Chapter - 3

When I first met Eddie
he was packing a black and gold ltd editition Gixer 750H, sported a moustache only he and Freddie Mercury could get away with (though in Eddie’s case it was not a statement of his sexuality) and the propensity to swear and smoke more than any one person I had ever encountered . This endeared me to the man, he was just a normal geezer at heart who lived for bikes and resolutely refused to ride them slowly. He came in once and announced that he had got away with flashing a police car with his main beam ‘to get the fuck outta the way’ at over 100mph. Like most motorists with a high powered missile up their arse, they did, it was only then when Ed cruise missiled past did he realize it was the fuzz, but he just carried on, he was after all late for work. I’m still not quite sure to this day whether this is the bare faced truth of it or when it was first recounted loaded with embellishment. However it was a cracking story that further cemented the nascent bonding process, it was official. ………..Fast Eddie!

Phil had owned his TL for approximately two years, so he was sorted. I had owned a VTR Firestorm and trackdayed it a little and then flogged it to lie in wait for my next purchase. The mighty TLR.

Eddie the flash git had a 916, went to China for two years work related, came back and bought a ZX6R J1 then flogged it to buy his TLR. A little red number sporting the ubiquitous race cans from Kerker.

I knew one would come up for me, it was just a case of remaining patient and not allowing the few bob I had as a deposit to burn a hole in my motorcycle emptiness.
It came up, oh yes lord it arrived and sent me telepathic messages from its warm oily heart. ‘I need a new home, buy me, cosset me within the environs of your sumptuous garage’ I did and promised to only thrash it white hot when absolutely necessary. It was a classic blue and white liveried model equipped with a tinted double bubble screen, a pair of nishe high level Yoshi RS-3 cans and a neat little colour matched undertray. It sounded awesome. I knew together we could achieve great things.

THE TL ROAD TRAIN WAS READY FOR TAKE OFF
But,alas…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Some filthy fifth element virus mongering swine infected fair Albion with foot and mouth disease, or Apthovirus as it’s known to true germ mongers. In the months leading up to our trip there was a mass culling and huge black bulldozed charnel heaps, smoking mounds of ovine and bovine death stench seemed to fill the nations lungs. The television foretold doom. Worried ministers looked stern and nonchalant in equal measure, mostly with despair and denial, some even forced their unwary offspring to chomp on triple 1000% pure beef burgers free of the bacillus (or so they hoped) raising their eyes to heaven selling their political soul in the hope that whatever mocking demon or angel that heard their silent pleas would protect their child in order to say ‘I told you so’ whilst hopping up the next rung of power to wash their hands of it when the shit really hit the fan, It was fair to say there was a lot of burning and slaughter afoot, and would you credit it, the scare stories rife throughout all known forms of media actually matured into the cancellation of the entire TT festivities since inception during peace time. The Bastards!!!!

We had to have a plan ‘B’. I endured many hours of heavy glugging until we were decided three. It was ‘Bollox’ lets go to Italy instead for the Grand Prix at Mugello, we all wanted to watch the boychildprodigy Valentino Rossi and Ming the moustachiod merciless Maximillian Biaggi at work in the cauldron of Italian motor sport and ‘fuck it’ none of us had been to Italy. It was only a few days ride away, we could tool around there or take our time arriving

Sorted!

THE TT IS DEAD. LONG LIVE SPAGHETTI LAND.

I made a list of all the shit I had to attend to. The only major drawback that I could see was that we were going to be hoovering up a few thousand miles in a relatively short time on sports bikes. This wasn’t going to be a comfort or horsepower issue but one of paring necessary equipment for the trip down to the bone. We all had race cans, as mine were high level that immediately ruled out panniers, didn’t want a molten mess of PU smearing the sheen of my pipes (it can be a bastard to get off you know, I speak from previous bitter experience). This left me with the choice of a rucksack allied to a tailpack. Well the rucksack was pretty much a non starter (I refused myself the luxury of the extra capacity – read greater burden). The bike was supposed to kick out 125horses (tame by today’s litre bike standards) but more than enough to haul me down south, I’m not a great fan of rucksacks on bikes, it would only add to the strain on my upper body and create drag.
If I couldn’t fit my gear into the pillion pack it wasn’t going. Phil and Eddie just crammed as much stuff in their respective tote bags which had a rigid base and then bungee’ d them to oblivion, all the time taking the piss out of me because I had a checklist