A Spirited Ride

Author Bio:

Adam Bright, U.K.

Extended teenager. Successful fritterer of money. Happy.

A Spirited Ride

I am sitting here, tapping away at a laptop that the me that this happened to wouldn’t possibly believe could exist… perhaps at some future point, this won’t seem so utterly bizarre and fanciful, but part of the normal flow of human life.
I should also make it totally clear that ALL of this happened to me, just not necessarily in the order that you read it. Who wants to read a dull story of haircuts and arguing with bosses? I have a really bad record with both. I have a strangely shaped head, hair like wire, thick wire and a terrible relationship with both authority and tedium. Some say its ADHD, I maintain it’s a total intolerance of fools.
This all happened in the late 80’s, and early 90’s, and as I say, not all in the exact order you read it, so don’t expect a follow up story, this is it. I am no Foggy, if you know who this is, you know how old I am!
Coming from a long line of deeply odd people, none of this seemed at all strange, well a bit strange, but it really only seemed odd when I told other people.
We used to do lots of rallies, a great many of them. Back then there was one every weekend, all year, but this one we were invited to, which made it special; we were easily pleased.
Wales, this part of it, was about 160 miles for me. 160 miles on a hardtail chop is a little like being punched in the kidneys 20 times a minute. Lower the tyre pressure enough to give a little comfort to the ride means there are interesting times ahead when twisty roads appear. The bike I was riding was built to look pretty, and it did look pretty, if you like that kind of thing. Most bikers ride things straight out of the factory, sometimes with some pretty anodized parts added, or maybe some stickier tyres. My bike had an almost standard engine, everything else had been sourced, made, or forced to fit the dream of a low rider, but with a Japanese engine, as riding with my right leg avoiding a big lumpy carb was not for me. I had discovered that I was not an American bike fan a few years earlier. I had taken one out and had what was meant to be a long test ride. This was meant to be a full day, I made half an hour, this included a coffee to calm my nerves. (please note; I use “coffee” to cover a multitude of sins, sometimes it means coffee, sometimes it doesn’t, this was a particularly calming coffee) It was not the hog riding experience I was expecting.
I knew that it would not be entering hyperspace, but the reality was worse than I could have expected, it started with the motorised version of a coughing fit, followed by a farting chorus, none of which boded well. Apparently, these were signs of a “tuned” engine. American bikes seem to make very little power, or torque, they make a sound like they are just about to make some power, but never follow through, they just grumble and fuck about. I thought this was the worst of it, I was very wrong, in the worst way.
First there was the brakes, they were called that, they were even where real brakes should be, but they only provided psychological support, actual retardation, nope.
So I came thumping and whuffling up to the first island, at what I thought was a respectable pace, not fast by any stretch of the imagination, even an accountants imagination, it was still more than the massive, heavy lump of crap could deal with. I pulled the brake lever, nothing happened, the forks didn’t dip, nothing. I pulled until my forearm pumped up and stamped on the back brake, slowly it got under control, ish. I knew I was going too fast, anything above a healthy jogging pace would have been too much. As I entered the island my sphincter grabbed the seat with all of its might, I leaned over, counter steered with everything I had and the bike went over, a little bit. Then scrape, everything started grinding away. Could I get round in my lane? No, but I managed to avoid hitting the kerb, by millimetres. I sat at the side of the road having a “quick coffee” and decided that this hog was definitely not for me.
The bike I ended up with looked like it shouldn’t handle, or stop, or go fast. It did two of the three, the important two.
At the time I was seeing a (well out of my league) biker girl, with her own bike, and a death wish as soon as she got on a bike. She was 160cm of filth, she looked like a princess, an Italian princess, olive skin, which tanned the second the sun hit it. Her eyes so dark they appeared to be all black. Everything about the way her face was perfectly symmetrically arranged, exuded an air of untouchable beauty.
