Gurriers (66 page)

“So who’s skinning up anyway?” I couldn’t have removed the sulking element from my voice, even if I had wanted to.

It was agreed during the course of three joints, all smoked together to make sure that everybody got a smoke, that Mad Tom and the two non-couriers - all three over for the first time - would all go early led by Gerry, a seasoned pro. The rest of us would depart 15 minutes later as a pack, except the super fast bikes, who would give it another ten before taking after us. That way everybody got to go at whatever speed they came here to do. The next rendezvous was in a town called Caen, which was a hundred fast miles away on a fabulous road.

Seamus from Urgent compared Irish and French roads to
when you had no money and needed tyres, but had to keep going on dangerously worn rubber until you could afford new ones.

“We all know how fuckin’ amazin’ it is to get grippy rubber under us after the dangerous shit we’d gotten used to. Well, this is new tyres here boys, that’s how good these roads are compared to the ones at home!”

“An’ wait ‘til ye see how deadly the motorists are: they see ya comin’, indicate to move in an’ then go over as far as they can to let ye pass them. Fuckin’ deadly it is, put the fuckers at home to shame!”

“One thing you have to be careful of though, Seamus,” Vinno contributed. “They move over all the time, not just when it’s safe for you to go. Always have a look before commitin’ yourself to pass.”

“And another thing,” the Gizzard had to have a go. “They expect the same courtesy back. Keep an eye on yer mirrors for faster bikes and cars. All of the cars over here drive faster than at home cos they have the roads for it. Some of them in the bigger cars do silly speed. Keep an eye ou’ for them in yer mirrors always, ‘cos they come right up close to ye expectin’ ye to move over ‘cos everyone else here does. If ye see them indicate to the right, Shy Boy? The right, yeah? Immediately an’ then ease over. Usually ye don’ even have to slow down ‘cos they’re gone like a shot an’ ye can swing back into the fast lane.”

All this advice had me itching to go, giddy once again, with the negative elements of the roundabout behind me. Not forgotten, of course and not to be forgotten by a long shot. The episode would remain in my memory in such a way as to cast a shadow on my approach to every roundabout I would come across in France.

A shadow that would spark awareness every time and that made me safer.

Then the first batch mounted up, shuffling bags and finishing cigarettes, zipping up jackets and putting on gloves. I couldn’t help wander towards the activity and almost unconsciously
ended up standing by Mick’s GT, as Leo roared final instructions to his cousin over the din of the engines that had already fired up.

“Remember, that road leads all the way to Caen. It’s well signposted off every roundabout ye’re goin’ to come across, but just fall back a little bit at the roundabouts to make sure you don’ miss an exit. If ye do jus’ do a lap of the roundabout an’ get it the next time. Then cane it after the rest. Don’t panic. The only tricky bit is the one ye’ll end up on at Caen. It’s called the Peripherique, when ye find yourself on that ye have to take the motorway exit for Paris. That’s the blue sign, yeah? Ignore the green ones. After ye get onto that ye’ll see a sign for Le Mans a coupla exits down an’ the Mcdonalds we’re meetin’ at is on the next roundabout. See ya there, man.”

“See ya for Le Big Mac, Mick!” I had to chip in.

Then he fired up and they were gone. I wanted to leap onto my bike and scream up the road after theirs, so eager to go was I, but that would have left me either driving slower than I wanted to with that pack or driving at the speed that I wanted to out ahead alone.

I sat on the kerb beside where the lads were standing and busied myself making a joint, a little bit stunned about how relaxed all of the lads seemed to be.

It was as if James was reading my mind.

“It’s mad the way ye just go with the flow when ye’re in bits after the nie before, isn’t it?” he said squatting down beside me. “I mean, I’m just as rarin’ to go as I am every year but because I’m so wrecked, I’m happy enough here buzzin’ with the lads until the time is rie to barrel on after the more relaxed movers.”

“I’m itchin’ to get onto that bike and wring the beyjayus out of that throttle.”

