Skip down to the line of *’s for the story proper and avoid the usual drivel from the writer.
This is a lot different from my usual stuff, a lot more light-hearted and an attempt to do something romantic that’s still a little different from what’s been done before.
The racing scene at the beginning actually happened, and is, without a doubt, the best last lap I’ve ever seen in any form of racing. For those that are interested, it was the second Superbike race at Monza in 1999, the participants were Frankie Chili on the Suzuki, Colin Edwards on the Honda and Carl Fogarty on the Ducati and it really did come down to a photo finish as the electronics had them at a dead heat.
****************************
A Ticklish Passenger
I crouched down behind the screen, eyes focused on the horizon as I screamed down the front straight at close to 200mph. The wind was incredible, ripping at me as it tried to tear me from the bike as we started the last lap. The high-pitched wail of the Ducati surrounded me, and yet even with my head barely inches off the fuel tank I could hear the sounds of the two big bikes behind me. The three of us had been locked together for the last 10 laps of this historic Monza circuit, and there was no way this race was going to be anything other than a drag race to the line now.
I popped out and sat upright, hauling the brake leaver back to the handlebar as I fought to shed speed for the tricky double chicane. I’d left it late, but not late enough as the Honda flew past me into the corner, and I tucked in behind, a quick glance over my shoulder enough to know I had a bike length over the Suzuki at least. A quick, almost vicious flip flop and we were out the other side, winding the bikes back up to their limits as we tore down the next straight. Monza was a hell of a quick track, in effect four long straights all of which had tight bends and large gravel traps waiting at the end for anyone who pushed the limits a little too far, and we were riding right at the edge now.
I slid left out of the slipstream, trying to slip past the Honda into the next left-right chicane, but once again he left his braking to the last possible second. I slotted in behind him and slammed the bike over, then back to the right, only to overcompensate and run over the curb. I didn’t dare turn the throttle until I was back on the tarmac and suddenly I found myself third. In an instant I knew, absolutely knew that I was going to win this race, and opened the throttle as far as it would go. The blast down the next short straight to a double right-hander passed in seconds, and I went through that bend at least 5 miles an hour faster than I’d ever dared go before, passing the Suzuki as I went.
Out of the bend and tucked my body in, trying to get the best possible aerodynamic shape I could from the bike as I asked the engine for everything it had, gradually closing in on the Honda, the exhausts getting larger moment by moment. Then we were at the last but one corner, another double chicane, though this one was a left-right-left and this was where I had to make the distance up or it was over. I threw the bike over, asking for angles of lean that defied the laws of physics, running on the very edge of the tyre as I felt the familiar twitch from the front that signalled in no uncertain terms I was only seconds from disaster.
Then we were out onto the back straight, I was sitting in the perfect position to have a run at the leader and I pulled out of his slipstream, gaining, gaining, but the end of the track was coming up quickly, and there just wasn’t enough tarmac left. I pulled back in, one last card left to play, praying that he would be as late on the brakes as he had been all the way through this race.
I backed off slightly earlier than was considered optimal for the parabolica, a mammoth 180-degree right hand bend that seems to stretch on for ever, and now my last chance to win this race. As soon as I had the bike turning in I started gently cracking the throttle, building speed and slowly gaining on the Honda, aiming at a point about two inches behind its back wheel. For the middle of the bend I was almost riding pillion on his bike, then I started to drift wider, heading for the outside of the circuit.
Too late he realised what was happening, and started his own drift towards the outside to guard his line, but I kept the throttle open, scraping the grass for one heart stopping moment, running onto the tarmac of the old track and then we were alongside each other for the last frantic dash to the line. We flashed across and both looked up at each other, neither knowing who had won! It was simply too close for either of us to call, and as we started the slow-down lap I gestured to a marshal, raising first one finger, then two, repeating the motion until he understood the request, and was devastated when he held up two fingers in return.
