Saved By The Bell
Saved By The Bell
A Friday it was, back in 1986, afternoon to be precise. Me, a young adolescent of 17 years, my only worries being where the first pint will be to christen the weekend and my concern for city being relegated, attending college that afternoon was procrastinated to a position of little care or relevance. A glorious day in June, it seemed such a waste of my youth to stay in college all afternoon for a lesson from the butch and formidable Ms. Metcalf. I was getting out of there and soon, at lunch me and my friends of form 11a wandered down to Marshall’s bakery, with a cheese and onion pasty in one hand a can of cola in the other and the sun pounding down on our greasy teenager skin, we extended our lunch a couple of hours following the scent of freedom. A group of teenagers wandering the town in uniform midday raises the odd eyebrow and the fact my mum worked in the cafe at the top of town filled me with fear that if she caught a glimpse of me not in college, she would make little work of me and not hesitate to come down on me as heavy as she could. The freedom we expected this day soon turned sour roaming town so we headed towards our homes.
Stirring conversation on the walk, as you can imagine, girls, football and bikes. Bikes, being a recurring topic, all of us scrimping to save enough for clapped out bike, we all had a passion for anything with wheels and an engine. An interest I inherited from my father. A man who’s prized possession a fiery orange Honda CBX. On the rare occasion he rode the machine, it lived in the garage not collecting dust taxed and insured however for when it was on the rode. His weekends consisted of polishing down every square inch of the machine to a fine standard and then tucking the bike away at night. Something that neither myself nor my little brother received as children, the bike was his life, he adored the bike. The world revolved around the bike and boy did he make us all aware of this. We all knew our place and it was to stay well away from the bike.
On reaching an empty home, mum still serving mugs of tea and greasy sandwiches and dad a number on a shirt on the floor of a manufacturing plant, the scent of freedom we followed led straight into the garage. The scent of freedom soon took a growing hint of petrol to we reached the source. My friends were more than aware of dad’s bike and how much he loved it. He once caught me sitting on the stationary bike and went absolutely ape shi*! But today, dad was not around so sitting was welcomed. Sitting on the bike felt right, the powerful machine being locked away was not right. Like a cheetah in captivity, the bike never felt the rushing air particles separating for the thundering machine accelerating down the road. The fine Italian leather seat and gleaming bike was too much. Friends egging me on to start her up, the peer pressure was to great, the day to glorious and the bike captive for too long. I got off the bike to take the keys from the red enamel tin on the garage wall. I mounted the bike again and switched on the ignition. The engine vibrated and boiled, the sound of music to me and my friends ears. I sat with pride, I felt like Steve McQueen, it was the bike’s great escape. I kicked the stand and rolled forward, a notion the bike rarely felt. It was itching for more, just a little squeeze of power, a tiny squeeze. I gripped the handle gently, and treated the machine like the hand of a delicate beautiful lady. That squeeze was all it took though and with that tiny injection of power, the bike flew forwarded, swaying side I struggled to keep the machine up, straight across the front lawn and not stopping. The immense power of the bike swiftly stopped by the friction of becoming head on in to the front garden’s hawthorn hedge perimeter. Cutting the power and dismounting half fallen bike I feared for the damage of the bike. No noticeable dents, nothing broken. A couple of scratches on the perfect fiery paintjob but nothing another couple of coats of polish wouldn’t soon buff out. Removing the twigs and leaves of the bush the bike was wheeled back into its spot. My friends soon disappeared leaving me to polish the bike back to the high standard of my fathers. After a good couple of coats of wax I tucked in the bike just like he would. Fearing for him noticing something, something I’d missed, grass in the tread of the tired, a scratch something. As scared as I was, I cleared up the front lawn, the print of the fast accelerating machine leaving its mark on the lawn and picking branches and leaves to cover the large hole in the hedge. When amply taken care of to leave no trace of the incident, I took to the remainder of my Friday treated it much the same as any other.
The next day was just as glorious, and I was doping around the house. Mum was outside tending to her hanging baskets and dad in the front garden, the scene of the crime but mowing the lawn. He was oblivious to the previous days events and mentioned nothing of the bike or any holes in the hedge. I was outside facing out to the hedge when he was pottering around the garden. Then I noticed a small detail I hadn’t earlier clocked that could result in my young death. About two foot above head height, there hanging like a Christmas decoration was the tax and tax disk from the bike. How I missed this, I to this day do not know. But I had to get it without dad seeing. I needed a decoy to keep him away. He was edging the lawn and edging closer and closer to the disk. A leak in the garage rough? That would lead him towards the bike, I needed something and quick. The fear must have been visible in my young face, I must have been the same colour as the enamel key tin. Pressure was building as he got closer and closer and when we has half a meter from the disk, in the distance the telephone indoors began to ring! Literally saved by the bell, I called my dad inside to get the phone, it was my chance! In a great rush I sprinted to the hedge retrieved the disk and returned it to the bike. Never to this day, was anyone else other than myself and few friends aware of what happened that glorious Friday afternoon. Even now I live in fear of telling my dad what happened and the bike still takes pride of place in his garage.
