Two Wheeled Passions

A deranged howl marked my three cylinders redlining at 14000 RPM as I dropped a gear, a dab of front brake coming over the ridge, pass through the wood line, into the right hander at around 9000 revs and sixty-five miles per hour. Tuck in behind the Mercedes Sprinter van, another dab of brake, down another gear, 12000 revs in second, slow to forty to avoid piling into the van.

The long sweeping bend opened out into a nice wide straight, I checked my mirror, there was the single light of the Ducati I'd just screamed past burning, he was holding about fifteen to twenty feet behind me. Check forward again, road clear. Mirror, flick the indicator, throttle, lots of throttle, third gear, out and let the furious acceleration take me past the sprinter and away.

Fourth gear came in at ninety, I let the power build again and changed up quickly, short shifting through fifth to sixth and a gentle 8000 on the rev counter as I cut my speed back to below the ton; points and a fine I can take, losing my licence would be an annoyance I can live without.

I checked the mirrors again; the sprinter was almost half a mile behind me but coming up fast was a low flying aircraft. The gap between us closed in a remarkably short period of time, something black and noisy blasted by me at what was probably in excess of a hundred and forty miles an hour, a growling howl from the exhausts proving my identification skills were lacking, it wasn't a fighter jet, it was the Ducati. One of the new V4s, in black. Nice, maybe £25, £30 grand. No wonder the rider wanted to be the fastest thing on the road and in a straight line he was proving he was, he probably had two more gears to go at that speed. In the standard spec they were good for nearly two hundred miles an hour.

Where he was having grief was in the bends, my 2012 Triumph Street Triple may only be 675 cc to his 1100 and 106 horsepower to his more than 200 but it was nimbler in the twisty stuff, the three cylinders were pretty torquey so I could power through the bends without compromising on speed and I was a better rider. I'm not a race rider, but I've been riding bikes along that road since the day after my seventeenth birthday when I took the four hundred pounds I'd saved working in Homebase to buy myself a Suzuki RG125, and over nine years I'd got to know it quite well.

I focussed on the road ahead, it dipped into a slight incline with a bridge crossing a small stream at the bottom then a sweeping left-right S bend, clearing the woods on the left then down further to a hard right around an old stone-built barn, it wasn't a particularly challenging route at normal speeds but if you were proving your dominance by going faster than everyone you needed to be on top of your game.

I flicked down a couple of gears and applied the throttle to the 'on' position, I'd let Signor Ducati occupy the attention of any traffic cops up ahead and pushed the little red Triumph up to the red line in fourth, the surge of acceleration pulling at my arms.

Fifth came in at ninety-seven and kept going up to one-twenty. I backed off slightly as I came up to the bridge, raising my bum off the seat to take the bounce as I hit the small hump-back. Ahead I could see the Ducati's rear light shining bright red as he flapped his way into the left-right double, his speed cutting from the ludicrous one-fifty or so. In his overreaction he'd lost concentration and dropped to the mid-fifties. He must have really pooped himself when he hit the bump and saw the bend coming in.

I took him on the outside at a hundred and ten, bursting back out into the early summer sunshine as we cleared the trees. I reached up with my left hand and quickly flipped down the internal sun visor in my helmet, then pulled out to pass a Vauxhall Astra hatchback, giving the driver a brief wave of thanks as I left him in my wake. Never hurts to be polite when you're breaking the speed limit. I have heard it can save you from a 'driving without due care and attention' charge if you get busted. Also, why wouldn't you?

My mirrors told me I was on my own again, the Ducati was trapped behind the Astra, no, here he was now as a Land Rover appeared round the right hander. He hit the anchors and pulled back in behind the Astra. I dropped down to fourth, leaned over hard, hanging my bum off the side, and feeling my boot scrape on the road as I angled ostentatiously into the bend, leaving the woods behind on my right I hurtled down the valley.

The road continued to the right in a gentle climb before hitting a series of increasingly aggressive bends up the ridge line. I was shuttling between second and third all the way to the top where the road joined a dual carriageway for a few miles before cutting off to the left and my destination for the morning.

