how much smaller it was than his own four hundred. Size matters – it’s a guy thing.
Like my two-fifty, Jamie’s bike was no longer a current model but it was in good nick, with a titanium exhaust can and an after-market steering damper.
Jamie already had his helmet on and the Honda revving as I locked up. I kicked my bike’s engine over and, just to give it half a chance to warm through, took my time shrugging my way into the borrowed backpack containing the nightie and washbag full of bits and pieces that I’d thought Clare might appreciate. As it was, Jamie barely let me get my gloves on before he was away up the drive.
“Prat,” I muttered under my breath. I had no intention of racing him. Not when it meant going hand-to-hand with a load of dopey car drivers in the Monday morning rush-hour, that’s for sure. By the time I reached the top of the drive and pulled out into the stream of traffic on the main road, he was nowhere to be seen.
Maybe it was with the realities of the accident well forward in my mind, but I found myself riding more defensively than usual. A couple of vehicles behind me was a Ford Transit van with two men inside. Nothing sinister in itself, but Clare’s words in the hospital came back and made me twitchy. At the next opportunity I toed the Suzuki down a gear, hit the narrow power band, and hopped three cars further up the line.
I’d just pulled back in when there was a flash of high-beam headlights in my right-hand mirror. Three big bikes came thrashing past a rake of traffic to slot in alongside me with the neatness and precision of jet fighters.
I glanced over automatically. The lead bike was an Aprilia RSV 1000, all dressed up in race replica paintwork that made it look like a cigarette packet on wheels.
Behind that was a two-year-old special edition Ducati 996, with carbon trim on the exhaust can and the fairing.
Bringing up the rear of the tight formation was a sleek Kawasaki ZX-9R in lurid green. The riders were all wearing leathers to suit the bikes and they had their heads turned in my direction but the iridium coating on their visors gave them a completely blank stare. All I could see was my own reflection.
I nodded, the usual friendly acknowledgement of one member of the fraternity to another. They totally ignored the greeting, staring at me for a moment longer. Then, as if at some signal, the trio blasted away down the white line like they were overtaking a slow-moving mule train, leaving me feeling small and pedestrian and ever so slightly insulted in their wake.
***
If I’d bothered to wonder where the three bikers were heading, it didn’t take long for me to find out. About two of them, at least.
When I got to the hospital I found the Ducati and the Kawasaki both in the car park. They had pulled up on either side of Jamie’s machine, dwarfing the little four hundred like schoolground bullies. The Kawasaki rider was still on board. He was big enough for the bike to look small under him. Through the partly open visor I recognised William’s features, cheeks squeezed by the foam padding inside his helmet.
The Ducati rider had dismounted, leaving his own lid perched on top of the tank. There was so much carbon fibre covering the body of the bike it looked like it was covered in tweed.
The rider was small and dapper, in one-piece leathers that were obviously made-to-measure rather than off the peg. He had a thin pencil moustache that circled his chin, and dark hair that was spiked into a blond mini mohican along his crown. I wondered how on earth he kept his hairstyle intact under a helmet when I could never preserve mine.
He was currently standing nose-to-nose with Jamie. He had to rise up on his toes to do so. His back was towards me but their discussion didn’t exactly look friendly.
I ran the Suzuki in alongside them and cut the engine but they hardly seemed to notice me. There was no sign of
Like my two-fifty, Jamie’s bike was no longer a current model but it was in good nick, with a titanium exhaust can and an after-market steering damper.
Jamie already had his helmet on and the Honda revving as I locked up. I kicked my bike’s engine over and, just to give it half a chance to warm through, took my time shrugging my way into the borrowed backpack containing the nightie and washbag full of bits and pieces that I’d thought Clare might appreciate. As it was, Jamie barely let me get my gloves on before he was away up the drive.
“Prat,” I muttered under my breath. I had no intention of racing him. Not when it meant going hand-to-hand with a load of dopey car drivers in the Monday morning rush-hour, that’s for sure. By the time I reached the top of the drive and pulled out into the stream of traffic on the main road, he was nowhere to be seen.
Maybe it was with the realities of the accident well forward in my mind, but I found myself riding more defensively than usual. A couple of vehicles behind me was a Ford Transit van with two men inside. Nothing sinister in itself, but Clare’s words in the hospital came back and made me twitchy. At the next opportunity I toed the Suzuki down a gear, hit the narrow power band, and hopped three cars further up the line.
I’d just pulled back in when there was a flash of high-beam headlights in my right-hand mirror. Three big bikes came thrashing past a rake of traffic to slot in alongside me with the neatness and precision of jet fighters.
I glanced over automatically. The lead bike was an Aprilia RSV 1000, all dressed up in race replica paintwork that made it look like a cigarette packet on wheels.
Behind that was a two-year-old special edition Ducati 996, with carbon trim on the exhaust can and the fairing.
Bringing up the rear of the tight formation was a sleek Kawasaki ZX-9R in lurid green. The riders were all wearing leathers to suit the bikes and they had their heads turned in my direction but the iridium coating on their visors gave them a completely blank stare. All I could see was my own reflection.
I nodded, the usual friendly acknowledgement of one member of the fraternity to another. They totally ignored the greeting, staring at me for a moment longer. Then, as if at some signal, the trio blasted away down the white line like they were overtaking a slow-moving mule train, leaving me feeling small and pedestrian and ever so slightly insulted in their wake.
***
If I’d bothered to wonder where the three bikers were heading, it didn’t take long for me to find out. About two of them, at least.
When I got to the hospital I found the Ducati and the Kawasaki both in the car park. They had pulled up on either side of Jamie’s machine, dwarfing the little four hundred like schoolground bullies. The Kawasaki rider was still on board. He was big enough for the bike to look small under him. Through the partly open visor I recognised William’s features, cheeks squeezed by the foam padding inside his helmet.
The Ducati rider had dismounted, leaving his own lid perched on top of the tank. There was so much carbon fibre covering the body of the bike it looked like it was covered in tweed.
The rider was small and dapper, in one-piece leathers that were obviously made-to-measure rather than off the peg. He had a thin pencil moustache that circled his chin, and dark hair that was spiked into a blond mini mohican along his crown. I wondered how on earth he kept his hairstyle intact under a helmet when I could never preserve mine.
He was currently standing nose-to-nose with Jamie. He had to rise up on his toes to do so. His back was towards me but their discussion didn’t exactly look friendly.
I ran the Suzuki in alongside them and cut the engine but they hardly seemed to notice me. There was no sign of
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