Gurriers (63 page)

The dread was, however, vastly outweighed by the mounting excitement about the trip, which grew every day, regardless of the crappy work that the scorned base controller dished out to me at every opportunity and the never ending rain induced misery that was spring in Ireland. Indeed, the trepidation added spice to my anticipation.

I had no doubt that Le Mans was going to be a tough expedition, but was even more sure that I was going to have such a blast that I would remember it to my dying day.

I bounced out of bed eagerly the morning we left for Le Mans. I had had precious little camping experience in my life and had never been on a motorbike holiday and this expedition was lots of both. I already had everything packed and ready to go on the bike: tent and sleeping bag to be bungeed onto the box; clothes in courier bag to sit in front of me on the tank; documents in the pouch in front; toiletries; light shoes; tools; chain lube; leggings and waterproof over jacket in the box.

“Etes vous, prêt, Monsieur Le Vinno, pour notre departure?”

Vinno looked surprisingly shocked as he opened his room door. “You speak French?” It sounded like an accusation.

“Mais oui, une petite peut.”

“You better keep it to yourself over here, man. There’s goin’ to be abou’ twenty of us an’ they’re all goin’ to be wantin’ stuff said to the French. Ye’ll be fuckin’ pestered from start to finish if they know you speak the lingo!”

“I wouldn’t say I speak the lingo. I just remember a bit from my school days.”

“I’m just tellin’ ye for yer own good, man, ye won’t have a second’s peace if these fuckers hear ye speaking French.”

“Quelque Chose.”

I was never happy with the attitude among my workmates that education was a bad thing that you’re better off without. I was going to France and I was going to speak in French and fuck the consequences.

Vinno went back to finalising his packing while I put the kettle on. We had loads of time, not meeting the others for another hour and a half in the Magic Carpet pub in Cornelscourt.

My attitude reverted back to my original giddiness as I made the tea. Vinno was only looking after my best interests after all. I would surely be getting lots of advice from him in the next eight days.

“Tea’s ready, Vinno, do you want toast? “

“Might have one if you’re makin’ some, don’t bother if ye’re noh.”

“Think one’ll do meself also. I’m all nervous – in a good way.”

“Make sure you get a good meal on the way down, though, the grub on the boat is over-priced shite.”

“Where are we stoppin’ on the way down?”

“There’s a pub called Toss Byrnes just outside Inch, a bit more than half way there. The grub is nice - good country fare! I’ll be stuffin’ me guts there.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m sure you’ll be there before me on the blade; just leave it where I can see it.”

“Sure all the pack know Toss Byrnes. There’s no way ye can miss it! Right hand side, main road just before Inch.”

“Cool.”

My excitement level doubled on approaching the Magic Carpet seeing the amount of bikes outside, all laden down for the away mission, looking all the more resplendent in the sunshine of the dry and bright spring day.

Vinno’s blade was the centre of attention, being the fastest, but Leo had managed to get the VFR 750 ready for the trip and that was no slouch of a machine. I recognised Paddy’s 250 and Eighteen Gerry’s Bros and calculated that the Super Tenere must be the one that Six Dave was thinking about borrowing
from his brother in law.

There were three XBRs parked beside each other looking quite resplendent in formation even though they were obviously working bikes, two more Bros’s and a pretty clean looking red non-courier CB500 that brought me back to the days before I turned mine into a working bike. I deliberately parked a few bikes away from that one.

Opening the door of the pub was more like opening the door on a Friday evening than a Tuesday morning, such was the level of noise and activity therein. Vinno handed me a pint the minute I walked in. I hesitated slightly before accepting it, it being eleven in the morning and all, but everyone else had one.

“This isn’t goin’ to happen every time I get to a pub before ye so ye mie as well take it!”

“Thanks Vinno. Alrie Leo! Howya Dave, Gerry.Yehou Paddy – good to see ya, man. Will you be all right on yer own for a week? Ha ha! How’s it goin’, man? There yiz are. Here we go! How ye doin’!”

I was part of the buzz now, having greeted everybody, even the ones I didn’t know. Everybody was in great form except the barman, who was no doubt expecting a quiet morning’s work instead of a constant barrage of jubilant revellers on the way to the biggest two wheeled party on the continent. Not that he was unhappy to have us there; he was rushed off his feet looking after us between pulling pints, fetching sandwiches and trying to pinpoint where the smells of hash were coming from within the group of 12 who occupied the space that would comfortably take 30, between bags, jackets, helmets and camping gear.

Next to arrive was Leo’s cousin, Mick, an obvious non-courier in a clean jacket, who had a Kawasaki GT750. Then the three representatives from Urgent Couriers - Kevin, Seamus and Macker - shortly followed by Mad Tom from Rapid Express who was going to attempt the six hundred mile round trip on his ancient piece of crap CB 250RS that he had being courying for the last two years. He wasn’t called Mad Tom for nothing!

Then came Shay on the BMW, surprisingly tardy for one who took the lead so much. This brought the number up to 18
of the expected 22. Vinno explained to me that there were non-runners every year for different financial, mechanical or domestic reasons! The biggest surprise was that the Gizzard had not shown up yet, though.

He had loads of money, a good bike and was “between bitches” as he put it.

Vinno declared that we should have one more pint and joint and then we’d have to make a move if we were going to have time for a large lunch in Toss Byrnes. I got the pints in while he made the joint.

While I was waiting for the Guinness to settle, I noticed how nervously the barman’s nose was twitching, as his gaze flicked among my compatriots, so I suggested that we smoke the joint outside. I could see that Vinno was on the point of saying “fuck him – it’s not like we drink here regularly or anything,” but the atmosphere was so good that he obviously decided against conflict and complied with my request.

