My Perfect Biking Weekend
“Ditchling Beacon’s steep curves, the back roads across the bottom of the Downs and my personal favourite, a short but sweeping road with a roundabout at either end for repeat thrills which brings race-track levels of satisfaction and adrenaline rush” A late summer Saturday evening and I’ve ridden over to my best mate’s flat to get changed for a night out. Transformation from biker bird to rock chick complete, we stride out in a dark, gothic fashion to Brighton and our favourite rock club. In town the Paul Smith trendies stare at these leather and PVC-clad apparitions dripping in silver jewellery and black make-up earning glares and sharp expletives from their tottering female companions.
We breeze in past the bouncers who give a familiar sideways smile and an appreciative nod as we enter. Inside we drink, dance and flirt outrageously fuelled by cheap whisky and lemonade and a buzzing atmosphere. 1:30am: laughing, we leave the club and run for the night bus, once again drawing stares from stuffed tuxes; sniffs and raised eyebrows from their coiffed and powdered ladies as two big-booted blurs topped with big grins streak past.
After a queasy-for-some ride home we arrive back in our town and stroll arm in arm to her flat discussing what we’ll do on Sunday, although I already know. Rounding the final corner the usual feeling of relief washes over me as I spy my bike, still there, waiting patiently in the orange street lights for morning. I pat it on the headlight and wish it a drunken goodnight.
Morning dawns breezy but fair so I stretch, crawl out of bed and wake my friend with an irritatingly perky smile and a conciliatory coffee. A dishevelled mop of blonde hair emerges from under the duvet and grunts in submission. Once full of caffeine and nicotine, she grudgingly gets dressed. I bound down the stairs and start the bike as she thuds down yawning.
Engine warm and pretty pillion in situ, I give it some revs to wake the neighbours and pull away smiling in anticipation. Deep down I mock myself but I can’t help but look in shop windows at my customised Hornet and yell over my shoulder that we look great! She grins and nods.
Taking the quick, boring route back down to the seafront to blow out the Sunday morning cobwebs, I filter through the light traffic with the other biking junkies, stopping at the lights to exchange nods and a few words. While they try not to stare at the two girls on a bike I take advantage and shoot off as the lights change, laughing. Bruised male egos catch up at the next set, braced for the go. We laugh, stick out tongues out and do it again.
Gender rivalry aside, we all arrive at the blustery seafront in good humour, park up and wander round the bikes together. Hands in pockets, scarves whipped by the breeze we talk bikes and bullshit while my friend glazes over. Not a Sunday person. Parting as equals and mates, she and I wander off to the pier in search of more coffee.
Clouds race over the pallid sun and the temperature plummets. We eat the obligatory candy-floss walking backwards into the wind towards the bike. I head in the vague direction of home taking in my favourite roads; familiar and not too challenging. Ditchling Beacon’s steep curves, the back roads across the bottom of the Downs and my personal favourite, a short but sweeping road with a roundabout at either end for repeat thrills which brings race-track levels of satisfaction and adrenaline rush. To finish, I hurl us down the last long straight towards home winding the bike to its screaming limit in four gears before I run out of road.
Pootling through town towards the flat, I get a tap on the shoulder, “I know it’s cold and I’m tired, but that was great! Can we do it again?”