Mamma’s on speed, baby

• By Alison
• 17 March, 2010
• 1 Comment

I was riding in to work today on the scooter. It’s a fantastic little machine, despite the fact that its seat is now gaffa taped back together, and makes some interesting rattling noises when it chugs along. It also squeaks in a very unmanly way, which is fine for when I’m riding it, being that I’m not manly. Or even a man.

Now, I’ll extol the virtues of a scooter for city riding for hours if you give me a chance. They are so fuel efficient, easy to manouvre, and simple to wedge between other bikes when you park them.

They zip along at a perfectly adequate speed for built up areas, and can take off and overtake a bus with ease.

Even looking like something the mechanical dog dragged in, our scooter is an extremely serviceable vehicle that I am happy to ride.

But the minute a jumped up L plater on a shiny japanese model zooms past me as I ride carefully along battersea bridge in a manner that is both safe and considerate – I want to catch up with him, rap him on his overpriced helmet and shout. “Don’t mess with me, I used to ride a Ducati you know.”

Yep, I can talk the talk, but I don’t think I’ll ever truly accept myself as a scooter rider in my heart. You can’t – once you’ve felt the throb of a Ducati, and the force that is 0 to 100 from a standing start. My bike had guts and power aplenty. It doesn’t matter what is logical and sensible – riding a scooter is akin to mounting a lawnmower and “yeehar”ing down the street. It’s lacking in the coolness department.

My bike lacked no coolness at all. It was a “Monster”, and semi naked. Both concepts that appeal to me on various levels. It was the entry level model of the monster series, and only 600cc – but it was beautiful to behold and ride.

Every morning I’d start it up before I rode to work and let it warm up. He liked a nice long warming up, and would happily growl and chug away with his throaty voice. 

The neighbours would cheerfully hurl boots out their windows in a friendly but curious street ritual when they heard the engine turning over.

Eventually it would be ready, and I’d gun down the road and off to Wandsworth, to the design studio where I worked. There was cut corner on our building which afforded a nice parking bay for my bike right beside the main entry way to our offices. I could see the bike from my mezzanine position, and watch casual admirers run their green eyes over it, drinking in its black gorgeousness.

It was in that parking lot that I first dropped it. That was probably the worst moment of my bike riding life – the horror of my bike dropping on the cobbles, the potential damage, plus the huge mortification of dropping it in the first place. A van sped into the carpark as I came out, and only saw me at the last moment. As he nearly hit me, I tried to turn the bike away, but the cobbles were uneven, and I wasn’t able to react quick enough. He was very heavy, but I hauled him back up like a grandmother shouldering a morris minor when her prize chu chu is stuck underneath.

The damage was minimal – amazingly so. The foot peg and handlebars had taken the full force and the petrol tank was unscratched. The next day a co-worker handed me a strange black object, which I realised was the end of my brake lever from the left handlebar. It had snapped off in the dark and been left lying on the ground. He was also a biker, so that just deepened my embarrassment at the whole dropping thing. That wasn’t particularly cool!

I sold the Ducati when I was 5 months pregnant with my second daughter. The bump started to stick into the petrol tank. 5 months had been when I’d stopped riding the first time I was pregnant too. But this time I didn’t just stop riding, I sold him. Mr Boxer Shorts found me crying after the new owner had taken it away and actually had to ask what was wrong.

Even worse – the money that his sale raised paid for our new kitchen. It seems rather mundane – even if the tiles were really funky. They were no Ducati.

I vowed I’d get another one – some day when the babies are grown. But having just turned 40, the reality of how old I’ll be by the time I do that has finally sunk in.

I could be the elderly terror of the highways! Support hose and bedroom slippers with racing stripes on them. I did plan to have a bespoke monster made for me – instead of being all black with a yellow spring in the guts, I want it all black with a pink spring.

Because that would be COOL.

Until then, I do have one little bit of my bike left – the end of the brake lever. I had a hole drilled in it, and it’s been my keyring ever since.