I was, to put it mildly, not happy. I was sure I’d out-dragged the more powerful Honda to the line, and for the rest of the lap I sat glumly on the bike, acknowledging the crowd as best I could, all the while fuming behind my visor. As I guided the Ducati into the pits, I saw another marshal franticly trying to attract my attention, pulling the clutch I got close enough to hear him yelling “First, first” at me. I almost fell off the bike as I stared at him, then it hit and I headed down the pit lane literally bouncing on the foot pegs, slapping the tank as the adrenaline hit again. I pulled up outside my garage to be mugged by pit crew, and was deeply thankful for the armour in my leathers and the helmet as they pounded my back and head, a scene of pure joy.
I slid off the bike, looked up and saw the Honda rider heading over to me, and a moment later we were congratulating each other, laughing and caught up in the moment. Of course it mattered who’d won and who’d lost, this was racing after all, but we knew we’d just put on one of the best finishes to a motor sports race in history, and the energy from that feeling was infectious.
The next hour or two passed in a blur, the rostrum celebrations, interviews with the television reporters, the press conference and all the other little jobs you have to do after a race seemed to flow into one another. Finally the media circus dispersed and I was free to perform what had by now become a traditional post-race wind down.
I’d met Tim about seven years ago at University, and we’d become good friends since then. We’d decided together to make the attempt to race competitively but simply hadn’t been able to afford to enter any serious car series. So we’d gone for the bikes, and in barely three years had gone from being private riders with no visible budgets to the current British champions at Superbikes and Supersport categories. He was far better suited to the lighter, nimbler Supersport racers than me thanks to his far smaller build and a certain built-in lunacy that I lacked which made him perfect for that series. He’d won his race today by a couple of seconds, and we were both in the mood to celebrate.
For us that meant going back out on track. Obviously we couldn’t take our race bikes out onto the track, leaving aside the rules of the sport it would have been a disaster if we’d dropped them. So we always arranged to have our own private road bikes shipped with us to the circuit, and after every race we’d head out with some friends from the various teams and hangers-on and muck about on the smooth, traffic free tarmac. Some local fans’d usually join us, a motley collection of bikes ranging from 50cc scooters and tattered street-bikes all the way up to gleaming race replicas, which would put our own machines to shame. Neither of us rode in race kit of course, both preferring to wear simple black leathers and matching helmets, although both helmets were simply unpainted versions of our race lids as we were too used to them to be really comfortable in anything else.
I was checking out my Ducati 916 in front of the now closed pit garage when I heard Tim wheel his Yamaha R1 out and put it up on its stand alongside mine. Being a Japanese bike it required considerably less attention than the Ducati, but I wouldn’t have traded for anything. There may be faster, more reliable bikes available, but nothing had even come close to the looks and soul of the 916, and that was enough for me. I finished giving the engine a once-over and popped the faring back on, then looked up to find Tim wearing a familiar grin that usually meant he was about to get me involved in one of his so-called cunning plans. I sighed.
“Okay, what is it?”
“What are you talking about, I’m just happy that you won today.”
“Sure, and that’s a chicken not a Yamaha. Come on, out with it.”
“No really man, just wanted to say congratulations, that was a hell of a ride.”
“True, but I know you way too well to fall for this, so you might as well tell me, track time’s wasting.”
Tim rolled his eyes, but he was caught and had the good sense to admit it. “Okay, look, you remember that lass Mary I told you about?”
“Umm, five four, slim, blonde, pretty?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Anyway, she came to watch the race and would love to be able to go out for a pillion ride, but I, ummm, can’t do it.”
“That wouldn’t have anything to do with this being the same Mary that you spent all night trying to pick up only to be blow off in front of all your mates back in London now would it?”
“What! Who told you that? That’s not what happened at all, who’s been saying that, come on who told you?”
“I told me. I was there you nonce.”
“No you weren’t, you were, wait, it’ll come to me, you were, umm…”
“About four feet away trying to drown my sorrows after binning a factory bike down Craner Curves while testing at Donnington, remember? ”
“Oh. Yeah. Good point. But look, it really wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t that bad? Look, mate, if rejections were crashes, that one went earth, sky, earth, sky, earth, sky, earth, ambulance.”
“Moving swiftly on, we hung out a bit after that and got to know each other better.”
“As?” I prompted.
“Friends if you must know. Anyway, look, it’d be awkward if I took her out, and I don’t trust anyone else here to take her out at anything approaching full speed, okay? ”
“Hmm, close, now what about the rest of it?”
