Carol’s Column

Help, help, there’s a hell’s angel trying to get out

I WENT to bed a mother and woke up a hell’s angel.

Well, sort of.

About a week ago I decided I was going to buy a motorbike.

Ever since my oldest, unmarried son received his learner’s licence, I no longer have a car to call my own.

Which, you will agree, is a serious state of affairs.

Being a pacifist by nature, I decided I’d solve the problem in my own way, which meant another set of family wheels.

There are wheels and wheels. Mine had to be cheap, mobile and comfortable, so what better than a motorbike?

Besides, have you noticed how cunning these little machines are as they weave in and out of the traffic? I worked out, with my foot flat, it would take me three minutes to make the 5kms or so to the office in the morning.

As my happy little family of 10 mouth-holes — including the dogs, cat and goldfish — staggered their way to breakfast, I decided to break the news gently.

“OK,” I said as they sat down to cheese omelettes and muffins, “I’ve got news for you, brace yourselves.”

Twenty eyes looked at me. Even the goldfish listen these days, they know the hand that feeds them.

“I’m buying a motorbike,” I announced.

There was silence. Then an uproar.

“You’re crazy, Ma.”

“You’re nuts. You can’t, you’ll kill yourself.”

“How can you do a lift-scheme with seven kids on a motorbike?”

“It’s not you, it’s the other driver that’s the danger on the road.”

“I’m pleased you all agree,” I said smugly, “I’m even prepared to let you ride my bike occasionally,” I added.

“You can’t even ride a bike,” said Ralph, the realist in the family. “In fact, have you ever been on one?”

“I beg your pardon,” I answered sharply. “I’m an expert. I rode all around the island of Rhodes on a motorbike. It was amazing.”

“But Ma, you weren’t riding the bike, you were a pillion passenger, I saw the pictures,” said Jamie.

“So what, it’s the thought that counts. Anyway, he wouldn’t have been able to ride without me on the back telling him where to go,” I added. “And on one of the smaller islands, I actually rode a bike by myself.”

Jamie shook his head. “You mean they let you loose on a motorbike?”

I could see I was going to have trouble with my kids, so I changed the subject.

That night I pored over the classified advertisements in the paper. Good heavens, I had no idea there were so many different kinds of motorbikes available.

The ads were incomprehensible. ‘1983 Honda MX, 2- Mugen cr 125. Ohlin shocks, 250 front frogs’, or ‘BMW 1979, immaculate, complete with bikini fairing’, or ‘Harley Davidson, 1981, Fat Bob 1340cc, electro glide’.

What the hang was a mugen, ohlin shocks, a bikini fairing, an electro glide, a Fat Bob? Was the owner being sold with the bike?

The following morning, I put on my mock-leather lummy, jeans, takkies and my fur-lined gloves and set off to do the rounds of the motorbike dealers.

The first showroom I entered was full of gleaming, technicolour machines.

Quite the most beautiful salesman I’d ever seen sauntered over to me, his teeth gleaming in a shark-like way.

“Can I help you, sweetheart?” he asked, winking. I looked around surreptitiously. There was nobody else there. I adjusted my lummy, tummy and my contact lenses and beamed back at him.

“I want to buy a bike,” I said tentatively, “and I need some advice.”

“You’ve come to exactly the right place,” he replied. “Now, what kind of bike are you looking for?”

“What I really need, is a largish bike which can take four children at a push. I need somewhere to put my shopping, and if possible, I’d like something protective so that when it rains, my hair doesn’t get messed up.”

His face dropped to his shoulders. “Madam, what you are describing is a minibus not a motorbike,” he retorted.

Never mind. I’ve finally decided what kind of bike I’m getting. It fits my image perfectly. It’s bright oak-leaf green with a wavey mudguard on the front.

A 400cc — it’s important to be able to accelerate away in a traffic jam, the fundis tell me. The wheels are fattish in order to stick to the road and it’s not too big or too small for me to handle.

A suitable crash helmet is a problem. None of the ones I’ve tried on match the colour of the bike.

Meanwhile, on the home front, things are tense.

My family disapprove strongly.

“Why can’t you behave yourself like all the other mothers?” said Barry to me only yesterday, “you’re becoming wild and unruly, turning into a hell’s angel. You keep your car, I’ll get a bike.”

I was horrified. “Never! A motorbike’s dangerous! It’s not you, it’s the other driver you have to watch out for.”

Psst ... there’s nothing quite like riding a motorbike.

Life’s short — a mother should try everything once.

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