Gurriers (65 page)

“You disappeared fairly sharpish last nie!”

“Had to, I was bollixed, man!”

“Were you there for any of the disco?”

“Disco, no.”

“Loads of us were flyin’ out of our bickies when the cabaret finished and the DJ came on. Ye should of seen the fuckin’ state of us on the dance floor. I swear to God, somebody hit the deck every couple of seconds. Good laugh though. I don’t think half
of us made it to the rooms either. There was a bi’ of ‘sleep where you drop’ goin’ on by the time the bar shut. Bodies everywhere – took them an hour to get us owa’ the place. You have all your gear here, yeah? Hope no one lost an’in las’ nie. Think we better get up if we’re gonna be on time for the shit they call breakfast on this rust bucket.”

The breakfast wasn’t that bad, it just cost about twice what it was worth. We met up with Gizzard, Dave, Gerry, Mad Tom and two of the Urgent boys in the restaurant, all of them very much the worse for wear, most of them struggling to eat what they had over-paid for.

Kevin from Urgent was the first to address my early departure. “You fucked off early last night, Shy Boy. Not up for the pace or wha’?”

“Yeah and that was the ghost of Christmas past that carried you to your cabin when you passed out.” I bluffed

“I made me own way to me cabin…didn’t I?” He looked towards Macker who just shrugged.

I sensed weakness, turning towards the Gizzard for support. “How easy we forget those that do us a good turn, eh, Giz?”

“Wonder if ‘e’d be so fuckin’ quick to forget if ye borrowed money off him.”

Good old Gizzard, you could always depend on him to join a spoof. Kevin just sat there frowning, pushing a piece of rubbery scrambled egg around his plate, until Leo landed a tray on the next table with a greeting.

“Rip van fuckin’ Shy Boy! Did ye get enough beauty sleep for yourself ye fuckin’ wus, or is eleven hours enough for ye?”

“Ye lyin’ bollix, I knew I made me own way to the cabin!”

“No you fuckin’ didn’t!” Leo roared, “Me an’ Mick had to drag yer stinkin’ carcass half the fuckin’ length of the boat and dump ye on the floor of yer cabin.”

“I thought I fell owa the bed!” he said, subdued, the brief air of triumph gone forever.

The next hour or so was reminiscent of a Saturday morning
in somebody’s gaff after a huge session, although I would probably have lost an eyebrow for such an early departure at a house party. As it was, I got more than my fair share of stick with each new arrival to the proceedings opening with a dig at me.

When they announced that we were docking in 20 minutes, I decided to go up on deck for some fresh air. Eamonnn and Joe, two Letter Express couriers that were both on XBR’s and both very much the worse for wear and Steve from Go Tapaidh who was on the Bros, said that they would join me.

“Are ye comin’ up here to get away from all the slaggin’, Shy Boy?” Joe asked as we swayed up the steep steps.

“Nah, sure ye’d have to get used to the lackery when yer with these fuckers, Joe.

I genuinely need the air – despite the amount of sleep I got before any of yiz says it!”

The breeze on deck was as fresh as a breeze can only be at sea, which was exactly what we needed. The four of us clung onto the portside rail as the ship entered Cherbourg Harbour, with Joe and Steve assuring myself and Eamonnn (who was also on this trip for the first time) that what was ahead of us was going to exceed our expectations by far. They said the attitude of the French to bikes alone would have us on a buzz within a few miles. They also assured us that we could stay where we were until the ship came to a full stop because the bikes were on one of the upper decks and the boat emptied bottom first. This was good advice, minimising the amount of time we had to spend in the polluted atmosphere of the car decks, although we got loads of “hurry up’s” from the others, as we put on our boots and unstrapped our bikes.

By the time I got onto my bike, the thunder of 18 motorbike engines had drowned every other noise of this confined space. I felt giddy with excitement as the front of our deck lowered, relishing pushing the button and adding bike 19 to the mechanical cacophony.