“There is no ‘rest of it’, that’s it.”
“Okay” I sighed, “give me a minute here. She’s down her on her own, yes?”
“Yep.”
“She ain’t sleeping with you?”
“No, sadly.”
“And you’re this desperate to take her out on track. No, wait, you’re this desperate to have me take her out.” I thought for a moment.
“She got leathers?”
“Yeah, I picked some up before we flew out” Tim replied, a little too quickly.
“Show me.”
Tim reached down to a kit bag and pulled out a brand new set of racing leathers, white and with that familiar smell that proves no-ones worn them in anger yet. I gave the outside a quick check, but I really didn’t think there’d be anything wrong there. Whatever else he might be when it came to practical jokes, Tim was never dangerous. The inside looked normal too, but something kept pricking at the back of my mind. They were way too small for me to wear, so I slid my bare arm inside one sleeve and felt a small tingle shoot through my skin. I pulled my arm out and ran my fingers over the seam, and finally spotted the joke.
There, sown expertly into the lining were what looked like small, stiff white feathers, blending perfectly with the leather. When it was worn the suit would be a bit itchy and cause very slight ticklish sensations, but when a bike was up to speed, vibrating the riders and the wind pulled the suit tight over the skin it would be far more severe. I didn’t bother saying anything, just looked up at Tim with a raised eyebrow.
“Okay, it’s a fair cop, long story short I want a little payback for that club and I know she’s ticklish. That suit’s a little too small and she’s going to have to strip down to her underwear to get it on, so “
“Alright” I interrupted, “please spare me the gory detail, I have a working mind, I can figure it out.”
"It’s also why I want you on the bike, you’re better at controlling one with a pillion on board than me and I really don’t want to hurt her. Please?”
I thought about it for a long minute, then looked skywards and sighed. “Yeah, okay, go set up your little game, I’ll go warm up the bike. Two things though. One, if she gets unsafe I’m pulling up right away and explaining everything to her. Two, you owe me for this.”
“So put it on my tab.” Tim grinned as he hurried off to find his victim. I swung a leg over the bike and rolled out onto the circuit. I took my time, doing a couple of laps to warm the engine and tyres, having fun pulling wheelies on the straights, and racing a couple of the locals down into the bends. As I came up to the end of the second lap I saw something that made me laugh out loud. Ahead three scooters were heading into the parabolica, one Honda, one Suzuki and one Cagiva, kids re-enacting the end of the race they’d seen earlier that day. The smile from that one stayed with me all the way back to the pits.
As I pulled up Tim was standing their with my passenger, and she was just as pretty as I remembered, blonde hair pulled back into a tight pony tail that reached down past her shoulders, bright blue eyes and a smiling face that it’d be a joy just to watch. I undid my helmet and lifted it off my head, the grin from watching those kids still plastered on my face. We exchanged the usual pleasantries then Tim helped her up onto the back of the Ducati.
Now a Ducati 916 isn’t a great bike to ride pillion on, as it was never really designed with passengers in mind. The seat’s way too high, as are the foot pegs, and with the exhausts coming out under the seat you’ve got to basically wrap yourself around the rider and move with them or you get nutted by a helmet the first time they sit up under braking. We spent a good five minutes practicing movement with the bike sitting still, as I explained the basic idea of keeping a bike on two wheels. Another five minutes was spent doing simple turns in the pit lane until I was sure she was confident and relaxed enough for me to take to the track.
We headed out and as the bike bumped over the tarmac I felt her giggle behind me and tighten her grip around my waist slightly. I took the first chicane slowly, taking a wide, sweeping line that would have got me black flagged for sure in a race, but at each turn I could feel that shiver pass through her as the feathers rubbed her bare skin. I glanced back at her as we hit the straight and raised an eyebrow, just about visible through the visor. She nodded and I turned back to the track.
I cranked the throttle to about half way and held it there, building speed at a relatively leisurely pace for the big V-twin, but it was like being on a fairground ride if you weren’t used to it. I heard her gasp as we went up to about a hundred miles an hour, and still there was that constant shivering through her body as the wind pulled her leathers taught and the wicked tips did their work. I kept the speed up for the next chicane, and was pleasantly surprised as she leant in with me in damn near perfect time. Encouraged I kept the pace up as we took the short straight and double right hander, then really opened it up on the long straight.