“Yeah, but you crashed out early last night. Three yokes I did, man. Me head is still buzzin’. Next on that joint, yeah? Cool!”

By the time the joint was finished there were five of us in a huddle, one of whom had added a well received ice cold two
litre bottle of water from the petrol station shop. One of the others, amazed to find them in a petrol station, had bought a six pack of beers, which were also well received by five of his non-smoking compadres. The conversations were fast and furious now, gaining momentum as the excitement of departure loomed ever closer. At least three high volume tales of previous years were being revisited simultaneously. I tore myself away from Dave’s reminisce about the send off that his family gave us to set about preparing my bike for the off. Well, figiting impatiently with bags and bungees that had already been checked on the boat!

I was wiping my mirrors when I heard the sound of a beer can crushing behind me. It was like a signal to move. Within seconds everybody was on their feet busying themselves with something. Except Vinno, Leo and the Gizzard, who were on their feet, but idle. Each of them approached a preparing bike, just as I had when the first wave left.

Vinno came over to me. “Jus’ because ye’re goin’ flat out for ages on a deadly road, man, don’t ever forget how fast yer goin’, yeah? No heroics with Shay either, jus’ keep behind him. He’s been here loadsa years an’ he knows what he’s at over here. He won’t be hangin’ around anyway. Ye might have problems keep-in’ up with him but just barrel on. Ye’ve got all couriers around ye as well. They all know not to drive directly behind each other but to the side to give the bike in front braking space. You know that too, of course. There yiz go. Use your mirrors lots. Set yer clocks to zero an’ start watchin’ out for us lot comin’ up on ye fast round about seventy miles or so in. Keep her rubber side down!”

“You take care also, man, see ya on flip side. Yee hah!”

As I pulled away level with Steve on his Bros with two of the XBRs hot on our heels, after Shay, Dave, Kevin, Macker and Paddy with the rest nestling into formation immediately behind us.

The off!

It was great to actually get moving at last, the thrill of being
part of such a large pack magnified double by the fact that we were on a long fast rip on deadly French roads and the mega party we were on our way to.

The day was dull but dry with a crisp light wind. Visibility was good and traffic well spread out. We left the port via a bypass road that swept uphill at a gradual right bend for nearly two miles. There were no antics or showing off or even beeps between us, just acceleration. We were about speed and that’s what we set about doing. Every one of the 12 bikes was opened up to the max with only a little bit of position change within the pack and an appropriate loosening of formation for higher speed. It was great! I felt like a greyhound must feel when it is released after the hare, attaining and retaining such speed for such a long period.

We came to a traffic light about three miles from the port where we had to cross a road that came from Cherbourg town centre. About two miles after Cherbourg, there was a roundabout where we had to take the last exit to get on the main road to Caen, then it was Yippee for about 30 miles until the road clipped the outskirts of Bayeux where we met our next traffic lights.

At the Bayeux junction Shay braked at an orange light that he would definitely have gone through at home. Had I been leading the pack I might have instinctively nailed it through, which would have been a mistake. Shay was experienced enough not to go through a light that the whole pack couldn’t get through. I stopped directly behind Shay to leave space for the 12 of us to form two tight rows of six bikes wide, close enough to buzz off each other.

“Fuckin’ amazin’, isn’t it?”

“I tell ye, man, this is already the best drive I’ve ever fuckin’ been on.”

“Yee-hah!” There were beeps and revs from Dave to accompany the scream.

Then all of our noise was drowned out by the air horn of a huge, odd looking, Renault truck that turned left at the junction to go towards Cherbourg. The driver gave us a four beep
salute with his deafening horn, as he passed across in front of us before punching the air out his window with his left hand, as he made the turn to pass us.

We all replied with beeps, revs, cheers and waves. All of the cars that followed the truck through the junction also beeped, which generated even more salutes from us.