Her body on the other hand was VERY touchable, just writing this, thirty years on, makes my trousers uncomfortable. Back Street Heroes used to have gorgeous biker centrefolds, which was OK back then. She could walk into a room full of them, and still people would stare. She was slim, lithe, tautly muscled, but still curvy. Her muscles were usually hidden under tight black leathers, her hair tied back, curls tamed and hidden down the back of her jacket. You would never miss her, she had the tastes of a princess too, only the best, and lots of it.
This was a winter rally, December is not the greatest time for bikers, but we were invited, so we went, six of us, four men, two women. The surplus chaps were both besotted with my girlfriend, she just flirted with them, she loved to see unrequited love, particularly when she was the one doing the unrequiting, and she sure tortured them.
This is where the rally comes in, we arrived at the farm that had a big barn and some flat fields, flattish fields, and three very old portaloo cabins. There were some Paddington hard stares coming my way, apparently, this was not a suitable venue! We were taciturnly directed by the farmer, well, he pointed a stick, and we slithered around a cow shit infested mud track, trying to stay on our bikes, as falling off in front of a load of bikers did not appeal. Happily arriving in one piece at the pitches and barn. Bob, the least affected by balance had stayed on, but now had to go back and fetch the tents he had dislodged when they brushed past an obvious, and spiky hedge.
Campsite can mean many things, starting at a vaguely flat field with only a few cows in it, up to heated showers, working toilets, with lights, carefully levelled pitches, and a lovely bar. This one was at the lower end of the scale, it was muddy, but the pitches were almost level, there were portaloo toilets but no showers, or running water of any kind. The bar, however, was awesome. A huge old barn, centrally heated, a non-flushing, but they moved the hole quite regularly, toilet, and several cask ales primed and ready to go. The place was huge with space for the bands and everyone that was going to party there all night. These things tended to go through Friday night all day Saturday, and home sometime on Sunday.
As we arrived early it was decided that we were stopping close to the beer and music, this seemed reasonable, at the time, before hundreds more bikers arrived and started drinking. It would have been, but Bob had managed to rip one of the tents as he dragged it along the hedge, our tent! We decided that we would head off to the hotel down the road and get a room, then come back in the morning, once we had heard the first band, and had a lovely relaxing “coffee”.
The band was fantastic, I was astonished when a few years later their best song of the set turned up on the opening titles of a hit tv show. I had enjoyed being part of a hardcore fan base with “our” band.
It was time to leave the rally site for the night, if we left it any later the owners would just pretend not to hear us and stay in bed. It had not been a major struggle to convince her that we should stop in the hotel, for all of her biker vibe, she preferred a real bed, not the farts, belches, and snoring of two hundred very drunk bikers. Plus where we were, the bands, and the ever present danger of a big hairy bloke falling onto your tent while you sleep, was not what she wanted.
The hotel turned out to be a significant part of an old castle, there was still an ancient arch as an entrance to the hotel, the car park and the drive was gravel, very satisfying and plush if you arrive in a car, a final challenge in a challenging day for me that night. My bike tried once again to break free of me, and be off. It was dark, but the owners had set some sodium spotlights against the walls, throwing yellow light along the stones windows and lintels; this was perfect against the aged and rough stone. The door and entrance were shining and bright in the gloom and shadows of the car park. Up to this point I thought we were gong to be stopping at a little local hotel, a glorified B&B, a pub with airs and graces above its station. I had stopped at one of these a coupe of weeks before in deepest West Wales, it will always stay with me, as they had a specials board that, amongst other treats, listed “soop”. I sat and looked, letting my imagination run away, then I got it, soup! The owner had been very gracious though, and it had been lovely soop.
I have always been a bit prone to an active imagination, and suddenly, as we stood beside our bikes this place felt wrong, nothing changed, outwardly, but I had felt the tingle of being seen by someone I would rather hadn’t. This wasn’t a new feeling, not at all, but it had only been the last few years that I had learned to isolate it, and its non-identical twin, the one I didn’t mind being spotted by.