Now I could actually hear her giggles over the rush of the wind, her fingers clenching under me as the increased speed made the ticklish sensations exponentially worse. We flip-flopped through the double chicane and she shrieked behind me, partially from the sheer thrill of being that close to the ground (though in truth we were barely at a 20 degree angle through the bends) and partially from the feathers under her armpits digging in on opposite sides as the bike flicked from side to side.
I really wound it up for the big back straight, it’s one of the best pieces of tarmac in the world, but at these speeds even the smallest bump can feel like Everest and she was definitely feeling them. I could feel her legs clench as feathers dug in there as well, every exposed inch of that suit being pulled back and flapping over her body in the air stream. As we glided round the parabolica I felt her tilt her head over, leaning her helmet against my back as she looked left, and I could almost picture those blue eyes screwed up in laughter. Still, she didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger of falling off, so I headed out on another lap.
This time I got the bike up to something approaching race speeds for the lap and all the way round I could feel and hear her shrieks of laughter as I gave her one hell of a ride, to the point of getting the front wheel in the air a few times just for the hell of it. I had to admit I was enjoying my part in this, it was always fun to be able to take someone out for a ride around a track, doubly so if they were young and attractive like my current pillion. I figured that I could always claim I thought she was laughing at the experience of riding if I was called on it.
As we came past the pits again, I could feel her starting to struggle to draw breath and figured this better be the last lap for this run. I slowed down and slid the bike as gently as I could through the double chicane at the end of the start / finish straight. As we headed out into the country I felt her shudder and for a second her hands unlocked and I felt her arms start to slide out from under me. I leant forward, trapping her arms between my body and the fuel tank and she quickly re-clasped her hands. I wasn’t about to take any chances and quickly pulled over to the side of the track. As soon as we’d stopped I got the bike up on the side stand and helped Mary over to the tyre wall, as she fumbled with her helmet.
This is a lot different from my usual stuff, a lot more light-hearted and an attempt to do something romantic that’s still a little different from what’s been done before.
The racing scene at the beginning actually happened, and is, without a doubt, the best last lap I’ve ever seen in any form of racing. For those that are interested, it was the second Superbike race at Monza in 1999, the participants were Frankie Chili on the Suzuki, Colin Edwards on the Honda and Carl Fogarty on the Ducati and it really did come down to a photo finish as the electronics had them at a dead heat.
****************************
A Ticklish Passenger
I crouched down behind the screen, eyes focused on the horizon as I screamed down the front straight at close to 200mph. The wind was incredible, ripping at me as it tried to tear me from the bike as we started the last lap. The high-pitched wail of the Ducati surrounded me, and yet even with my head barely inches off the fuel tank I could hear the sounds of the two big bikes behind me. The three of us had been locked together for the last 10 laps of this historic Monza circuit, and there was no way this race was going to be anything other than a drag race to the line now.
I popped out and sat upright, hauling the brake leaver back to the handlebar as I fought to shed speed for the tricky double chicane. I’d left it late, but not late enough as the Honda flew past me into the corner, and I tucked in behind, a quick glance over my shoulder enough to know I had a bike length over the Suzuki at least. A quick, almost vicious flip flop and we were out the other side, winding the bikes back up to their limits as we tore down the next straight. Monza was a hell of a quick track, in effect four long straights all of which had tight bends and large gravel traps waiting at the end for anyone who pushed the limits a little too far, and we were riding right at the edge now.
I slid left out of the slipstream, trying to slip past the Honda into the next left-right chicane, but once again he left his braking to the last possible second. I slotted in behind him and slammed the bike over, then back to the right, only to overcompensate and run over the curb. I didn’t dare turn the throttle until I was back on the tarmac and suddenly I found myself third. In an instant I knew, absolutely knew that I was going to win this race, and opened the throttle as far as it would go. The blast down the next short straight to a double right-hander passed in seconds, and I went through that bend at least 5 miles an hour faster than I’d ever dared go before, passing the Suzuki as I went.
