in desperate need of a lolly. Just once more, I thought, looking down the slope. Gathering speed, my legs began to pump like pistons as my heart clickety clacked like the Flying Scotsman. I was doing it!

For my tenth birthday, my parents bought me a brand-new bike. It was called a ‘Grifter’ and it was black and red. I had always wanted a BMX but my parents thought they were too dangerous. This made no sense at all. My new bike had three gears, one of which would propel me down a hill at 30 MPH — and still no helmet!

My friends Alan and Rod had Grifters too and we would ride in the street together. We practiced wheelies and skids. Dad was always moaning, because my tires would go bald and puncture frequently, costing him money. One day, we decided to find materials to build a ramp.

In summer, there was a field at the bottom of our street full of scrap wood, donated by locals for the 11th July bonfire. If you got caught thieving it would mean a hiding or a stinging shot in the legs from a rubber band gun; made by stretching a washing machine belt tightly over a notched lump of wood. Alan was Catholic, so he would always take the brunt. Praying no one would see us, we grabbed a large plank and scarpered.

At the time, there was a motorcycle stuntman called Eddie Kid. He was famous for jumping over cars and buses. I said to my friends I wanted to have a go at something similar, but I would need a couple of willing volunteers to assist.

Resting the plank on top of some breeze blocks, which we had ‘borrowed,’ from a nearby building site, I lined myself up at the top of the hill.

‘Are you ready then?’ I shouted.

‘You better not bloody hit us, I swear…,’ Rod replied.

I pushed off with my foot, clunked into third gear, then peddled hard. Racing forwards, I could see my friend's legs poking out from behind the ramp where they both lay side by side, in trepidation of my dramatic flyby. I would be famous I thought to myself; well…in my street at least.

‘FUUCCCKKK!’ I yelled.

As the ramp collapsed, the huge cement bricks tumbled over my mate’s bodies.

‘AAARGGHH! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!’ they shouted, as I flew overhead.

Swimming manically through the air, I remembered how the stuntmen fell on television. Hitting the ground sideways I rolled over and over, eventually coming to a stop facing the ground. I was aching from head to toe with cuts and bruises but luckily, no broken bones. My friends forgave me after a few days but were a little less daring from then on. We had been lucky; Eddie Kidd was crippled by a motorcycle jump only a few years later.

In fourth year at secondary school, I had a friend whose birth name was the subject of constant ridicule and torment. Richard Gay, or ‘Gayso’ to his mates, was into racing bikes, like the ones they used in the Tour De France. His was called a Motobecane. It was French made and had an unusual aerodynamic frame. He would whip past me in the mornings, on the way to school and yell ‘SLOWCOACH!’ as I pedaled along on my scratched Grifter. Time for a new set of wheels.

After repeated hints to my parents, they succumbed on my fifteenth birthday and bought me a proper racing bike. It was called a Peugeot; like the car. It had twenty-one gears and dropped handlebars. Eager to show it off to Gayso, I cycled to his house a few miles away. The speed I could achieve down hills in high gear was ridiculous. I was almost keeping up with cars! A few weeks later with my newfound lust for speed, Gayso persuaded me to join the North Down Cycling Club, where he was a member.

My first ride with the club was on a weekend youth hostel trip to Newcastle. Straddling my bike in our club's colors, which consisted of a pink lycra top and matching shorts, I waited nervously as thirty other cyclists prepared to ride off in harmony.

‘Are you ready for this?’ Gayso asked.

‘Yeh, no sweat mate,’ I replied.

But I wasn’t ready at all. I had no experience riding in a group, or ‘peloton’, as my friend called it.

‘We should stick at the back for now, until ye get the hang of it like. Don’t worry, they won’t go too fast yet. This is just a wee warmup for tomorrow's hill climb.’ Gayso said.

Hill climb, I thought to myself. That sounds a bit tough!

After a few tentative miles, my nerves faded, and I began to creep into the peloton.

‘WHEELS!’ someone yelled at me

‘What?’ I replied.

Suddenly, my handlebars started pulling to one side. I looked down and saw that my tire was rubbing with another cyclist’s.

‘Shite, sorry mate,’ I said.

He grunted what sounded like ‘fuckin’ beginners,’ before moving further into the pack. This was my first valuable lesson, and I soon learned that it wasn’t just me making mistakes either. Shouts of ‘WHEELS!’, ‘ARSEHOLE!’ and ‘LOOK WHERE YER GOIN’ YEH BLIND BASTARD!’ were plentiful. I began to feel like part of the group.

Five miles from Newcastle, two club members, Joe, and Aaron, had their hands on my back and were pushing me along. I felt very strange. I still had plenty of puff but my legs didn’t want to work anymore.

‘You’ve got the knock,’ Joe said

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘It’s when your legs give up without your permission. Don’t worry mate, you can cycle through it so you can. Trust me.’

When we arrived at the hostel, I dismounted my bike and suddenly found I had jellied eels for legs. The club leader announced that we could go into Newcastle for the evening, as long as we were back by ten for lights out.

‘You need a beer,’ Joe said, ‘It’ll help recovery.’

‘Umm…yeh,’ I laughed.

I was wondering if he was being serious.

Me, Joe, Gayso, and Aaron all headed into Newcastle together. My legs were still a bit wobbly. Joe, who was sixteen but looked older, took some money from us all and went into an off license. He came out with two packs of Tenants Lager, which had pictures of girls in sexy underwear on them. We sat on the beach, admiring the girls on the tins while we drank. Joe lit up a cigarette.

‘Helps the lungs,’ he said.

Thinking over Joe’s unusual training routines, I tipped the silkily dressed ‘Violet,’ sideways and filled my mouth with beer.

