Hamish McShanks

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 15^th July 2007

As you may have gathered from my last diary I am now a ‘biker’; well I’ve got a bike licence. Purchasing a motorbike seemed like the next logical step, that’s why I sat the test after all. My car was stuttering along reasonably well with only minor incontinence around the oil filter and a few other suspension aches and ball-joint pains that are to be expected with a 13 year old motor car. After flicking through a number of bike magazines filled with glossy spreads of beautiful shiny motorbikes and then glancing sadly out the kitchen window at my rusting relic corroding in the driveway I made the very sensible and correct decision to ‘invest’ in some new transport. After all I’m not seventeen anymore; so a new motorbike it was! You can get a lot more bike for the same money, honest mum you really can!

First of course you have to decide what style of bike you want; which can be trickier than you’d imagine. There are a number of categories of motorbike, the first and most recognisable type would be the Sports bike. These are the most popular bike in the UK and tend to have riding positions which force your head down low and very close to the bars. Your helmet is crammed behind the miniscule windscreen and your arse is up in the air, thereby forcing your now agonisingly cramping body to adopt an aerodynamic teardrop position. This tortuous arrangement allows you to slip through the atmosphere with the minimum of drag.

Contorted into a leather clad teardrop and jammed behind the bars of your metallic Polaris missile you are now prepared to pass any slow moving object which may be in your way. Of course when I say ‘slow-moving’ that basically refers to anything travelling at less than say a hundred and twenty miles per hour. You’ve barely time to shout ‘gerroutofthewayyoudodderyoldbastard’ before you’ve whipped past several dozen cars and are tearing down the road like a bat out of hell.

PC Plod has just shat himself as the wake vortex from your bike ripped the cup of tea he was holding out of his hand and tipped the contents on to his lap. So much for a sneaky brew as he catches some motors with his speed gun. It’s melted trying to clock your speed and he’s squealing like a lassy, fanning his par boiled goolies with a newspaper as you vanish into the distance. Numberplate? what numberplate? With top speeds in excess of 170mph even the Police helicopter can’t keep up. A bike like this would mean death within two minutes for novices like myself and as such is definitely off the buying list (see how sensible I am mum, see see SEE!)

‘Perhaps I need something a bit more sedate’ I mumbled as I thumbed through the enormous pile of bike magazines I had procured since passing my test. A picture of a BMW R1200RT hoved into view ‘hmmm something like a touring bike’ I exclaimed with glee. These are big chunky motorbikes with nice sensible upright riding positions. Designed for jaunts round Europe they usually have huge cavernous panniers where you can store everything you might need for a couple of weeks in the south of France. Capacious wind screens to keep out the worst of those horrid nasty elements you get exposed to on a bike. Comfortable you ask? Seats like a leather chesterfield; it’s a holiday for your backside riding one of these bikes.

Optional accessories include a teas maid, ashtray, microwave, satnav, Sky TV and a live in butler ‘Hmm just the bash-howfuuuuckingmuch!’ my eyes nearly popped out of my head as they took in the exorbitant price tag ‘a fecking car would be cheaper’ I grumbled in disgust. Not a surprise that they tend to be the play thing of bank managers, doctors, Lawyers and the like. ‘Not really the spirit of the motorbike’ I mumbled through my petted lip as I flicked on in search of a suitably priced steed.

We moved on to custom bikes which are (and lets not beat about the bush here) for out and out posers. We are talking Harley Davidsons and the like. Huge chrome encrusted leviathans with names like Panhead, Knucklehead, Shovelhead and Fathead. They all have very very loud burbling engines. In fact Harley Davidson even tried to patent the sound of their motorbike to prevent competitors copying it (yes it is sad isn’t it) apparently a Harley goes ‘potato potato potato’ Happily the residing Judge said ‘get-tae get-tae get-tae-fuuckootofmacourtroom’ upon hearing the case.

These are really bikes to be seen on. They have a very laid back riding position, usually long or wide handlebars (sometimes both) often fitted with leather saddlebags (not panniers you’ll note, saddle bags) Tend to be ridden by aging hippies and bank managers who have a mild side, sorry wild side. Custom bikes are always ridden whilst wearing an open faced helmet and leathers with tassels. I believe it’s the law?

Most custom riders will have a copy of ‘Easy Rider’ in their film collection and proclaim to live on the edge. Given their transport is about as stable as a jelly in a tumble drier I wouldn’t be riding anywhere near the edge of anything in one of those shiny death traps. But custom bikes are not about handling or speed or braking; they are about style! And as a regular patron of Oxfam and Millets style isn’t really my thing so that was another genre crossed off the shopping list. Shame really I quite fancied the tassels …..

Off road bikes are just that, for off road. Tall riding position, huge suspension travel and big knobbly tyres for biting through deep mud and the like. Unlike the much maligned ‘Chelsea tractor’ these tend to be actually used off road. As I had missed the deadline for Paris-Dakar entries and no trans-continental or Polar Cap-to-Cap jaunts were in the offing I decided to cross them off the list straight away.

After a weeks exhaustive research I decided I didn’t have a clue. I plumped for a ‘National Lottery’ approach. After cutting out a picture of every bike I could actually afford out of the magazines I gathered them all together and placed them in an empty coco pop box for the big draw. With some trepidation I gave the box a final shake, closed my eyes and dipped my hand inside ‘C’mon coco monkey don’t let me down’ I mumbled whilst fumbling inside ….. ‘and the winner is’ ……… ‘oh’ …..

‘Congratulations Mr shanks’ beamed the salesman ‘yeah cheers’ I mumbled in return ‘here’s your key; pleasant riding’ grudgingly I accepted the keys and inserted them in the ignition. With a heavy sigh I kicked down on the starter and the engine roared into life ‘BRUUUM….. BRUUUM’ before settling quickly to a nice idle. With a face like a bulldog licking p*ss of a nettle and tassels blowing in the wind I rode off …... potato potato potato potato …..

Doei

Ps I really got a Kawasaki ER-6F and it goes like slippery sh*t off a shiny shovel but don’t tell my mum shhhhhhhhh