I pulled into the car park at ''s' at nine. I glanced along the rows of assembled bikes, spotting a couple I recognised. Nick and Phil were there, Nick's a mechanic and amateur racer who comes out to play on Sundays when he hasn't got a race meeting and the weather's nice, he wouldn't dream of getting his shiny R1 wet. Phil's a vet, large animals mainly, horses and cattle, he rides a BMW GS 1200, done out in all the gear to go around the world like he's Charley Boorman. In fact, I know he's done some significant miles on it, last summer his wife flew down to Greece and he took the bike down over four days there and three back, so we tend not to give him too much stick.

I pulled in, swung my leg over to a few appreciative glances, and pushed my bike back to park next to them. I took my helmet off and let my hair down, combing it out with my fingers, growling at the itch from being crammed inside my Shoei XR1100. I dumped my gloves inside the helmet and left it on my fuel tank, unzipped my leathers halfway down the front and stashed the key in my inside pocket, taking out my purse.

I was wearing my lighter set of summer leathers, all black, one piece and very snug, with just enough flexibility to let me move and breathe. They were tight enough that I couldn't wear a huge amount underneath and today had opted for a bralet top and big pants, trust me, you don't want to be trying to adjust a thong under your leathers at ninety miles an hour. The bralet was quite demure when I put it on but when the firm support of the top half of my suit squeezed, my 36D chest pushed out like Dolly Parton. I quite liked the effect, particularly with my slightly longer than shoulder length jet black hair and my boots that had a two-inch heel, giving me a bit of an Emma Peel vibe. Check with your parents who Emma Peel was.

I looked at the boys, "Whose round is it? Tea, tea, and tea?" They looked back, dumbstruck. I rolled my eyes; half zipped my leathers to cover most of my boobs and tried again. "Mmmhh? Sorry, oh yeah, Tea please" I gave a snort in mock exasperation and went into the café; while I queued the Black V4 rolled in, the rider spotted my bike and rode over, parked up and switched off. I waved over and made the internationally recognised signal for "drink?" Nick asked what he wanted and shouted "Coffee.."

I returned five minutes later with four China mugs filled with something brown and steamy, Sharon behind the counter seemed convinced it was three teas one coffee and in feminine solidarity I felt duty bound to agree with her, it took a bit of a stretch of the imagination though.

I checked the newcomer, he had short cropped blonde hair over a high forehead that may be a touch of receding hairline. It was quite a nice forehead, with blue eyes and a straight nose leading to a smiling face filled with expensively capped and straight teeth. His firm jaw and trim body shape hinted at lots of gym work or a physical job.

The boys had already introduced themselves, so I held out a hand. "Millie." He took it and responded "Matthew, Matt. Thanks for the brew."

We chatted about the journey through the woods to get to the café, I confessed that I knew the road really well but kept my opinion that I'd beat him whatever his familiarity with the route to myself.

The carpark at the café was well filled with bikes and riders, all mingling and checking each other's machines. Matt's V4 soon gathered a little crowd of onlookers, and to be fair it did look very pretty as it sparkled in the early summer sun.

I went for a stroll around, I was thinking of changing my Triumph for a KTM 790 Duke and I'd spotted one across the crowd and wanted to get some feedback from the owner, Matt followed, and we carried on the chat. It turned out we were in the same industry, I was the Sales Office Manager for a builders supplier and he was the Operations Director for a company making water heaters, boilers, and showers, we avoided talking shop though as we agreed it was bad enough Monday to Friday being filled with it and weekends were precious to us both. And it was deathly dull.

I alluded to my single status, I like to think in a subtle manner, he dropped his into the conversation as well. So, single, nice to look at and good taste in bikes I like to imagine he was thinking, in a mirror of my own first impressions.

We found the KTM, it did look quite nice but I got a wee bit annoyed with the owner when he jumped to the wrong conclusion, I asked about gear ratios and power bands and he addressed his answers to Matt while maintaining steady eye contact with my cleavage.

"It's got a good mid-range power, forty to seventy in third and it's a beast. Not sure how your missus will like it though, I've never sat on the back seat." I walked away before I said something unladylike, behind me I heard Matt trying to clarify that it was me that was considering the purchase, but he just got "Yeah mate, whatever."