I said nothing, she was not overly open to anything she couldn’t touch, so no need to worry her with this. The reception was super cool, no huge desk with an orange person sat behind it smiling like their lips are super glued to their gums. This was a beautiful desk, set against the wall with a bell on it. As directed by the sign, I rang the bell and signed in at the desk. A woman arrived, like Mr. Benn, but in a frock, and informed us there was a room available, and would we like dinner? She asked for my card and took the room rate before telling me the cost; it was not pretty. Spending that much on a room seemed a bit over the top, but I didn’t complain, there was apparently a four poster bed, whoop!
Once they were sure that they were aware that the only clothes we had with us were what we stood up in, and they had assured us that they would not throw us out of the dining room, the table was booked.
Sure enough, the room was exactly what I expected, double four poster, antique, so too short for me, it was going to be a cold toes night. I had also inpected the strangely cold parts of the rooms, not freezing you on the spot cold, but noticeable, even by normos; people that never saw anything odd…and unpleasant.
While she rushed into the bathroom and turned the shower on full flow and so hot that Lobsters would have blushed, I sat on the soft bed and asked whoever was there to leave us alone please. This did not have the desired effect, far from it, I heard a growling noise from the other side of the bed, and could see my breath now, suddenly the growling stopped and the room warmed up in a heartbeat. She slinked out of the bathroom with her long black hair wrapped up in a towel, just the towel. We were a little late for our dinner booking!
We sat at the table, antique again, little of the furniture matched the piece next to it, but it all felt right in the setting, dark, heavy, and comforting, like sitting in my great grandmas front (best) room. It always smelled of polish, wax, and the ghosts of two hundred years of winter fires, the waiter brought our drinks across.
My pint snuggled up to her red wine, doing exactly what you would expect two glasses of booze to do, not that you have ever thought about it, nothing at all. It’s really easy to become complacent about things like that, you don’t even notice, it becomes the way things should be, as they have always been. Then one day, you are sitting in an hotel, about to enjoy a lovely cool pint, and bam! You get reminded that it isn’t always so.
My pint lifted itself up from the table top, it didn’t slide along, it lifted straight up, a good three centimetres, and then moved towards us. It didn’t fly across, it didn’t hang in the air creeping along, it lifted up, and came across the table, at the speed of someone unhurriedly bringing you a drink. Once it arrived it tipped itself over just me. She avoided any of it, bone dry, I had two thirds of a pint mainly in my groin. The waiter appeared, they were all into this Mr. Benn, creeping about silently thing, most disconcerting. “Would you like another drink Sir?” his eyebrow lifted just a gnats ball, just enough so that I knew that he knew, but we were not about to openly acknowledge it.
“Yes please, just a half, I am wet enough” She totally ignored what had just happened. As far as she was concerned, I had spilled my drink, and I was super clumsy. As I mentioned, she refused to see the things that happened in front of her, “normos” do this, it makes them happy to ignore anything that doesn’t fit with their philosophy. I like to think that I see and feel what is really there. We had an uneventful dinner, the steak didn’t re-animate or anything, even the coffee behaved.
Our room was up one flight of stairs, they were epic stairs too, wide, with a strip of warm, red, carpet guiding you. Like the emergency floor lights on a plane and splitting just before the landing, allowing a perfect view, when you turned round, of the reception and bar area below. Nothing else had happened, nobody had tried to talk to me, so she didn’t have to pretend not to hear it, we might have been going to have a scare free night.
This was a mistaken belief.
I opened the door and noticed they had popped a fruit basket in the room, along with a couple of bottles of fizzy water, very nice, they were all coming with me in the morning. She jumped onto the bed, I followed her and prepared for round two. As she glanced to where the bowl was, it lifted up (can you guess what’s coming?) and came across the room at me, not her and landed in my still slightly soggy lap.