I looked to my right while beeping and revving and noticed that there was a little roadside bar beside us. Several customers were on their feet waving at us. I took my right hand off the throttle to wave back at them but continued beeping with my left. Then I heard the car behind me beep, so I turned another 90 degrees to my right to involve them in my wave of greeting, still beeping my own horn.

After a moment’s waving at the front seat passenger, I realised that the driver was the other bloke in the car and made eye contact with him. He was waving all right, but it was no friendly greeting. Neither was his beep. The light in front of me had changed to green while I had been waving at the people in the bar. My mates had already begun moving by the time I had turned around and copped on. I was last in the pack by the time I had put it into first and accelerated with an apologetic wave to the car behind, but with a big silly grin on my face. I made eye contact in my mirror with the car driver just as I wound the throttle full on. He was laughing.

Bayeux to Caen was nothing short of fabulous. Every single motorist gave way to us, except for super fast cars, which came up behind us at speed that must have been in excess of 130 mph, that we moved over for. I was at the back of the pack for the second one, and was a bit nervous at the speed his lights approached me in my mirrors, but performed the indicate, move, move back when he’s gone smoothly, flashing my lights as I did so to make sure that my comrades knew that there was a speed demon approaching.

There were a lot of French bikes on the road also, most of them brand new, that moved a lot faster than us, but we didn’t
have to change lanes for them, just ease over to the right a little.

Each time a French bike went past me the rider gave a little forward stamp in the air with his or her right foot. This gesture of respect made a lot of sense, especially at high speed. Our normal pediatric salutes at home tended to be a kick away from the bike, causing the wind to get a good grip of the foot, wrenching the leg and sending the bike slightly off balance. The little forward stamp incurred less wind resistance with more leg control. The French bikes gave the same gesture to motorists who moved for them. Before very long, so did I.

We moved at speed that we would have only moved at on the fastest roads in Ireland, but we weren’t on motorways. Every now and again the road would go through a little town, slicing it into two terraced halves. In Ireland there would have been traffic light junctions and pedestrian crossings and all sorts of motorist delaying shite in all of these little villages, but not over here. Stop signs for the smaller roads, a widening of the main road for left turns and stripes across the road – no lights – for the pedestrians to make their way across.

The speed limit, of course, was reduced from 110 Km/hr to 70 Km/hr for these villages but with the traffic flowing smoothly that only presented minor delays. We made good time and the numbers on the signposts decreased rapidly, our speed being one factor and the other being the fact that these numbers were in kilometres and we were all used to miles.

Before long, the sign said Caen: 40km, which worked out to be twenty five miles. We had travelled 75 miles in less time than it would have taken us to do 50 at home. But then I began wondering about the other packs. Should we not be almost up with the slower pack? And the faster three?

We had devised the departure from Cherbourg to put roughly 20 miles between each wave. The slower bunch might have travelled a little faster than expected because of the perfect conditions. They were not the cause for concern, though, because we were on the same stretch of road. If any disaster had befallen
one of them we would have come across them.

The faster bikes behind us, though, were a different story. The slowest one of these three was capable of 150 mph and Leo had said that he intended to take it to the max to keep up with the Firestorm and the blade, with speeds of 150 and 165 respectively. They had planned to leave ten minutes after us, who intended to move at 110. Seventy five miles with a ten minute head start on bikes that were going to be moving 40 mph faster, just didn’t add up.

I had eased off a fraction to nervously wrestle with the numbers and found myself at the back of the pack becoming more and more ominous by the minute, spending more time than would be advisable scrutinising my mirrors for the familiar shapes of my friend’s headlights approaching us. I was disappointed every time and one time I nearly ran into the back of a car that had braked while I was giving too much attention to the road behind me.

By the time I passed the Caen 25km sign there were several cars between me and the pack and I was riddled with worry. Coming up on and overtaking the slower pack a couple of miles later with loads of beeps and waves all around provided a brief respite from my fretting, but every mile we got under our belts without having our friends catch up with us, further convinced me that something had gone wrong – possibly terribly wrong.