Matt caught up with me, angry on my behalf but I gave him an introduction to being a girl and riding a bike. "The default assumption is that I'm someone's girlfriend and when they find I'm not I get hit on, then when I don't succumb to the silver-tongued wankers, they decide I'm gay. There's not many like that but enough to piss me off when I meet them."

He seemed genuinely annoyed at this, which was endearing but I can fight my own battles, I just choose the battles to fight. I did let him buy me another mug of brown liquid though.

The neanderthal didn't manage to ruin my entire day, but only because I'm used to

it.

Nick and Phil were going off for a blast around the countryside, there was talk of chips by the sea, but that's a hundred- and twenty-mile round trip and I wanted to be home by three in the afternoon, so I elected for a shorter ride to a private airfield with a café we use on occasion. Matt asked if he could follow me, I teased him with a smile and a flirtatious "You can try."

I jumped on the Triumph, Matt leapt into his Ducati, starting it up as he put on his helmet and gloves, my own were on and fastened when I had momentary flap, keys. Where did I put the damned keys, I tried both the waist pockets, then I remembered, inside pocket. Annoyed I pulled the gloves off and unzipped my front, almost all the way to my waist in my eagerness to get going, spilling my boobs out for everyone.

Burning with embarrassment I found the keys, zipped up and started the bike, dropping into first and pulling out to depart with a bit more noise and speed than was strictly necessary, Matt followed at a more sedate pace.

I led him through the Wiltshire countryside up onto Salisbury Plain, never quite losing him but opening quite a gap until we'd hit a straight and I'd slow down and he'd apply the afterburners to catch up. After forty minutes or so playing I turned off the A road and down a long narrow track to come out at the end of a grass runway. A single engine light aircraft was coming in impossibly slowly, looking like a bloated insect with its spindly undercarriage and goldfish bowl-like canopy.

I parked up next to the clubhouse, Matt parked beside me and followed me in. Bacon sandwiches and tea with more chat followed, I went to use the ladies, it's a lot nicer than the one in , and when I came out a couple of traffic cops were chatting to Matt about the Ducati. He was laughing and denying any knowledge of its top speed, I tried to throw him under the bus and sat down saying "Well I was at sixty when you screamed past me, looked like you were about to take off."

He gave as good as he got though by returning "Yeah, but you didn't want to go too fast as you still felt unwell after those three pints of cider you'd drunk." The cops rolled their eyes and offered to get another round of teas in. I like to think it was in the interests of community relations, but it may have been my unzipped leathers.

Time ticked on and we left at two, the traffic cops gave a wink and told us they were heading North on the main road so we should be careful on our way back south as they wouldn't be around in case we got into trouble. Again, community relations or boobs? You choose.

We'd swapped numbers at the airfield café, and I got Facebook and LinkedIn requests on the Monday, both of which I accepted, relatively happy to see where it went, but not too concerned if it petered out. On the Friday I got a message asking if I was interested in going to a track day on Saturday.

It read: "I know it's short notice but we've had a client drop out of a corporate track event we're sponsoring tomorrow. As you're in the industry do you fancy coming along? Morning session in cars, afternoon on bikes. Final session a three-lap race. Honda CBR 600s. Dress smart casual, all gear to be supplied."

He gave me a location that was two hours away, so I reluctantly emailed back "Sorry, can't make it. I don't fancy four hours in the saddle there and back. Shame I'd love to have gone."

Twenty seconds later, "I can pick you up, either from home or you could come to me or neutral territory? I'll buy you breakfast on the way."

Hmmm. Now that was a better idea, and a coffee and a croissant at a motorway service station was just melting this girl's heart, I emailed back an enthusiastic acceptance and arranged a suitable place to meet. My flat's a bit tricky to find and parking can be difficult. I ran it past my Sales Director, who to my delight said as it was an industry event I should keep any receipts and put in a claim for lunch and travel.

Next day at 7.15 I was standing in Tesco's carpark in my trade show outfit, black skinny jeans, black ankle boots, the ones with a small heel that don't kill my feet if I'm on them all day, company blouse with two buttons undone and a zip up fleece to keep the early morning chill away. I also had a kit bag with my leathers, boots, helmet and gloves and a non-corporate blouse and sweatshirt, just in case.

