I was beginning to feel left out. Old fashioned. Out of time. Strange things were happening in the slightly odd two-wheeled world I have inhabited for so long. The times were, as we once sang, a-changin’. Where once my companions of the road would discuss serious stuff like valve overlap, racing histories and sheer raw horsepower, suddenly they were discussing whether a full-face helmet would fit beneath the seat and whether there was somewhere to hang the shopping bag inside the apron. I was plainly excluded, because they were talking about their scooters. Dark days indeed.
Not that there's anything wrong with scooters and their aprons. Didn't motorcycles once have a fashion for skirts?
Matters reached a head when I parked up at a roadside diner to meet a pal for a little light salad, and maybe an all-day breakfast or two. We seasoned travellers need to keep our strength up, as you know – few Vikings went on their rampage after a watercress sandwich. Or so I understand, anyway.
My pal rolled up on his scooter. I wasn't surprised, not least because he admits to owning a camper van, the summertime bane of local lanes around Bude. Tolerance in all things is important. I looked sympathetically and with an air of understanding as he parked his curvaceous scooter alongside my own mighty American monster machine, noted for its vast size, great noise and feeble performance – apparently. The scooter was visibly longer than my heavyweight Harley-Davidson.