Stirring conversation on the walk, as you can imagine, girls, football and bikes. Bikes, being a recurring topic, all of us scrimping to save enough for clapped out bike, we all had a passion for anything with wheels and an engine. An interest I inherited from my father. A man who’s prized possession a fiery orange Honda CBX. On the rare occasion he rode the machine, it lived in the garage not collecting dust taxed and insured however for when it was on the rode. His weekends consisted of polishing down every square inch of the machine to a fine standard and then tucking the bike away at night. Something that neither myself nor my little brother received as children, the bike was his life, he adored the bike. The world revolved around the bike and boy did he make us all aware of this. We all knew our place and it was to stay well away from the bike.
On reaching an empty home, mum still serving mugs of tea and greasy sandwiches and dad a number on a shirt on the floor of a manufacturing plant, the scent of freedom we followed led straight into the garage. The scent of freedom soon took a growing hint of petrol to we reached the source. My friends were more than aware of dad’s bike and how much he loved it. He once caught me sitting on the stationary bike and went absolutely ape shi*! But today, dad was not around so sitting was welcomed. Sitting on the bike felt right, the powerful machine being locked away was not right. Like a cheetah in captivity, the bike never felt the rushing air particles separating for the thundering machine accelerating down the road. The fine Italian leather seat and gleaming bike was too much. Friends egging me on to start her up, the peer pressure was to great, the day to glorious and the bike captive for too long. I got off the bike to take the keys from the red enamel tin on the garage wall. I mounted the bike again and switched on the ignition. The engine vibrated and boiled, the sound of music to me and my friends ears. I sat with pride, I felt like Steve McQueen, it was the bike’s great escape. I kicked the stand and rolled forward, a notion the bike rarely felt. It was itching for more, just a little squeeze of power, a tiny squeeze. I gripped the handle gently, and treated the machine like the hand of a delicate beautiful lady. That squeeze was all it took though and with that tiny injection of power, the bike flew forwarded, swaying side I struggled to keep the machine up, straight across the front lawn and not stopping. The immense power of the bike swiftly stopped by the friction of becoming head on in to the front garden’s hawthorn hedge perimeter. Cutting the power and dismounting half fallen bike I feared for the damage of the bike. No noticeable dents, nothing broken. A couple of scratches on the perfect fiery paintjob but nothing another couple of coats of polish wouldn’t soon buff out. Removing the twigs and leaves of the bush the bike was wheeled back into its spot. My friends soon disappeared leaving me to polish the bike back to the high standard of my fathers. After a good couple of coats of wax I tucked in the bike just like he would. Fearing for him noticing something, something I’d missed, grass in the tread of the tired, a scratch something. As scared as I was, I cleared up the front lawn, the print of the fast accelerating machine leaving its mark on the lawn and picking branches and leaves to cover the large hole in the hedge. When amply taken care of to leave no trace of the incident, I took to the remainder of my Friday treated it much the same as any other.
The next day was just as glorious, and I was doping around the house. Mum was outside tending to her hanging baskets and dad in the front garden, the scene of the crime but mowing the lawn. He was oblivious to the previous days events and mentioned nothing of the bike or any holes in the hedge. I was outside facing out to the hedge when he was pottering around the garden. Then I noticed a small detail I hadn’t earlier clocked that could result in my young death. About two foot above head height, there hanging like a Christmas decoration was the tax and tax disk from the bike. How I missed this, I to this day do not know. But I had to get it without dad seeing. I needed a decoy to keep him away. He was edging the lawn and edging closer and closer to the disk. A leak in the garage rough? That would lead him towards the bike, I needed something and quick. The fear must have been visible in my young face, I must have been the same colour as the enamel key tin. Pressure was building as he got closer and closer and when we has half a meter from the disk, in the distance the telephone indoors began to ring! Literally saved by the bell, I called my dad inside to get the phone, it was my chance! In a great rush I sprinted to the hedge retrieved the disk and returned it to the bike. Never to this day, was anyone else other than myself and few friends aware of what happened that glorious Friday afternoon. Even now I live in fear of telling my dad what happened and the bike still takes pride of place in his garage.