At 7.15 and a half a blue Alfa Romeo Giulia pulled up in front of me, the driver's door opened, the boot lid popped up, Matt jumped out and told me to dump my bag in next to his.

I did then climbed into the passenger seat, admiring the interior, all dials and leather. It never hurts to tell a bloke you like his car so I made a favourable comment. Matt grinned, "Yeah, I just love beautiful Italians." I pondered mentioning my Italian Grandmother but thought it might get misinterpreted so kept that for another time.

We stopped at a hotel just outside Tamworth for a very civilised breakfast, I managed to maintain my ladylike credentials by not going for the full-on fat-bird-fry-up but looked on enviously as I nibbled a couple of croissants and he downed the full works.

The track day was due to start at ten-thirty and we arrived with ten minutes to spare so cracked into a welcoming coffee. Matt knew several of the people already there and introduced me around. Unsurprisingly I was the only girl among a mass of blokes. One in particular seemed quite sceptical about my presence. He was taller than Matt with a wiry gingery beard and unruly longish hair.

He stared openly at my chest as he shook my hand, and in a horrible blokey way that brought equally unpleasant laughter from his group said to me "So darlin' you'll be alright in the cars, no worries about airbags is there? What about the bikes? You more of a single cylinder girl or do you like going two up?"

As I was a guest I didn't punch the twat and kept my response relatively civil, "Well, I imagine boobs filled with air is as close as you've got for a long time, as for the bikes? Well, take a look at my front now because once we get on two wheels you'll only be seeing my back as I disappear into the distance ahead of you."

"Oi, there's no need for that sort of shit, I was just being friendly." He didn't like being made to look small in front of his circle of admirers so in the interests of all getting on for the day I was about to offer a way out for him when Matt stepped up.

"No Corey, you weren't. You were being your normal misogynist self, but I'll give you a chance to make amends to my guest. Best timed lap in the cars and we'll take you on in the bike race. I reckon we'll beat you in both, in fact I'll put a grand on it. You in?"

Corey, if that was his name, looked a bit shaken at being called out but then his inbuilt sense of self-worth kicked in and he gave an arrogant swagger. "I'll take your grand Matty boy, what's she got to offer?" He flicked his eyes towards the car park, a garish red V8 mustang was sitting in pride of place.

"How's about I beat either of you we go for a little ride in my baby out there? I'll bring you back after you're done so Matty boy can take you home to brush your teeth." The misogynist laughter was back. That was probably what pushed me over the edge, a desire to shut them up and score a cheap point.

"Yeah, OK. I doubt it'll take long." I stared at the car, "I wonder what you're compensating for?"

This time the laughter was aimed at him but before he had a chance to come back the chief instructor called everyone to order and asked us to line up at the clothing store to get our morning outfits of fireproof overalls.

As we queued Matt whispered "Millie, what the fuck have you done? You've made the bet in front of a load of people and I know that nob, he's from one of our customers, he's a complete wanker, he's the type to expect you to go through with it, even if you don't he'll tell everyone in the industry you did, in explicit detail and make out you enjoyed it."

I gritted my teeth, "Well, we'd better beat him then." I turned to the counter, "Size eight if you have it please."

Being the only girl meant I got a changing room to myself and spent some time contemplating what I'd set myself up for. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realised my quick temper (Thank you Nonna Francesca) had got me into potential trouble. Shit. I downed my coffee and walked into the pit lane area where I was one of the first out.

There were six cars assembled, an Aston Martin Vantage, a Ferrari 812, an Audi R8, an Aerial Atom, a Jag F Type, and a Corvette. I'm not a massive car nut but I felt the excitement levels notch up a bit.

There were thirty of us so we got separated into six groups of five, I stuck close to Matt and ended up with him, an older guy, possibly early sixties, grey haired but good looking in a someone's dad kind of way, a young salesman from one of our competitors who seemed very eager to please and inevitably, Corey.

We would have time to try three of the cars so by drawing names from a hat we got the Atom, the Ferrari, and the Corvette. The word had spread of the bet between Matt, Corey, and me so we were able to rope Martin and Harry (Older chap and young salesman in that order) into being timekeepers.

Between the three protagonists we agreed that we'd take the quickest lap we each produced in each car and add them together then divide by three to give an average lap time. The bike race would be straight out winner takes all.