Shay - the first in line - accelerated through the gap between the first car and the side of the ship before the car had even
reached the ramp. This was a pretty small gap for such a big bike in a confined area with a metal surface beneath the wheels, but that didn’t stop Dave from following at high revs also with Leo hot on his heels. The pace was thus set and every one of us nailed it after them at something in the neighbourhood of maximum acceleration for bikes on a metal surface without it being stupidly dangerous.

I was behind the GT750 who was behind the other CB500 - the two non-couriers. They both looked decidedly shakey in comparison to the professionals but, respect to them both, they kept with the pace without panicking and braking, which would almost definitely have had them on their snots.

As soon as Shay hit the tarmac he gave it plenty, followed in turn by every one of us, and nailed it at speed to the opposite side of a long line of traffic cones past the cars, buses, trucks and caravans that had disembarked from some of the lower decks. He swung to his left near the customs check to change the angle of approach and then right to cut through the cones in front of a Kilkenny registered coach just as the car in front of him, the second in the queue, moved forward. Shay came to halt where he was in front of the bus and with one left hand gesture, beckoned us into the space left by the car and thanked the driver for his understanding, whether he was understanding or not.

It occurred to me as I passed the cone that the people driving all of these vehicles had had the privilege of being around these wild bikers on a serious bender.

Whether out of admiration or fear, not one vehicle beeped as the 19 of us cut in at the very front of the queue. Not that we delayed them by much anyway; we all moved through one at a time with no questions or documentation demands. The armed policeman was happy to give each of us a quick looking at in turn before gesturing us on with the barest flick of his head. The whole lot of us were on French tarmac within the space of two minutes.

The gate that we came through was the only one open out of nine lanes and there were no cones or barriers on the other side. Ahead of us was about a quarter mile of wide almost empty tar
mac occupied only by a couple of the early vehicles off the boat making their way slowly towards the exit. I was debating to myself whether to do a wheelie or not when the Gizzard passed me on the back wheel. My mind was made up. Clutch in, down a gear, throttle wide open, lean back, front wheel up, balance and hold, minor adjustments to throttle, foot hovering over (actually - almost beside) back brake. Lovely wheelie!

Six of us did wheelies, four of us did kill switch backfires, the three XBRs nailed it forward side by side and then we all slammed on the back brakes together, generating a screeching three wheel skidding squeal. Mad Tom drove up to a large stone rectangular planter to the left of the lanes and placed his front wheel perpendicular to the middle of one of the long sides and spun his back wheel on the spot until smoke came out of it. There were beeps, screams, revs and more skids and general bike wrecking merriment of all kinds.

When my front wheel came down I was way over on the right hand side of the proceedings, not too far from the huge metal fence that separated the port from the town. I could see a group of four people - kind of middle aged and conservative looking - on a footpath on the other side of the fence staring open mouthed at our activities. I couldn’t resist aiming my bike in their general direction and opening it up through two gears to about 50 mph and then slamming on the back brake (while simultaneously clutching and dropping back down the two gears), skidding with a screech until I was almost at them before taking my foot off the brake to quietly pass them so that they had no trouble hearing what I roared, as I coasted by them, left fist punching the air

“Les Irelandais sont arrivee!”

“The Paddies Are Here!” Fresh as Joe’s blessings were in my mind, their reaction was such a wonderful surprise that it choked me up completely. All four of them, even the lady punched the air and cheered.

“Allez vous, monsieur!”

“Vive les Irelandais!”

“Encore monsieur!”

“Encore!”

I remember thinking that this was fucking unbelievable. There were tears of emotion in my eyes, as I lined up the bike, dropped down another gear and wheelied away from them, this time saluting them first with a succession of short beeps on the horn, then with a wave of my left hand while the front wheel was in the air. What a buzz! This was a wonderful start to the holiday, and before we had even left the port!

