|
The Best Triumph by Gary Nicklin
"So what happened next?" asked the young boy. The story-teller shifted in his seat and looked up. "Well they all lived happily ever after of course. It's the way all good stories end." The boy was called Trent and the storyteller was George, his grandfather. Trent was spending a long weekend at his house while his parents were away at a friend's wedding. They had given Trent the option to go if he wanted to but he preferred to spend the weekend with his Grandad. "Come on young Trent, it's time for bed." said George shutting the book that he'd had open on his lap. "If you want me to show you that badger-sett tomorrow, we both need to get a good night's sleep. It's a fair old walk across the fields and we have to make an early start." "Okay Grandad," said the boy. He'd been looking forward to seeing the badger-sett since his Grandad had told him about it, a month or so ago. When the chance to come and stay had arisen, he'd jumped at it. Who wanted to go to a silly wedding anyway? Not him, that was for sure. Trent ran upstairs, followed by his Grandad at a slightly lesser pace. He climbed into bed and smiled as George's head appeared round the door. "Warm enough?" asked George "Yes thanks," said Trent. "Will we see any badgers?" "Oh I doubt it, they're mainly nocturnal animals, but Tom at the Post Office said that he's seen some deer in the woods, alongside the fields, so we might be lucky and catch a sight of them. Now go to sleep. I'm just going to make some sandwiches for tomorrow, then I'm going to bed too." "All right Grandad. Goodnight!" Trent shut his eyes. George turned off the light and pulled the door to, then went back downstairs. He picked up the storybook and put it on the shelf. As he did so, a small piece of paper fluttered through the air and floated to the floor. He bent to pick it up. It was an old photograph and he assumed he must have used it as a bookmark sometime, and it had lain forgotten between the pages. He looked at the photograph and smiled. The picture showed a young man sitting proudly astride an old motorcycle. George remembered that bike; a 1957 Triumph Thunderbird. It was his favourite, of all the bikes he had owned, and he'd had some good ones too. The pinnacle of which had been his Vincent Black Shadow, but he liked the Thunderbird the best. He propped the photo on the mantelpiece and went into the kitchen. He'd just started searching the cupboards for sandwich ingredients that he could use for lunch tomorrow, when he heard music playing. Trent must have turned the radio on! He was just about to shout up to him when he remembered that the only radio was in his room; maybe the alarm had been set wrong. That was it! George went upstairs. He peered into Trent's room as he passed. He was already fast asleep. George continued into his room to turn his radio alarm off. When he got there, he was surprised to see that the alarm wasn't on. He stood and listened. He could still hear the music. It seemed to be coming from downstairs. He was sure that he hadn't left a radio on, but he couldn't be certain. Halfway down the stairs he recognised the song: Shakin' All Over by Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. The song woke up some distant memories. At the bottom of the stairs, the music was louder and gave the impression that it was coming from outside. He went over to the kitchen window and looked out. There was nothing out there. He took a key out of the drawer by the sink and unlocked and opened the back door. The moon was full, and the garden was bathed in a white, misty glow. George noticed that there was a thin layer of mist floating above the lawn. This gave the whole place an eerie, slightly-magical feel. For some inexplicable reason, George felt the urge to go outside. He stepped onto the path outside his back door. The music was louder - much louder. He breathed deeply, taking in the cold night air and looked around. It was then that he saw it! Standing next to the passage that led through the terraced houses to the road was a motorcycle. Not any old motorcycle though. It was a Triumph Thunderbird. More than that, it was a 1957 Triumph Thunderbird, resplendent in its gold livery, looking as though it had left the Meriden factory, only a few hours before. "My old bike," George whispered to himself, and walked across to it. "Hello old girl!" he said, as he ran his hand over the tank. The bike itself was illuminated by a faint glow that seemed to emanate from the very metal itself. George slung a leg over the machine and sat there remembering his youth. He listened to Johnny Kidd, still playing, and reminisced about how they would put it on the jukebox, at the all-night café, where he and his fellow bikers hung out. They would then race to see if they could get to the bridge and back before it finished. He also recalled, sadly, the ones that never finished the race. Although it was late and the sky was clear, George didn't feel cold. He looked down. He was now wearing a leather flying-jacket. For some reason, the sudden appearance of this piece of clothing didn't strike George as odd. Neither did the fact that a pair of leather gauntlets and goggles, were now sitting across the headlight nacelle. He picked them up. "I wonder?" he muttered. He leant over and fiddled with the carburettor. "Let's see if I've still got the old touch." He pulled the clutch lever in and pressed down the kick-start. Then he let out the clutch and kicked again: the engine fired into life. George sat on the saddle, a huge grin beginning to form across his face, as the engine made its own kind of music. He put the gauntlets and goggles on and pushed the bike off its stand. Carefully he guided the bike through the alleyway to the road. He sat for a moment looking around, then kicked the bike into gear and released the clutch. Despite the fact that he hadn't ridden for years the bike moved off smoothly and he kicked up through the gears, enjoying the feeling of the wind rushing past him. He was young again! Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another bike coming along-side him. He looked over and saw that the bike was a BSA. The rider saluted and George recognised him. "Titch!" he shouted. "What a great night!" Titch pulled up along-side him on his Gold Star. "We're all here," yelled Titch. "Lets go to the beach." George looked around him. There were half-a-dozen bikes behind him, all ridden by faces that he recognised. There was Titch on his Gold Star, Dave on his Ariel, Spider on his Norton, Curly on his Tiger, Brian on his Thunderbird and Tom on his old AJS. Then he heard it. The distinctive sound of a vee-twin! From out of nowhere, it seemed, Norm appeared on his Vincent Black Shadow. George looked at it. The Black Shadow was a masterpiece and could outrun anything on the road. "This is the life, eh George?" shouted Norm over the rumble of the engine. "Just one more to come, then we'll have the ride of our lives." George felt something grab him around the waist. He was slightly startled and looked round into the blue eyes of Margaret, his wife, looking as beautiful as she did the day that they were married. "We're all here now," shouted Norm. "Lets go!" George dropped a gear and the Thunderbird lurched forward, its front wheel threatening to leave the ground. He heard a little cry from his pillion and the hands moved around his waist gripping him tighter. The bikes roared off into the night, their lights reflecting in the wet road. George didn't know how long he was riding for, down twisty country lanes and along straight carriageways, where Norm would show the superiority of the 120 mile per hour Vincent. Eventually they arrived at the coast and stopped. "Wow!" said Titch. "I haven't had this much fun in years. It's great to see the gang together, one last time, eh Georgy boy?" He nodded. "But it's late now," said Margaret, "and we've got to go." "Go?" asked George.
|