The outfit

The man was standing by the outfit, an old Ural perhaps, that had seen better days. He was worn and rumpled, as if just finished with work and taking a break, gazing over the hillside and taking occasional puffs from a hand-rolled cigarette.

The bike was khaki or dirty green in colour, with a minimalist chair on the side. No frame padding for a passenger, just a handle in front of the sprung seat bolted low within the shell. It was also worn and cracked, but shiny with use.

He knew the whole bike well, having grown up with it and taken it on after his father, who had it from his father. Back in the early days, cars were too pricey for an ordinary working man, so the bike, a solo in those days, was the conveyance on which he could afford to take his new bride home. She was willing at first but when family arrived a chair was added. Later again the bike was relegated to the garage when cheap cars and better times rolled around. It was moved further and further back below piles of belongings but for some reason it remained there, a memory of younger days.

The oldest boy discovered it one rainy day and together they pulled it out to rebuild it, as time and money allowed. The chair was removed and once again it was a solo, used for young man excursions, often with a soft and excited female passenger. When it broke down (not uncommonly) he sometimes lost the girl, sometimes kept her when a successful repair got them going again without too much delay, having impressed her with his mechanical skills.

Then when a family again made it impractical, the bike was less used, languishing for months without being started. This of course made it grumpy and even less reliable. Parts were becoming harder to come by so more of it was held together with baling wire and tape. A bad economic period caused it to be dragged into service as a general workhorse though. The chair and shell was removed and a platform built on the frame, to transport miscellaneous items like planks and bulky drums. The engine needed rebuilding again, new bearings and pistons gave it new life and it pulled like it used to, for a while anyway.

As life improved, the old bike was inevitably retired back to the shed when a truck was able to carry more stuff. Grandad was still telling stories about what the bike did and where he had gone on it, and the grandson lapped up the memories, dreaming himself about going places. But Father was the only one around when the boy was old enough to learn how to ride it, being alternately terrified at the noise and power, and exhilarated by the speed.

Rebuilding and fettling the engine was a fond memory of this period, being together with Father and getting hands dirty making parts to replace old worn out pieces. Chasing up parts via friends and acquaintances and then riding for miles to get them took him all over the country, meeting all sorts of different people. His world was widening just through this activity.

This trip was of a different sort though. Father had gone and the bike was now his alone, and used for pleasure trips. Sometimes they were fast and furious along paved roads winding through the hills, other times they became epic survival journeys with breakdown after breakdown, battling the elements and time. This one was more leisurely, in balmy weather by the sea, more contemplative as an interlude between major life milestones. A journey with an old friend with the prospect of a new type of life at home waiting with his wife and new child.

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