The next morning, after gorging ourselves with copious amounts of porridge, we were back on the open road again. Thirty miles in, I was riding confidently within the peloton, my legs feeling surprisingly fresh. Perhaps Joe was onto something after all.

I was impressed at how all the riders communicated with each other to keep the formation together…

‘CAR COMIN!’, ‘SIDE DITCH!’, ‘KEEP LEFT!’, ‘DROP SPEED,’ they shouted.

‘WHEELS!’ I added, looking at Joe, who smiled and nodded in respect. I felt honored to be part of the group. We cycled eighty miles that day. The hill climbs were ok as long as you stayed in low gear. I was loving it.

Along the route home to Bangor on our last day, I was involved in two incidents. Approaching the villages, some riders would split from the main group and race each other to the 30 MPH signs. One mile out from Portavogie, I surprised the lot of them…

‘WHERE THE HELL D’YA THINK YOU’RE GOIN’!’ Joe yelled as I took off.

So much for gaining his respect, I thought.

Countless expletives began to fade into the distance, as I pumped the pedals as hard as I could. Pure adrenaline had taken over my sanity. They caught me just meters from the sign, jubilant at their success but visibly knackered. The lactic acid was burning through my legs like skewered meat on a barbecue. But it felt good.

‘Nice try, dickhead,’ Gayso laughed, as I desperately drained my water bottle.

Just a few miles from home, Aaron’s tire punctured. We pulled over to the side of the road so he could repair it. I dragged my aching legs off the bike onto what I thought was some firm ground covered in thick grass.

‘AAAARRGGGGHHH!’ I shouted.

Without time to react, I tumbled with my bike into a deep ditch full of stinging nettles. It felt like the school nurse had gone berserk with a hypodermic all over my body. Unfortunately, my lycra provided no defense against the stings. Gayso and Joe pulled me out with wide grins on their faces. Karma, I guessed.

When I arrived home, my mother was delighted to see me home in one piece.

‘Let me get a wee photo of ye on your bike son,’ she said.

I held my handlebars in a racing position while resting my exhausted body on the back fence to keep me from falling off.

‘Smile!’

The photo still sits proudly on my parent’s mantlepiece thirty-five years later.

At sixteen, I started hanging around with ‘Scotty.’ He was one of those kids who never seemed to grow very quickly and tended to get picked on at school. I stuck up for him and in return he would offer me cigarettes. We had lots in common and both enjoyed heavy metal and guitars. One day he invited me to his parents’ house in the sticks…

I rang the doorbell and heard a bark. Oh no, I thought to myself, I hate dogs. As the door opened, a white pile of fur scurried towards my legs. To my relief, it was completely harmless. It was a Scottish Terrier.

‘Yes I know,’ my friend said, rolling his eyes at me ‘It’s a Scotty dog! Come on in.’

As I stepped inside the hallway, an aroma of freshly baked bread permeated the air. The kitchen door opened.

‘Hi Mum, this is Simon,’ Scotty said.

A woman appeared, wearing a short red summer dress. She had bright red lipstick and her hair was in pigtails. I went red. Oh, Christ, I thought to myself, I fancy my best mate's mum!

‘Hi boys, are you goin’ out on the bike today? Your dad filled it up last night.’ She said.

What bike? I thought, filled what up?

‘Brilliant,’ Scotty replied, and turned to me, ‘let’s go for a ride.’

In the back garden, there were a bright green motorbike standing upright on the patio, sun glinting off the petrol tank. Scotty grabbed two open-faced crash helmets from a bench and handed me one. He swung his leg over the bike, grabbed the throttle, and stomped down on the kick starter. A great metallic roar echoed as grey smoke puffed out from the exhaust.

‘Jump on then,’ he shouted.

I slipped behind him, put my feet up on the foot pegs, and held the seat strap. When he twisted the throttle the bike lurched forward and almost threw me off. I strengthened my grip.

Soon, we were racing down a narrow country lane. I leaned over Scotty’s shoulder to look ahead. The wind rippled the skin on my face as hedges whizzed past on both sides of the road. It was like speeding through a tunnel of leaves.

‘Hold on really tightly now,’ he called to me.

Why? I thought to myself, are we going over a jump?

As we passed a farm, a huge Alsatian, teeth bared from ear to ear, came running out of the driveway like a bullet on four legs.

‘GO! GO! GO!’ I yelled in a panic.

My heart jumped as Scotty pulled the throttle open. The country lane was bumpy, causing the bike to jolt around. As I glanced back at the rabid dog, it was closing in on my ankles. Suddenly we hit smooth ground and began to accelerate away. The dog stopped, then gave me one last evil stare with its teeth bared as it turned to the farm. I started laughing uncontrollably, adrenaline seeping through my pores. What a rush! I thought to myself.

My first attempt to ride solo almost ended in catastrophe. While concentrating hard on the gear changes, I inadvertently pulled the throttle fully open, shooting out of Scotty’s driveway in front of a passing tractor. I was beginning to wonder how many lives I had left. It wasn’t long before I mastered it though, and just like the old days on my Grifter, I was lifting the front wheel to the sky and speeding off down the road.

On my seventeenth birthday, I was overjoyed when my parents presented me with a Honda motorbike. It came with a black leather jacket and a crimson helmet covered in flames. Over the years the bike became an integral part of me. I went on bike rallies, dated some bike chicks, and even had the odd crash. I was always more concerned about the dents on my petrol tank than the ones on my body. Eventually, my bike and I parted ways. It was time for a change of wheels again, and my very first car. That’s another story….

*

Originally published at https://medium.com/the-lark/wheels-dd577676ff57