With Chris clamped firmly between my thighs, and several champagne cocktails fizzling away in my tummy, last Saturday night proved a thoroughly thrilling and wholly new London experience.
Chris has been regularly extolling the joys of hopping on motorbikes since we moved in together three months ago: ”It’s just like flying, and everyone wants to fly” I believe was his leading argument.
While in sober daylight I had decided that someone who finds it difficult to stay upright in heels should probably not perch unaided on a high-speed vehicle, an impromptu evening of cocktails somewhere beneath the cobbled streets of Soho* suddenly left me with an overwhelming and quite unexpected urge to give this motorised flying thing a go.
Luckily Chris, who had just settled down with his first glass of red wine after an evening’s work at the Lyceum Theatre, is a patient and understanding chap; rather than suggesting his pissed flatmate resume her adrenalin quest at a reasonable hour, he put down his twice-sipped glass, re-laced his boots, only pausing to advise a change from the current sleeveless dress and heels ensemble into something a little more robust should my evasoslightly inebriated self slip off and make contact with the hard and unforgiving London concrete.
Giggling, and feeling instantly like a Power Ranger (the hot pink one) hopping aboard a transformer, I clung excitedly to Chris’ waist and waited for him to instruct me on the dos and don’t of being a safe motorbike passenger.
As I clunked my helmet into his for at least the seventh time, he yelled back:
“Lean when I lean…”
The engine revved, and off we went.
Mere breathless moments after pulling away from our pocket of Bethnal Green, we were whizzing past the throngs of wide-eyed revellers surrounding London Bridge nightspot Shunt. A little twist and turn later and the deep black expanse of the Thames was twinkling from its neon trimmings; with a clear road ahead we flew over Westminster Bridge – parallel Tower Bridge standing proudly to our side – and on the other side, St Paul’s loomed unlit in the darkness, emitting a suitabley soft and ethereal glow from inside the lower windows.
Peering round to observe a chubby girl displaying a generous amount of breast as she zig-zagged her way down Shaftesbury Avenue whilst crying loudly into her phone, I caught our reflection in the widow of Costa Coffee. Unfortunately, I had only the splittest of seconds to enjoy the “yeah, we do look pretty cool” thought flickering across my brain, before Chris pulled sharply away from the lights and my unprepared body compensated with a dramatic lurch forward, smacking my helmet hard into his.
“Whups!” I laughed, more to myself as the engine was roaring. “No worries – happens all the time!” came Chris’ clear reply. It is quite mysterious how even wearing massive helmets and vibrating with the noise of closely situated engine, we could hear each other as clearly as when side by side on the sofa listening to the throaty whispers of David Attenborough.
I’m sure a comfort blanket of alcohol helped, as did the fact I know Chris has an exceptionally high sense of self preservation, but my first motor-biking experience was surprisingly 100% fear-free.
“It’s everyone else’s driving you have to worry about” ring the high pitched tones of my mother. And I know there is truth in that, but when biking through the centre of the capital there is more than a slight reassurance that an absolute excess of traffic, a tangle of mind bogglingly confusing road systems, and hoards of pedestrians who seem to adopt the ‘safety in numbers’ approach to crossing the road regardless of whether there is traffic coming or not, means even the most eager of four-wheeled vehicles stands little chance of reaching anything that could really be classed as a “reasonable speed”.
Heading out of sedate Clerkenwell, we hit a grinding 60mph along Old Street – the beautiful Hoxton masses still partying hard. Turning down Shoreditch High Street, with electronic beats pumping from many a small nook and exclusive cranny that you need a modelling contract or a nod from the Geldof sisters to get into, it was under ten swift seconds later that we swung into Bethnal Green Road, past the stumbling remnants of Brick Lane, and rolled gently into Ramsey Street.
Chris did finally get his glass of red wine – several in fact – but all had to be appreciated whilst nodding patiently at his gabbling flatmate banging on for a good few hours about how the only way to travel round London is by motorbike.
* which featured the happy discovery that champagne with a shot of Crème de Violette is most probably the nicest drink in the world.
November 7, 2009 at 9:02 am |
I would love to read more in the form of a novel, this is great!