Out of the bend and tucked my body in, trying to get the best possible aerodynamic shape I could from the bike as I asked the engine for everything it had, gradually closing in on the Honda, the exhausts getting larger moment by moment. Then we were at the last but one corner, another double chicane, though this one was a left-right-left and this was where I had to make the distance up or it was over. I threw the bike over, asking for angles of lean that defied the laws of physics, running on the very edge of the tyre as I felt the familiar twitch from the front that signalled in no uncertain terms I was only seconds from disaster.
Then we were out onto the back straight, I was sitting in the perfect position to have a run at the leader and I pulled out of his slipstream, gaining, gaining, but the end of the track was coming up quickly, and there just wasn’t enough tarmac left. I pulled back in, one last card left to play, praying that he would be as late on the brakes as he had been all the way through this race.
I backed off slightly earlier than was considered optimal for the parabolica, a mammoth 180-degree right hand bend that seems to stretch on for ever, and now my last chance to win this race. As soon as I had the bike turning in I started gently cracking the throttle, building speed and slowly gaining on the Honda, aiming at a point about two inches behind its back wheel. For the middle of the bend I was almost riding pillion on his bike, then I started to drift wider, heading for the outside of the circuit.
Too late he realised what was happening, and started his own drift towards the outside to guard his line, but I kept the throttle open, scraping the grass for one heart stopping moment, running onto the tarmac of the old track and then we were alongside each other for the last frantic dash to the line. We flashed across and both looked up at each other, neither knowing who had won! It was simply too close for either of us to call, and as we started the slow-down lap I gestured to a marshal, raising first one finger, then two, repeating the motion until he understood the request, and was devastated when he held up two fingers in return.
I was, to put it mildly, not happy. I was sure I’d out-dragged the more powerful Honda to the line, and for the rest of the lap I sat glumly on the bike, acknowledging the crowd as best I could, all the while fuming behind my visor. As I guided the Ducati into the pits, I saw another marshal franticly trying to attract my attention, pulling the clutch I got close enough to hear him yelling “First, first” at me. I almost fell off the bike as I stared at him, then it hit and I headed down the pit lane literally bouncing on the foot pegs, slapping the tank as the adrenaline hit again. I pulled up outside my garage to be mugged by pit crew, and was deeply thankful for the armour in my leathers and the helmet as they pounded my back and head, a scene of pure joy.
I slid off the bike, looked up and saw the Honda rider heading over to me, and a moment later we were congratulating each other, laughing and caught up in the moment. Of course it mattered who’d won and who’d lost, this was racing after all, but we knew we’d just put on one of the best finishes to a motor sports race in history, and the energy from that feeling was infectious.
The next hour or two passed in a blur, the rostrum celebrations, interviews with the television reporters, the press conference and all the other little jobs you have to do after a race seemed to flow into one another. Finally the media circus dispersed and I was free to perform what had by now become a traditional post-race wind down.
I’d met Tim about seven years ago at University, and we’d become good friends since then. We’d decided together to make the attempt to race competitively but simply hadn’t been able to afford to enter any serious car series. So we’d gone for the bikes, and in barely three years had gone from being private riders with no visible budgets to the current British champions at Superbikes and Supersport categories. He was far better suited to the lighter, nimbler Supersport racers than me thanks to his far smaller build and a certain built-in lunacy that I lacked which made him perfect for that series. He’d won his race today by a couple of seconds, and we were both in the mood to celebrate.
For us that meant going back out on track. Obviously we couldn’t take our race bikes out onto the track, leaving aside the rules of the sport it would have been a disaster if we’d dropped them. So we always arranged to have our own private road bikes shipped with us to the circuit, and after every race we’d head out with some friends from the various teams and hangers-on and muck about on the smooth, traffic free tarmac. Some local fans’d usually join us, a motley collection of bikes ranging from 50cc scooters and tattered street-bikes all the way up to gleaming race replicas, which would put our own machines to shame. Neither of us rode in race kit of course, both preferring to wear simple black leathers and matching helmets, although both helmets were simply unpainted versions of our race lids as we were too used to them to be really comfortable in anything else.
