The Buxton Speeder

THE BUXTON SPEEDER

I’d been out with the lads the night before, so slept through until the alarm beeped out at eleven-thirty. Anyway, today was Sunday morning; my lie-in morning.

The sun radiated through the crack in the red curtains. Its brightness reflected from the mirror opposite, pierced my blurry eyes, making me temporarily blind, or it may have been the effects of the beer from last night.

I slowly lowered my feet from the rumpled bed onto the carpeted floor, yawned, stretched, fumbled for the dark glasses, walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. Except for some streaked cirrus high in the stratosphere, the sky was cloudless. Before me lay an ideal summer’s day. The kind of day that beckons you outside. The kind of day you look forward to, even though you're on the two-to-eight shift. The kind of day that lures the high-speed Bikers onto the road.

I padded over to the small bathroom, used the loo, and stood under the shower for a while until my head cleared, then, clad in bathrobe, I shuffled down the stairs to the dining-kitchen.

After putting the kettle on, I walked to the front door, picked up the paper and trundled back to the kitchen. I dropped a teabag into my favourite mug and began to update myself with the latest scandal. Three cups of tea disappeared whilst turning the pages.

Twenty past one found me back upstairs, preparing for the afternoon ride. Blue trousers and shirt, over which went my best black leathers, you know the kind, shiny ones with lots of fancy zips. No badges or pins, though. No, they weren’t for me. Finally, tying the white silk scarf around my neck to protect my face and with the jacket zip undone, I returned downstairs.

The black helmet was in its place on the hall-stand, underneath the ignition key hanging from the key-tidy. My hands reached out to grab them both before opening the front door and stepping out into the cool summer breeze. This was going to be one of the better days; I could tell, I had a feeling in my bones.

I walked to the up-and-over, inserted the key, and turned the handle. Accompanied by a noisy metallic clanging that invaded the midday peace, I raised the garage door to its horizontal position. The bike stood there, defiantly. Two chromium eyes searching mine. Gleaming black metalwork with narrow hand-painted yellow and white coach-lines setting off that racy, streamlined look. The 750 cc engine protruded from below the petrol tank, its bulkiness counterbalanced by the sleek fairing, behind which trailed the two business-like stainless steel exhaust pipes. The aesthetic beauty of that machine never ceased to amaze me.

Each time we came together, the same proud feelings of possession enveloped me. That's my bike, I own it. There was no doubt at all in my mind; this machine was the best I had ever owned. It would cruise along the straight at one hundred and twenty - no trouble, no kidding. The bike and me knew one another, like an established married couple, we were a partnership. I wheeled the machine outside and heaved it backwards onto the stand before locking the garage. My neighbour glanced up from where she knelt weeding her garden - she waved - I nodded back. We got on well.

My watch read one thirty-five. Fifteen minutes left to report in. The timing seemed right. I zipped up, straddled the bike, put the key in the ignition, pulled on the leather gloves and pressed the starter. The engine fired, first time. I applied a bit of throttle to warm it up, then let it idle for a minute before pulling down the tinted visor. Then! Off time!

Away we went at a sedate thirty miles an hour, down the hill, across the traffic lights, then up past the market square of Ashbourne. At this time of day, there were plenty of people about, mostly day-trippers bringing grandma and the kids out for Sunday lunch, clamouring outside the pubs, searching the menus. A good day out is Ashbourne. As we ascended the hill that took us out of town, I opened up the throttle a little; we'd take the Buxton road, the A515.

An elderly guy with his elderly wife drove along in front of me, chugging away in their elderly Morris Minor estate. I waited for a break in the traffic before accelerating past without too much noise and left them with a friendly wave before switching on the headlamps.

My body soon began to cool in the artificially created blast of air. In no time at all, we began to pick up speed. Down the hill, past the sign pointing towards Dovedale, then into the double bends before Fenny Bentley. We rounded the corner and there, facing us, rolled out the first stretch of straight road, a long incline that rose steadily for about half a mile. I put on the rev’ and, as the speed increased, snaked in and out of the caravans being drawn laboriously up the gradient. A loud guy, red scarf flapping in the slipstream of his open Mercedes sports car, flashed his lights at us from some distance ahead. Okay, so we were on the wrong side of the road - but not for long, we had power underneath us. As we passed, I raised two fingers in the air - loud guys, rich yobbos and yuppies annoy me.

We raced on up the hill, my hand tensed on the throttle in readiness to accelerate away when we came up behind a convoy of three tankers. One pulled cement, one milk and one fuel oil. Why the hell did they have to work Sundays? No way would we be able to pass them on the next few miles of narrow, winding road. We manage to overtake them just before the Hartington turn-off, then, oh boy! The day became ours. The stone-walled highway opened out before us in long rolling straight stretches, the traffic in front of the tankers being long gone. Except for a few oncoming vehicles, we had the road. I felt the wind tearing at the silk neckerchief, which now flapped out behind me, whipping around and around like a half demented white snake. We were moving along, fast. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the warning sign ‘Slow. Hidden Cross-roads Ahead.’ The bike and I now rocketed over the shimmering tarmac, down to hit the Parsley Hay cross-roads doing one hundred and five. Up the hill, round the corner, and another piece of straight. On one side stretched the old Roman Road, on the other, the High Peak Trail. I tried to reach one hundred and fifteen before we hit the bend at Brierlow Bar, but we didn't quite make it. I throttled back, at the same time lightly footing the brake before we ran out of road.

Gradually, we slowed down until finally, we made the high ground overlooking Buxton. My watch read one-forty-seven. We’d be okay. I pulled into the yard of the local police station at ten to two, parked the bike, walked into the building and nodded to my partner, seated behind the desk sergeant. I continued across the room, wrenched off the helmet, allowing my hair to tumble around my shoulders:

'Morning, Sarge,' I said.

'Afternoon, Sylvia; it’s the afternoon, gone twelve, past mid-day; read my lips.'

I wrenched out a large grin - I wasn’t going to rise to that. No, that day had been destined for my good day.

The duty Inspector broke the stalemate. His head emerged from around the office door.

'Ah! W.P.C. Stevens, You’re on speed patrol this month...yes?'

'Yes, sir, me and Robby.'

'Right, take the A 515 today, Okay?'

'Okay.'

'And don’t return until you've issued at least fifty tickets.'

'Right, sir.'

I winked at Robby. Fifty tickets! No problem. I knew the fast stretches on the A.515. I knew where we’d catch the speeders.