The Taste of Adventure , by Ben & Diesel Dave

The dust had settled by the time the GS rider returned, but now the air was filled with the sounds of sobbing, the gnashing of teeth, the pitiable death rattles of machines that were now beyond the power of any mechanic to fettle. The smell of petrol was strong.

Standing high on his pegs, the rider carefully manoeuvred his scuffed, but largely undamaged motorcycle around the detritus that now littered the lane. Shattered fragments of white plastic fairings, buckled chrome wheels and assorted camping gear – most of it from Lidl – marked a heroic, if futile struggle.

Figures crouched low, tending to their stricken machines. Some fled at the thrum of the approaching Germanic titan. Others, oblivious, cradled their slain transports, calling out to great Soichiro in their misery.

But Soichiro remained silent.

The bearded man was crouched beside his stepthrough as the GS rider pulled smoothly to a halt a few metres away. The twisted 90 lay in a slowly spreading pool of Silkolene, looking for all the world like it had been run over by a tank. Which, in a sense, it had. When the bearded man finally looked up, his face was a picture of rank bitterness.

“I assume you will be issuing no further ill thought out challenges?” the rider said, from high on his steed.

The bearded man’s face contorted with rage. He leapt up, fists clenched –

- only to slip and fall on his backside in his Honda’s rapidly cooling lifeblood.

The GS rider snorted as he engaged first. “I assumed wrong.” And with a roar, and a shower of grit, he was gone.

I think it would be more like:

The once proud GS rider knew the end was approaching, it had been a futile attempt to keep up with the swarm of step thru's as they crossed the great ford that seperated the Matlock wilds from civilisation; and now he had to pay the price.

It had been difficult enough to keep up with the ever increasing pace of the '90's as they hit the gritty back roads of Matlock Bath, the GS cylinder heads barely clearing the sides of the sunken roads that had been in use since the Iron Age but being overtaken by these tiny 4 strokers was almost too much to bear.

But now the overweight porcenine GS had finally circumbed to the lack of skill demonstrated so ably by it's rider.

It had gone down in mid stream, barely 5 yards from the slippery concrete ramp that had led to the gloomy green waters. Now the rider dressed in all the GS finery that the BMW rider catalogue could offer was now pinned under 200 kilo's of bavariam engineering as the waters rose higher and higher.

The Cub riders barely turned a hair as the drowning cries died into sad gurgles.

'Keep up or get dropped'

- the motto was strong on the C90 ride outs and only the true bearers of Soichirio's ledgend would survive.

Here endeth the lesson!

The C90 riders had made camp at an isolated site in a valley. Initially the group had been in good spirits, discussing the day’s route. One of the recurring jokes concerned the chap on the huge touring bike who had take part in a good natured, if spirited ride against the massed Hondas that afternoon. The riders assumed that he had turned around and gone back the way he came, as they had not encountered him again that day. There had been much drinking and the eating of noodles, but as the darkness had descended, the mood had soured. There was something… not quite right about either the site, or the valley. Unsettled, most of the riders had retired to bed.

Only the bearded man remained awake. And only he knew the truth about the GS rider’s disappearance. He smiled to himself, chuckling as he recalled stopping to watch the motorcyclist’s desperate struggles as he and his bike had vanished under the surface of a raging torrent.

He tilted his head back, pouring warm beer down his throat.

“YOU LEFT ME TO DIE!” a voice thundered, seemingly out of nowhere.

The bearded man freaked, looking around frantically for the speaker. In panic he fell from his camping stool and on to his back, looking up at the stars. Beer flowed onto the grass.

“You left me to die.” The GS rider repeated, as he loomed into the other’s field of vision, blocking out the heavens. His armoured riding suit was soaked through, and stained with mud and plant life from the riverbed.

“You would be happy to let another man drown in a river, cut short his life, end his hopes and dreams, leave his dependants destitute-” he continued. “-over nothing more than a petty argument over a motorcycle!” Despite the distortion of the helmet, the outrage in the Rider’s voice was clear. He turned away, as though unable to bring himself to look at the other any longer. “You sicken me!” he spat.

While the rider had been speaking, the bearded man had discreetly slipped his hand into his leather jacket and located his flick, easing it open silently. Now, as the GS rider turned his back, the man scrambled to his feet. Pausing for only a heartbeat – and to indulge in a tight little smile - he threw himself forward, blade in hand.

But that delay was his downfall. Moving with unholy speed for one so heavily attired, the GS rider whirled and grabbed the man by the wrist of his blade hand. Wet-leather clad fingers contracted, and the blade dropped uselessly onto the grass between them.

The GS rider regarded the bearded man through his scratched and dirt spattered visor. “A lesson is in order.” He informed his assailant after a moment’s contemplation. “It will be short, but memorable.”

In the manner of an angry father dragging a recalcitrant toddler through the aisles of a supermarket on a hot Saturday afternoon, the Rider, still gripping the bearded man by the wrist, marched the struggling would-be murderer across the field, ignoring his futile attempts to break free.

The BMW stood beneath a tree beyond the boundary of the campsite. Like it’s Rider, the GS was battered and muddy from its time in the river. But also like it’s Rider, it required far more than a brief dip to put it out of action.

With his free hand, the Rider depressed the starter control and the powerful boxer rumbled into life. He blipped the throttle to circulate the oil - preparing his machine for the trial ahead – before twisting the throttle hard against the stop.

With no load on the engine to hold it back, the noise and vibration were incredible, almost unbearable. The bearded man recoiled, trying to block out the pain with his free hand. The Rider though, stood firm against the aural assault as the huge engine thundered away, slamming again and again against the electronic rev limiter, as the quivering tachometer needle buried deep in the red line.