I was checking out my Ducati 916 in front of the now closed pit garage when I heard Tim wheel his Yamaha R1 out and put it up on its stand alongside mine. Being a Japanese bike it required considerably less attention than the Ducati, but I wouldn’t have traded for anything. There may be faster, more reliable bikes available, but nothing had even come close to the looks and soul of the 916, and that was enough for me. I finished giving the engine a once-over and popped the faring back on, then looked up to find Tim wearing a familiar grin that usually meant he was about to get me involved in one of his so-called cunning plans. I sighed.
“Okay, what is it?”
“What are you talking about, I’m just happy that you won today.”
“Sure, and that’s a chicken not a Yamaha. Come on, out with it.”
“No really man, just wanted to say congratulations, that was a hell of a ride.”
“True, but I know you way too well to fall for this, so you might as well tell me, track time’s wasting.”
Tim rolled his eyes, but he was caught and had the good sense to admit it. “Okay, look, you remember that lass Mary I told you about?”
“Umm, five four, slim, blonde, pretty?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Anyway, she came to watch the race and would love to be able to go out for a pillion ride, but I, ummm, can’t do it.”
“That wouldn’t have anything to do with this being the same Mary that you spent all night trying to pick up only to be blow off in front of all your mates back in London now would it?”
“What! Who told you that? That’s not what happened at all, who’s been saying that, come on who told you?”
“I told me. I was there you nonce.”
“No you weren’t, you were, wait, it’ll come to me, you were, umm…”
“About four feet away trying to drown my sorrows after binning a factory bike down Craner Curves while testing at Donnington, remember? ”
“Oh. Yeah. Good point. But look, it really wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t that bad? Look, mate, if rejections were crashes, that one went earth, sky, earth, sky, earth, sky, earth, ambulance.”
“Moving swiftly on, we hung out a bit after that and got to know each other better.”
“As?” I prompted.
“Friends if you must know. Anyway, look, it’d be awkward if I took her out, and I don’t trust anyone else here to take her out at anything approaching full speed, okay? ”
“Hmm, close, now what about the rest of it?”
“There is no ‘rest of it’, that’s it.”
“Okay” I sighed, “give me a minute here. She’s down her on her own, yes?”
“Yep.”
“She ain’t sleeping with you?”
“No, sadly.”
“And you’re this desperate to take her out on track. No, wait, you’re this desperate to have me take her out.” I thought for a moment.
“She got leathers?”
“Yeah, I picked some up before we flew out” Tim replied, a little too quickly.
“Show me.”
Tim reached down to a kit bag and pulled out a brand new set of racing leathers, white and with that familiar smell that proves no-ones worn them in anger yet. I gave the outside a quick check, but I really didn’t think there’d be anything wrong there. Whatever else he might be when it came to practical jokes, Tim was never dangerous. The inside looked normal too, but something kept pricking at the back of my mind. They were way too small for me to wear, so I slid my bare arm inside one sleeve and felt a small tingle shoot through my skin. I pulled my arm out and ran my fingers over the seam, and finally spotted the joke.
There, sown expertly into the lining were what looked like small, stiff white feathers, blending perfectly with the leather. When it was worn the suit would be a bit itchy and cause very slight ticklish sensations, but when a bike was up to speed, vibrating the riders and the wind pulled the suit tight over the skin it would be far more severe. I didn’t bother saying anything, just looked up at Tim with a raised eyebrow.
“Okay, it’s a fair cop, long story short I want a little payback for that club and I know she’s ticklish. That suit’s a little too small and she’s going to have to strip down to her underwear to get it on, so “
“Alright” I interrupted, “please spare me the gory detail, I have a working mind, I can figure it out.”
"It’s also why I want you on the bike, you’re better at controlling one with a pillion on board than me and I really don’t want to hurt her. Please?”
I thought about it for a long minute, then looked skywards and sighed. “Yeah, okay, go set up your little game, I’ll go warm up the bike. Two things though. One, if she gets unsafe I’m pulling up right away and explaining everything to her. Two, you owe me for this.”
