Brighton to Newcastle on a Honda 90

When I was at art college in Brighton I had a boyfriend with a Honda 90, which was quite a handy vehicle to have because of those hippy parties in little cottages in Sussex. The police stopped us once, because I was singing The Robin Hood Theme at the top of my voice from my pillion position and they thought I was in distress.

The boyfriend thought it would be a good idea to ride from Brighton to Newcastle to visit McMum and McDad, and I never said 'no' to an adventure. It was sunny when we set off from the south coast, and I can't even remember the 'through London' part of the journey. I do remember having very cold arms: the wind blew up my sleeves and my elbows locked in a painful rictus from time to time. I can still feel it now.

As we headed northwards, the wind blew up, and a storm began to rage around us. The wind howled and blew us from side to side and the rain lashed against our exposed faces and battered them until they were raw. Slowly we hummed along, heads bent down and soaked through in our inadequate clothing. Somewhere south of Yorkshire, small saplings had started to fall across the road and the visibility was so poor that we actually rode over them, bouncing right up in the air and landing hard as a challenge to the bike's suspension. We must have stopped to refuel and to eat, but I don't recall that. I just remember the feeling of endlessness, as we relentlessly drove on. We'd set off early morning and he'd calculated that we'd get there by mid-evening. Mathematics was not his strong point, and he was older than me so I trusted him.

On and on: it got very dark and the rain slashed sideways. The heavy gusts almost toppled us, but we didn't stop. 

Then the bike died.

We were somewhere in north Yorkshire, a small village. 'Phone your Dad', he said. It was the wee small hours, and by then I was so fatigued that I'd lost all sense of perspective. I found a phone box and phoned a very angry and worried parent, who hats off to him, got into the car and came to collect us with a stern unspeaking tolerance.

Next day, the weather was that type of innocent that only post-storm weather can be. The sun smiled and the world was at peace. We took multiple single-decker red buses to the little village, where the Honda 90 was parked where we'd left it, nestled into a hedge of tumbling roses complete with visiting bees.

Needless to say, that boyfriend was not popular with McMum and McDad. He rode the moped home alone to Brighton, and I got the train. On the morning that he was due to leave, McMum pointedly put his luggage out in the garden with his coat on top, ready to go.

It's these storms that remind me of that particular adventure. We had others. He was a completely unsuitable boyfriend, but I came from a completely unsuitable family, so how was I to know?