With the motorcycle stationary, no cooling breeze was passing over and around the engine and so, as the temperature increased, the paint on the protruding cylinder heads had begun to blister, then blacken. Now the heads themselves were glowing hot in the twilight. Satisfied, the Rider released the throttle. The revs fell back to idle, and the din faded away.

The bearded man was no fool. He knew what was going to happen and struggled against the man – or was it a man? - who, until minutes ago, he thought he had dispatched rather cleverly.

Firmly, the Rider grabbed the other by his scruff and shoved him down mercilessly down on his knees facing the GS’s offside cylinder. The rogue bucked and thrashed, but the rider’s grip was unbreakable. Driven by a measured yet implacable force, the heathen’s face pressed against red hot metal.

For a few seconds, screams louder than even those of the abused boxer motor echoed across the valley.

------------------------------------

The nurse dropped the gooey bandage into the relevant receptacle and washed her hands.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

The bearded man nodded, and took the proffered hand mirror.

He had known what to expect, of course, as even through the gauze and the bandages he had been able to trace with his fingers the painful wounds. Like the claw marks of some great beast, the precise, sculpted imprints of the BMW’s distinctive cooling fins were etched vividly in scar tissue across side of his face.

It was exactly as the Rider himself had predicted before he had ridden away into the darkness on that fateful night:

“A permanent reminder of the ultimate supremacy of the GS over All Other Motorcycles.”

He awoke with a start, sweat had soaked the sleeping bag through his Buzz Lightyear PJ's - the dream had returned once more!

It had been 3 years since the 'incident' at boxerfail crossing, the humiliation of being pulled limp and almost lifeless from the river bed only to be pumped dry and given the kiss of life by a CM90 jockey known for his love of goats rear-ends.

Despite the thareapy, drugs and the hypnosis treatment to provide alternate endings to the humiliating incident somehow the memory of awaking to the puckered face in a gold mirrorflake helmet refused to fade.

Propped up against the dry stone wall with green water oozing from the formerly immaculate Motoraad Technik BMW 'Explorer' suit he had watched the assembled 30+ Cub riders looping a rope made from 4 braids of washing line around the opposed cylinders and dragged the sunken wreck to the shallows before being hoisted upright and pushed to stand on it's own 200 quid custom 'goatsfoot' propstand.

By the time the rider had felt strong enough to stand the 'Sons of Soichirio' had pulled the plugs and pumped the cylinders of rancid water, dried out the fuel injection modules on a hairdryer found in the BMW's panniers and powered by inverter and amassed cubby 12v batteries.

At least the sorry looking beemer now appeared to have been further then the local Starbucks.

The rider leaned heavily on the supporting arms offered by the cubbists and managed to stand, albeit someawhat damply.

They propped him upright and launched the limp form over the saddle and assisted in the necessary pressing of the 'start' button to fire the now barely functioning machine. They rode closely alongside keeping the beemer upright as the rider recovered eventually becoming capable once more.

At the first major junction, the signpost had been overwritten by spray paint and read 'Scally homeland' in one direction and the in usual font Rhayader in the opposite.

With a squelch of indigation a white plastic boot clonked loudly onto gear on the GS as without so much as a farewell thought for the brave souls who had risked their lives and batteries to bring him thus far in safety, the GS rider dissappeared towards the Liver Building in a haze of missfiring exhaust smoke.

3 years later, many miles (nearly 500) had passed under the BMW's wheels and many more serious quantities of cash had been offered to the ever ravenous 'Service Department' of the local dealership.

He now kept exclusively to the ride outs and camping events organised by the BMW 'Adventure' Owners Club events committee (these having extended warranty and insurance coverage guarentees). This event had been the first to venture as far afield as North Wales and this had been the trigger for renewed nightmare anguish.

Despite copious amounts of Kaliber Lager conversation had been low and stunted; the camp evenings jovialities had been brought to a strict halt at 11pm in accordance with the Teutonic handbook guidelines and the members retured to their Khayam Biker tents and entertain themselves alone 'till sleep took them over.

In the morning he would hide his sodden sleeping attire withing the folds of the sleeping bag roll, share a cafe-latte, and breakfast muffin from the the Starbucks marquee with the other wet sleeper/early risers and then head for home.

He made a mental note to increase his sessions with Dr. Cumfitsmee as the current 4 times weekly were clearly not having suffecient impact.

Perhaps one day, he would be able to sleep through a dry night.

Riding the big dual carriageways allowed plenty of thought time but tended to flatten the dual-sport tyres within an expensive 2000 miles (not too much of a worry at 120 miles a year).

Up ahead a solo 90, heavily laden with camping gear and on the return run from a 2000 mile odysea to the far flung reaches of Europe approached the rumble strips of a roundabout crossing - the GS rider saw red and pinned the throttle.

The 90 rider would never know why someone would deliberatley try to go directly across a large roundabout, even on a huge dual-sport machine. The huge bike had careered passed him with inches to spare as he dipped steadily into the roundabout's curves. The big bike was unable to change direction so readily and continued on over the centre - it would have made it all the way over had it not been for the large billboard in the centre.

It read - "The Ultimate Riders Machine" and a large smiling face of Ewan McObiwankonob grinned whilst the lesser portrait of Cherlie Boring had born the brunt of the riders demise.

This time there was no Cubby rescue team on hand, the solo 90 rider did his best to comfort the prone rider who's broken body lay fading in the flowerbed (sponsored by Sniff'n'Scratch Nurseries).

His last words - "I never should have sold the Cub" sobbed through a swollen broken face. Soichirio's last rites had saved his soul.