“So put it on my tab.” Tim grinned as he hurried off to find his victim. I swung a leg over the bike and rolled out onto the circuit. I took my time, doing a couple of laps to warm the engine and tyres, having fun pulling wheelies on the straights, and racing a couple of the locals down into the bends. As I came up to the end of the second lap I saw something that made me laugh out loud. Ahead three scooters were heading into the parabolica, one Honda, one Suzuki and one Cagiva, kids re-enacting the end of the race they’d seen earlier that day. The smile from that one stayed with me all the way back to the pits.
As I pulled up Tim was standing their with my passenger, and she was just as pretty as I remembered, blonde hair pulled back into a tight pony tail that reached down past her shoulders, bright blue eyes and a smiling face that it’d be a joy just to watch. I undid my helmet and lifted it off my head, the grin from watching those kids still plastered on my face. We exchanged the usual pleasantries then Tim helped her up onto the back of the Ducati.
Now a Ducati 916 isn’t a great bike to ride pillion on, as it was never really designed with passengers in mind. The seat’s way too high, as are the foot pegs, and with the exhausts coming out under the seat you’ve got to basically wrap yourself around the rider and move with them or you get nutted by a helmet the first time they sit up under braking. We spent a good five minutes practicing movement with the bike sitting still, as I explained the basic idea of keeping a bike on two wheels. Another five minutes was spent doing simple turns in the pit lane until I was sure she was confident and relaxed enough for me to take to the track.
We headed out and as the bike bumped over the tarmac I felt her giggle behind me and tighten her grip around my waist slightly. I took the first chicane slowly, taking a wide, sweeping line that would have got me black flagged for sure in a race, but at each turn I could feel that shiver pass through her as the feathers rubbed her bare skin. I glanced back at her as we hit the straight and raised an eyebrow, just about visible through the visor. She nodded and I turned back to the track.
I cranked the throttle to about half way and held it there, building speed at a relatively leisurely pace for the big V-twin, but it was like being on a fairground ride if you weren’t used to it. I heard her gasp as we went up to about a hundred miles an hour, and still there was that constant shivering through her body as the wind pulled her leathers taught and the wicked tips did their work. I kept the speed up for the next chicane, and was pleasantly surprised as she leant in with me in damn near perfect time. Encouraged I kept the pace up as we took the short straight and double right hander, then really opened it up on the long straight.
Now I could actually hear her giggles over the rush of the wind, her fingers clenching under me as the increased speed made the ticklish sensations exponentially worse. We flip-flopped through the double chicane and she shrieked behind me, partially from the sheer thrill of being that close to the ground (though in truth we were barely at a 20 degree angle through the bends) and partially from the feathers under her armpits digging in on opposite sides as the bike flicked from side to side.
I really wound it up for the big back straight, it’s one of the best pieces of tarmac in the world, but at these speeds even the smallest bump can feel like Everest and she was definitely feeling them. I could feel her legs clench as feathers dug in there as well, every exposed inch of that suit being pulled back and flapping over her body in the air stream. As we glided round the parabolica I felt her tilt her head over, leaning her helmet against my back as she looked left, and I could almost picture those blue eyes screwed up in laughter. Still, she didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger of falling off, so I headed out on another lap.
This time I got the bike up to something approaching race speeds for the lap and all the way round I could feel and hear her shrieks of laughter as I gave her one hell of a ride, to the point of getting the front wheel in the air a few times just for the hell of it. I had to admit I was enjoying my part in this, it was always fun to be able to take someone out for a ride around a track, doubly so if they were young and attractive like my current pillion. I figured that I could always claim I thought she was laughing at the experience of riding if I was called on it.
As we came past the pits again, I could feel her starting to struggle to draw breath and figured this better be the last lap for this run. I slowed down and slid the bike as gently as I could through the double chicane at the end of the start / finish straight. As we headed out into the country I felt her shudder and for a second her hands unlocked and I felt her arms start to slide out from under me. I leant forward, trapping her arms between my body and the fuel tank and she quickly re-clasped her hands. I wasn’t about to take any chances and quickly pulled over to the side of the track. As soon as we’d stopped I got the bike up on the side stand and helped Mary over to the tyre wall, as she fumbled with her helmet.
