Sunday, 12 December 2010
nobby and big geoff, location is nobby's backyard in long eaton, we were getting the chop ready to take it up to liverpool to meet some irish lad's who had seen the advert in back street heroes, i hired a van and me, nob and his brother paul went up to liverpool to meet the overnight ferry from ireland, we were tooled up with baseball bats and knives, it was a right culture shock, dawn over the dock's, just a porta-cabin, nowhere to even get a cup of tea, we watched the ferry back onto the dock, fuck me, the whole club had made the journey over the water, they stood on the back of the boat looking down at us, seemed like an eternity as we waited, they were mob handed, at least ten lad's against our three, 'you nobby', 'yeah. that's me', 'wheres the bike?', 'you got the money?', ' aye, we got the money', remember this is the time of the troubles, they are a right crew, rough as fuck, i open the doors on the hired transit and we wheel the chop out, it's so low we have to lift it onto the wooden scaffolding plank to get it out, ''foookin 'elll', ' that's sweet lad, i need a ride', ' fuck off' says nobby, i want to die, my bum does a twitchy thing, i'm about to shit myself, we are going to die and be thrown to the fishes in fucking liverpool, ' i'll take you on the back', says nob, 'ok big maaaan', this giant gets on the back of the chop and nob bends forward and starts the bike, four open pipes barking and they are gone down the cobbled dock road, the bike is slithering from side to side as it fights for traction, they are wearing no helmets and i can hear the monster on the back shrieking like a girl, 'pay the man boy's', they get the cash out from their pockets, bags and even socks, we shake hands and watch them board the ferry with the bike, what happened to snw 628r?, ed, stuka, any ideas?
russ stanley on his harris gs1000, red frame, dymag three spokes, brembo's, white bell star-2 helmet, leather jacket, levi's and white hi-tops, oh yeah, an xs1100 headlight too, i can remember seeing russ and his wife julie at matlock, darley moor, donington and all the biker pubs like the telegraph, silk mill and seven stars, his bikes were always immaculate, he used to check out my bike and i used to check out his, we would nod an acknowledgement of a job well done but never speak to each other, that was to change when we lined up at long marston, [shakespear county raceway, or the home of the bulldog bash as it's now known], of all the people for me to be drawn against it's only the coolest kid in school, i get my favoured left lane, we both do a big smoky burn-out, lights go out and i catch him out of the corner of my eye, he's almost vertical on the short wheelbased harris, trying to keep the front end down, i'm hanging over the front end keeping my weight forward and my standard length gs is the tool for the job, i'm through the timing lights first and turn to look back at russ, he catches me on the return road, i look into his black visor, he looks into mine and he offers his hand, we were firm friends from that moment on, we used to watch endless replays of joey dunlop in the 'roadracers' vhs video, 'v for victory' the tt on board classic and our favourite 'fast freddie' where spencer takes on aldana, pietri and lawson on the massive horsepower but poor handling production based superbikes, we built bikes together, laughed 'til we cried and russ introduced me to the joy's of chilli, i never realised food could taste so good, i will never forget the day julie phoned me to tell me russ had been killed on his bike on his way home from work. 'put that shannon record on youth, 'let the music play', i'm goin' to do some of that break dancing, where's me fucking inhaler!...........'