Birthday Biker

Early Sunday morning and one of my first fares stood waiting for me outside a vandalised phone box. Even from a distance and despite the fact that he was wearing civvies, I knew instantly that this guy was a biker. And when I say biker, I don’t mean one of the born again middle aged weekend warriers that we see on expensive Japanese super bikes at nearby Devils Bridge. This was one of the guys who live and breathe Harley, BSA, Norton and Triumph. Proper bikes they will tell you, for folk who don’t mind getting their hands dirty. He had a shaven head with a large tattoo covering most of his skull and should have looked kind of menacing, but the glum expression on his face told a different story. As we drove and chatted on the ten miles or so to his home he told me the story. It had been his birthday the day before and a big party had been arranged for the Saturday night. But sadly despite sending out dozens of invites not as many folk as he expected had turned up. By the time we turned into his street he was still a bit downhearted but putting on a brave face. As we neared his house I saw stood outside the meanest fiercest bunch of bikers you could imagine, all tattoos, chains, leather and oil stains. My first thought was “oh no this looks like trouble” but the huge grin which broke out on my fares face proved me wrong. The oil stained tattooed hands held out pretty pastel coloured envelopes and ribbon tied packages. It seems that some of his biker buddy’s had travelled many miles to bring him greetings cards and wish him a belated happy birthday.