Neil Bradford - Sons of Thunder: Writing from the Fast Lane: A Motorcycling Anthology

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Contents

Melissa Holbrook Pierson

T.E. Lawrence

Roald Dahl

Ted Hughes

L.J.K. Setright

Robert Edison Fulton Jr.

Theresa Wallach

Alberto Granado

Patrick Symmes

Andy Martin

Don Whillans

Ted Simon

Jonathan Gregson

Jonny Bealby

Lois Pryce

Mike Carter

Hunter S. Thompson

Thom Gunn

Thomas McGuane

Robert M. Pirsig

Jim Perrin

Matthew Crawford

Dan Walsh

Mat Oxley

Valentino Rossi

Robert Hughes

For my daughter Kate

In speed we hurl ourselves beyond the body,

Our bodies cannot scale the heavens except in a fume of petrol

Bones. Blood. Flesh.

All pressed inward together.

T.E. L AWRENCE

INTRODUCTION

T.E. Lawrence sought sanctuary at Clouds Hill near Bovington in Dorset. This small estate workers cottage nestled at the base of the hills insulated by a moving forest of rhododendron. When Lawrence first arrived it was run-down and required substantial work to make it habitable. Clouds Hill resonates with the personality, intellect and soul of the man. The cottage became a retreat from his public persona, a home for his magnificent library and extensive music collection, and a space where he could meet friends in private and write in peace. He made various changes to the simple original structure, the most characteristic of which was a thatched outhouse, which became the garage for Lawrences motorcycles. Its not hard to imagine the short walk across the gravel path from the cottage, the release of the padlock and clasp sealing the garage doors and the subsequent roar of the exhaust as the latest of a succession of Brough Superiors was wheeled out of its den and brought to life. Lawrence had a total of seven Superiors commencing in 1922 and concluding in 1935 with the SS100 upon which he died. There was an eighth machine on order, which was never collected. Each bike was named by Lawrence. All the bikes were referred to as Boanerges or Sons of Thunder in Aramaic, but the naming had a sub-category George to distinguish them further: a respectful nod to the owner and manufacturer, George Brough, with whom Lawrence shared a great friendship.

Lawrences relationship with his motorcycles was intense and the machine was the exhilarating means of escape from the constrictions of the army camp:

When my mood gets too hot and I find myself wandering beyond control I pull out my motor-bike and hurl it top speed through these unfit roads for hour after hour.

This feeling of release and exhilaration is one shared by all who have reached for the crash helmet, swept up the keys and opened the front door. The environment, climate and character of the road are all absorbed by the rider who makes corresponding physical adjustments to deal with the demands of every journey, whatever the length. This sensation is unique to the motorcyclist.

Each of the extracts within this collection communicates the emotional bond between rider and machine. The feeling of oneness with the motorcycle is core. The rider becomes physically part of the bike rather than simply sitting astride the machine. There is the adolescent joy of Roald Dahl, the technical authority of L. J. K. Setright, the inexplicable desire, trepidation and ultimate resignation of Thomas McGuane and the exquisite prose of Melissa Holbrook Pierson, recording the arcane rites of the pre-flight check, ignition and subsequent take-off.

The modern motorcycle is a sophisticated construction with little in the way of roughly hewn edges such as the kick-starter, an inducement to injury and post-traumatic stress disorder, so well described by Matthew Crawford elsewhere in his book:

Before taking that final kick, it is traditional to light a cigarette and set it dangling at an angle that suggests nonchalance. While youre at it, send up a little prayer for fuel atomization. You wouldnt be riding a motorcycle if you werent an optimist.

With Jupiters Travels Ted Simon revived the genre for the post-Vietnam war generation, echoing the exploits of Robert Edison Fulton Jr. Lois Pryce follows in the pioneering tyre tracks of Theresa Wallach. Dan Walshs caustic and revolutionary columns echo something of the unique character that was Hunter S. Thompson.

* * *

I ride a BMW R1200GS Adventure, a bike built to circumnavigate the globe in the manner of Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman. But how often do I satisfy the wanderlust? A couple of months back, I had left work a little earlier than usual and pulled up at some traffic lights. A car stopped beside me and I felt a tug on my arm. When I looked down, the driver handed me a card which was printed with the images of three motorcyclists with the same bike as mine. The pictures were accompanied by an appeal to ride it somewhere awesome. It appeared that the driver was about to embark with some like-minded friends on an expedition to Tashkent. We chatted until conversation was curtailed by the green light and he pulled away, assuring me that his previous long-range journey had gifted him a further ten years of life and that he intended to add to the positive balance.

This collection is that of an enthusiast for the motorcycle. I was enthralled and inspired by each of the contributors experiences and hope that the reader of this collection is tempted to explore further. Meanwhile I need to understand my bike more, feel it more, believe in its ability to release something within me, reduce the spiritual overdraft and make a journey somewhere awesome

Neil Bradford, London, April 2012

MELISSA HOLBROOK PIERSON

Extract from

THE PERFECT VEHICLE

Melissa Holbrook Pierson was born in Akron, Ohio, in 1957. She lives in New York state and is devoted to motorcycles, particularly those of the Italian Moto Guzzi marque. Her writing is exquisitely precise, lyrical and passionate, and communicates the emotional bond between the rider and the motorcycle. The Perfect Vehicle was widely praised on publication and is without doubt some of the finest writing inspired by the motorcycle.

At precisely this moment someone, somewhere, is getting ready to ride. The motorcycle stands in the cool, dark garage, its air expectant with gas and grease. The rider approaches from outside; the door opens with a whir and a bang. The light goes on. A flame, everlasting, seems to rise on a piece of chrome.

As the rider advances, leather sleeves are zipped down tight on the forearms, and the helmet briefly obliterates everything as it is pulled on, the chin strap buckled. This muffled weight with its own faint but permanent scent triggers recollection of the hours and days spent within it. Soft leather gloves with studded palms, insurance against the reflex of a falling body to put its hands out in midair, go on last.

The key is slipped into the ignition at the top of the steering head. Then the rider swings a leg over the seat and sits but keeps the weight on the balls of the feet. With a push from the thighs the rider rocks the bike forward once, again, picking up momentum until it starts to fall forward and down from the centre-stand. At this moment the rider pulls a lever with the first finger of the right hand, and the brake pads close like a vice on the front wheels iron rotor. At the almost instantaneous release of the brake, the bike rises slightly from the forks, which had telescoped under the heft. Now the 450 pounds of metal, fluid and plastic rests in tenuous balance between the riders legs; if it started to lean too much to one side, the weight that had lain it low in a state of grace would suddenly assert itself in a manic bid to meet the concrete with a crash. Inherently unstable at a standstill, the bike is waiting for the human to help it become its true self. Out there running, it can seem as solid as stone.