Free Good Vibrations by Tom Cunliffe

no hurry, because the road steams dry within fifteen minutes of the day brightening up. All you have to do is find a handy tree under which to wait. There was still no proper rain by mid-afternoon, but the clouds were weeping and boiling above us. Bertha was drawing back to gather her strength. Even at the death, a hurricane can deliver a spiteful blow.
    The tarmac was beginning to glimmer in the sun’s final halfhearted effort as we cruised a drawn-out dip labelled ‘Fertile Valley’. Reflecting its name, the land looked as productive as a freshly ploughed Devon field. We stopped to fuel up at a general store run by a young woman with brown hair done in braids, the smoothest skin in the world and strong, unusual features. Two elderly gents drank beer at a dark corner of the wide, U-shaped mahogany counter. They peered through the window at our bikes and ignored the flickering images on a large television set where a man in jail was receiving a thinly-disguised blowjob from an enthusiastic young female on the right side of the bars. A pair of children were similarly unimpressed by the rhythmic action, as was the lady’s assistant, a teenage girl.
    Trying to divert my gaze from the huge screen, I paid for the gasoline while Roz struck up a conversation. Pots of spicy stews simmered on a hob on top of the counter. The women were discussing the contents, one of which was a chilli of some sort called ‘Sloppy Joe’. In short order we were on first-name terms with Shannon and ordering an unscheduled meal which cost us next to nothing. The chilli was served promptly but we were certainly not eating ‘fast food’. I could feel my system soaking up some serious benefit. Just as I was turning to leave, an energetic new arrival announced himself as Shannon’s husband. Earl was older than his wife, and his accent was so deep in the hills that until I had tuned in to its music I had to try hard to follow his tale about a domestic electrical circuit he had patented. This was all set to transform the civilised world and make him a few bucks into the bargain. He was installing one in the neighbour’s store in the next hollow that very afternoon and would we care to swing by and expand our minds by checking it out?
    â€˜Sure.’
    â€˜Follow me then.’
    Earl didn’t bother to put on his shirt. He just swept Shannon into his well-used car – V-8 American, I was pleased to note – sank his foot into the carburettor and snarled away. We chased him at a gallop. I could see Roz in my mirrors, hanging on to Betty Boop reaching never-before-attempted angles on the curves as both of us watched for stray gravel. This lurked on hidden corners, either washed off the hillsides by the rain or thrown on to the road by the tyres of drunken, midnight home-runners. Gravel is the end of the line for a bike cranked over on a bend. On four wheels, you can always try opposite lock as you go into a slide. On a motorcycle, your only hope is that you land the right side of the bike and don’t hit anything hard as you grind down the road. Tailgating a fast car on an unfamiliar, twisty trail can therefore have ugly consequences.
    Tucking in behind another bike is better, because either the leader knows his stuff and will be watching for loose surfaces, leaves, horse-shit and anything else that induces a skid, or he doesn’t and won’t be. He’ll also take the sting out of any tractor or boy racer that comes speeding around the next bend on the wrong side of the road. So long as he concentrates, you are in good shape. If not, you have two positive chances. Either you’re both in luck and the road surface is smooth, or he loses it and hits the slitheries or the tractor. When it’s the latter, your unhappy leader gets wiped out first, leaving you with a sporting chance of either stopping or dodging his remains. I contemplated these facts of life as we swung the bends, praying that Roz