beaky blinder [aka the ktm 690 supermoto project]

the last thing i need at the moment is another project, i'm into the 'not a ducati tt replica' project but, after the trip to cadwell park to watch the last british supermoto championship round i've had an itch that needs scratching. idly flicking through ebay see's a suitable 'donor' bike, i try to ignore it but i keep watching it, no bid's, i leave it another day, crack and message the owner, we have a chat, drop him a well cheeky offer and thats how we end up going up to bridlington to pick up another fucking bike. there's nothing as sad as an english seaside town in winter. deal done and bike loaded on chalky's trailer and we are off in search of a traditional fish and chip dinner. all thoughts of dining alfresco soon disappears. it's bloody freezing. the north sea is a dirty, yellow colour, no laughing children building sandcastles today, barking dogs chasing frisbee's or pensioners dripping ice cream down their sunday best. just a bone chilling wind and angry, white-topped rollers smashing onto the beach. we find a cafe and much to the amusement of my two comprades, dangerous and chalky, the lady asks if we want three 'pensioners specials' haddock, [skinned and boned] chips and a pot of tea, four pounds and ninety five pence only. i'm about to protest and chalky gives my shin a sharp boot under the table, i shut up. 'save you three quid youth, keep 'yer gob shut!' the food is great, thick, white, fresh haddock and proper thick cut chips, strong tea in a mug, perfect, i feel the warmth flooding back into my old bones. walking back to pick up the car and trailer and i have a feeling of sadness, i used to come here with my mum and dad for a day out, back then it seemed like utopia, full of fun and the promise of good times, today, on this freezing, overcast, rainy november afternoon it just seems a forgotten town, the feeling of melancholy is overwhelming. as i check the tie-downs on the trailer two blokes, cans of special brew in hand compliment me on the bike. they aren't bikers. they no nothing about motorcycles. they ask the 'usual' questions about the bike that non-motorcyclists ask, 'how fast' 'how much is it worth' 'my dad had a bike like that' one of the men is, i reckon, in his late thirties, the other, ages with me, the older man has missing teeth and the yellow pallor of alcohol abuse, the younger lad is wearing only a t-shirt, the alcohol numbing his sense of feeling to the conditions. we talk. they are both from teeside, neither working, the strong north yorkshire accent along with their slurring is hard to follow as the wind whips away the conversation. 'if we had seen the bike on the trailer we'd have had her away, funded 'us beer fo' a week would that!' 'yeah and when i saw you pinching it i'd have kicked both your arses!' they are happy drunks and we shake hands, they are laughing. high on the alcohol and what ever other stimulants they have necked to relieve the monotony of their situation. back home and bike unloaded in heavy rain, a couple of tyskie's and start to swap the salt corroded fasteners for some fresh stainless from the stock cupboard. making lists. two new tyres and some rear brake pads a must. and then there's the hideous exhausts..........