She could not ignore this, but she thanked me for the apple, then found a banana. Eventually we fell asleep. At around three in the morning, she nudged me awake.
“What is that?” she genuinely looked nervous, there was what sounded like children running up and down the corridor.
“Let’s go and check, when I went, they must have hidden”
The penny dropped, the hotel was called The Royal Children.
I went over to the door and beckoned her to join me. I whispered “I will open the door, and we will both look out, you left, me right, there is no way they can escape then”
I opened the door, as I expected, nobody, but unexpectedly the noises continued, sounding like they were disappearing to the left, but there was nothing above the sound of footsteps. She went completely white, which is a good trick with skin her colour, and shook her head.
“That can’t happen, there were children playing, there were the noises of children playing, where are the fucking children?”
This was the tone that could result in some pretty heavy slaps if the answer displeased her, she looked like an Angel, but bantered and played like a Demon.
I looked down the corridor, now I knew what we were dealing with I was not scared, just happy that she had witnessed something, at last.
“Come on, come out, we aren’t here to scare you” I spoke using what my boy, years later, would call my Jedi voice, it was calm, quiet, but incredibly hard to resist.
Two little heads poked out of one of the closed doorways. Hoping that her acceptance would continue, I pointed at the children, her mouth dropped open, and she turned a totally new colour, pasty, but green, with a hint of blue. I waved to them, they waved back, started to laugh then shot back into the room. All bloody night the children kicked a centuries rotten ball at the door, laughed, and occasionally pulled the bed sheets down; basically behaving like two kids with a new playmate.
We didn’t mention any of this when we got up and went for a fantastic breakfast, we mainly wondered what the others were eating, back at the cold windswept, and after last nights storm, wet campsite. The rain had stopped now, and once the sun warmed the air enough, winter sun exists, even in Wales, but it is never overly warm, we set off to see the soggy four.
On the way out, I paid for dinner, noticed that my first pint was not on the bill and smiled, not at spending money, I hate that; but that it seemed children related japes were not paid for.
“I wonder if you know who the children that were running about upstairs belong to, do you? They were at it all night”; a perfect eyebrow was raised by the dapper older chap who was taking my money off of me.
“We have no children booked in at the hotel at the moment Sir, but I was almost certain you were aware of that”. We smiled, and we put the very kindly warmed and dried jackets on.
“We all hope we will see you again Sir?” the question pointed but well meant. I knew who ‘all’ included and was glad to know they always had someone to play with.
The bike started seventh or eighth time, I had built the loom, and it had some rather difficult to trace electrical issues, rain being the largest stress tester.
We rode back to the campsite, surrounded by fields threading the bike along the narrow strip of road between the hedges. We were both, I think, letting the oddness of last night be examined, absorbed, filed and put safely away.
The others were still soggy, decidedly cold, and out of beer, it looked like we had been warmer, but more haunted. We settled down to properly attempt to drain the bar in the barn. Soon enough the bonfire was lit, the Saturday bands arrived and started banging out the tunes, nobody did anything too strange, and she never mentioned the spooky night.
We went home on the Sunday morning, beery breath looking for bacon, maybe sausage, but definitely lots of coffee.
After a weekend like this, we had developed a habit of meeting up at our local pub for something decent to eat, that didn’t come between two slices of bread. We chatted about the barn, the drunken rev limiter bouncing by those with that sort of bike, mine would have just tangled its valves and needed bringing home in a van. And the obligatory drunken biker jousting. I went to start a conversation about our night, but she put her hand on mine and made the tiniest gesture of “no, don’t share that” so I let it sink without drama, replaced by the deeply important “why can’t we have two stomachs, a savoury, and a sweet one”.
We never spoke of it again, the ghosts, not the two stomachs, I tried, but she wouldn’t join in, and after a few months it slipped from our thoughts. She too slipped away, but with no rancour on either side, OK, a bit from me, and life went on, I still haven’t gone back to the hotel, I would do, but some memories are probably best left there, in the past.