The area bottlenecked down to a two lane road at the top but we all converged behind Shay at a pedestrian path that cut across the road, which doubled back on itself twice to then pass the terminal building and exit the port. By taking the pedestrian path we all cut through and then past the very first four plus wheeled vehicles that had left the boat.

Well, that’s what traffic dodgers do- we dodge traffic!

The first rendezvous point was the petrol station immediately outside the port, just a quarter mile away from the terminal building at a roundabout at the end of a straight stretch of the same two laned road that the mortals in their boxes were all now behind us on. This roundabout was met by four roads at right angles to each other, the first sample of French traffic. I was on cloud nine, nestled on the left of the bunch, constantly reminding myself that it was inside at home, outside over here, somewhere around the middle of the pack, which had stopped playing and tightened up on joining a public road.

I was singing the Irish Rover happily as we approached the roundabout.

Suddenly there a blast of someone’s horn that startled me. I had gone wrong on the first hurdle, almost swinging to the left instead of the right at the very first roundabout. Leo, thank God, had rightly read my little shift to the right as a prelude to a swing left and had accelerated up my left with a beep to warn me. That beep from that position (his front wheel would have been level with my left knee) made me realise in time that all those in front had gone the other way and correct myself with a fright and a wobble. I have to give respect to Leo - he risked having me take the two of us out to stop me making the mis
take. I was ashamed afterwards that I was too wrapped up in my own feelings - albeit happy ones- to be employing appropriate concentration to be dealing with unfamiliar surroundings.

I pulled up beside the others at the lay by at the side wall of the petrol station. Leo was next behind me. I approached him, properly subdued, as soon as I got off my machine.

“Thanks for that back there, man.”

“See how easy it is to go wrong!”

Gizzard was next to pull over

“Fuckin’ hell, Shy Boy, d’ye noh want to get owa the port before fuckin’ smashin’ yourself up?”

“And you never went wrong over here?” Leo fired back, adopting the role as my saviour all round.

“Wha’ happened?” Shay had made his way back to us.

“Shy Boy nearly went wrong at the roundabout.”

“I’m sorry, I was just enjoying myself so much.” I felt like a chastised schoolchild.

“No worries, man, every one of us has gone wrong over here at least once. Prob’ly better off gettin’ it under yer belt early.”

Paddy was next over to us. He gave me a cheery slap on the shoulder. “Bit of a wobble there, man. D’ye geh a fright or woh?”

“I think it would’ve been more than a fright if it hadn’t been for Leo”.

“Nah, sure there was no traffic on the roundabout anyway. The lads said that the most dangerous times are roundabouts and pullin’ away from places and T-junctions.”

“I’m jus’ goin’ to tuck in behind someone an’ follow them through the tricky bits.”

“Just make sure it isn’t me!”

“Aw don’t beat yourself up over it, man. It was just a little learnin’ wobble! D’ye ever drive on the wrong side of the road before?”

“Only when I’m working.”

“You know what I mean, smart arse.”

“No.”

“Well, yer not doin’ too bad at all.”

“Yes I am. Only one tricky bit so far and I fucked it up.”

Joe joined the group and the conversation. “Ye controlled a little slip an’ kep’ the fucker rubber side down, man. That’s not a fuck up and it’s a mistake that ye prob’ly won’t be makin’ again after tha’, so ye’ll be safer for the rest of the mission. And ye seemed to have made some new friends over there at the fence!”

“Yeah what’s the story there?” Vinno jostled his way into the centre of the group.

“Aw, ye shoulda heard them! Go on, the Irish! Give us more! It was great, just like you told me about the French, Joe. And they weren’t kids either, but they loved it!”

Joe’s frown surprised me until he asked the question, “Were they speakin’ in English?”

I caught Vinno’s eyes just as he looked away in despair.

“Er…no.”

“You speak French?” Shay butted in.

“Well I remember a bit from school.”

“Native speaker over here, boys!” Gizzard had both hands over his head pointing down to me as he shouted, lest there was any doubt that any member of the group knew exactly who to pester when they wanted something said to a French person.