Gerry brought the joint he had made with him also and the three of us were followed outside by six other smokers to jostle their way into two queues. While we were outside smoking Mad Tom – having finished his pint – brought all his gear out to get himself a head start for the trip to Toss Byrnes. This caused a wave of activity throughout the bunch, who all knew that when the pack moved you moved or else you got left behind.

By the time I had finished my pint all 18 of us were outside the pub, loading bags onto ourselves, bungeeing things onto bikes, adjusting loads and generally buzzing with the preparations for departure. Mad Tom was just about to leave when we heard it.

I could swear it was audible all the way from Foxrock Church, like the approach of distant thunder, through the lights at Westminster Road, which were obviously green, into the right turn lane for the village of Cornelscourt which were obviously red because it paused there, ticking over in a low pitched grumble that had every one of us silenced even though we were on the other side of the slight hill almost a quarter of a mile away.

Then it was on the move again, a powerful deep roar that
grew and grew as it approached us, accompanied now by the complaining whine of the alarm of a car it had just passed, dominating our senses more and more as the primeval fear of something so powerful approaching so quickly sprinkled a tingle of excitement onto our captivated intrigue. Then it was visible, then it was beside us, stopping sharply and with ease beside the kerbside that we were all standing at, loose jawed and wide- eyed, every one of us. After the engine was killed, I could still hear a window rattle behind me for an instant as an echo of complaint at its insignificant confines for the barrage of sound waves it had just suffered.

It was the Gizzard, on his new bike that Derek from Dogs Box Motorcycles had imported for him under strict instructions that nobody was to know about it until the time was right. It was a Honda VTR1000 Firestorm, a V-twin super bike that he had seen the previous year being driven by Marshals at the TT race in the Isle of Man when they first came out.

This one came complete with high riser carbon fibre “Two Brothers” racing pipes that were responsible for better performance as well as increasing the already overpowering get-outmy-fucking-way sound. He was swamped instantly, bombarded with comments and questions, which he answered proudly and happily.

“Derek brought it in from England... I told him not to bring it to the showroom... it’ll do the guts of 160... We’ll see over in France... It’s like a Ducati but with Honda reliability... couldn’t let brother Vinno be the only one showin’ these foreigners how to drive the fastest fuckin’ bikes available…eight and a half grand ….Two Brothers – American pipes that add performance and noise. Alrie, enough. Let’s get goin’.

You on the RS Tom? Don’t you need a head start?”

Vinno was the only one that wasn’t scrambling towards his bike at this stage. He hadn’t thrown his two cents in yet, opting to have a private word with the Gizzard while they both let the slower bikes get a bit of a head start. I could see he was obviously chuffed, both because his friend was so happy and
because he would have company at the very pinnacle of possible speed on the top quality roads in France.

I was more than a tad jealous. I would dearly love to have a machine like that.

Shortly after Mad Tom had disappeared towards Cabinteely, Shay flung a quick glance over his shoulder to ascertain the readiness of the pack before tapping the big BMW into gear and manoeuvring himself off the kerb, giving it some throttle and away. I could feel my heartbeat quicken, as I did the same in unison with the pack, all following the same course from different positions under acceleration, but keeping ourselves almost equidistant from each other at the same time, like a flock of birds at sunset as they say goodbye to the day with a coordinated flight:- departure time!

I could hardly keep my arse on the seat of the bike, as we hit the N11 just after Cabinteely, with the excitement. This was it! Off to France for a 24 hour endurance race with a big gang of wild mates!

We were asked to give a beep and a wave to Dave’s nieces and nephews who were going to be on the pedestrian bridge at St Columcille’s Hospital in Loughlinstown with their father – the owner of the bike that Dave was on – who was going to bring them and some of their friends from the estate down the road to see us off.

I was expecting to see just a handful of small kids waving at us, with it being before noon on a school day. I was actually relishing the notion of sharing the happiness I was feeling – however slightly – with a beep and a wave.

I was totally taken aback by what I saw when I looked up. There must have been 70 people on the footbridge, adults and children alike, wearing Ireland jerseys and waving Ireland flags. A big sheet that had the words “BON VOYAGE BOYS” painted on it was tied to the railings of the bridge.

Instantaneously my eyes watered and my throat had a lump in it.

Beep and wave my arse! I thought.

I stood up on the pegs and punched the air with my left hand
about seven times, sat down – immediately pushing and holding the horn with my left hand – dropped down two gears and did a wheelie that scared the shite out of me because I was laden down and going uphill, while screaming cheers at the top of my emotionally cracked voice, as the two streams of water escaped from my eyes.

When I was almost under the bridge, I pulled in the clutch and revved the bejaysus out of my bike while freewheeling and then did two kill switch backfires as a token of appreciation to the wonderful people for such a send off. Multiply that by 19 (we were almost up on Mad Tom and the two fast bikes were almost up with us at this stage) and you will get an impression of the spectacle that the well-wishers (and, of course, the unsuspecting motorists) were treated to.

I love this trip. I love this bike. I love this life!

The bikes arrived at Toss Byrnes in order of maximum speed, with me somewhere toward the faster side of the middle of the pack shortly followed by Dave on the Super Tenere. I was almost reluctant to pull over during such an enjoyable journey but at this stage I was starving, dying for a piss and a little bit cramped. I had dumped my courier bag on the ground and was doing some stretches when Dave came up to me. He started speaking normally but the emotion got a hold of his voice long before he could finish.

”Did you see that send off? Did you fuckin’ see…what a…”

“You weren’t expecting that much either?”

All he could do was to shake his head.

“It was pretty fucking fantastic, Dave, I shed a couple of tears of joy myself, but maybe you should pull yourself together a bit before joining the gang.”

The thunder of three XBRs arriving together made me raise my voice considerably. “Why don’t you get a joint together out here while I grab us two pints?”