Carol’s Column

Hey, look! It’s big Les and little Carol on the mean machine

“MY MOM’S a Hell’s Angel,” I heard my 12-year-old son telling his friend Craig.

My chest swelled with pride. “Just call me ‘Wheels’ Lazar,” I muttered to myself as I stitched a nametab on to a pair of school trousers.

You might be wondering why a geriatric mother of four was being described in such glowing terms by her offspring.

It was Leslie’s fault really.

“You look pale, puny and peaky,” he said to me the other day. “You need a little colour in your cheeks, a little excitement in your life. Why don’t you come on the breakfast run with me on Sunday?”

Why not indeed?

“Have you ever been on a motorbike?” asked my good friend Betty.

“No, but life’s short, I want to try everything,” I retorted gaily.

“You could be right about the ‘life’s short’ bit,” she muttered darkly.

Of course I wasn’t really concerned. I took out life insurance, willed my false teeth to our neighbour, my contact lenses to the gardener, my other parts to medical science and had a large glass of brandy.

Sunday morning was a happy, clear blue-sky, sunshine Johannesburg day when at the crack of dawn a sinister figure appeared on his roaring chariot.

Helmeted, gloved, covered from head to toe in padded clothing — Les looked like the original Michelin Man.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“Don’t be silly,” I retorted, almost swallowing my false teeth in the process.

“Right, put on your helmet, and let’s ride.”

A motorbike is designed for bandy-legged riders. Which suited me fine.

I clutched Les like a vervet monkey does her mother and before I could catch my breath, we were off, winding along the empty roads.

At 7am on a Sunday when most of South Africa is still fast asleep.

I was quite enjoying the fresh-air feeling of the ride when suddenly everything went black — I couldn’t see a thing.

I clutched Les which made him double over — I heard his helmet hit the handlebars. Just then he swerved and brought the mean machine to a halt.

I sat in darkness and then felt something knocking on my helmet.

“Hello, hello are you there?”

It was then I realised the crash helmet had slipped down over my eyes.

I lifted it from my head to find we were sitting among a gaggle of bikes.

“That was a quick journey,” I said breathlessly, “we must have flown. It usually takes two hours to get to Hartbeespoort Dam. We did it in 10 minutes. Wow, fantastic.”

Les looked at me as if I was mad.

“Hartbeespoort Dam? This isn’t Hartbeespoort Dam, it’s Fourways. We’re stopping here for a glass of orange juice.”

So there we stood, among the purring, buzzing bikes — sipping orange juice and talking bikes.

“So how’s your suspension?” asked one biker.

“Fine, just fine, it’s holding up — amazing when you think of all those babies I’ve had,” I answered. I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t entering into the spirit of things.

All around they discussed shaft drives, chain drives, shock absorbers, cylinders and crashbars.

And then, in a blaze of dust, we were off again — roaring with the best of them.

Have you ever seen an oncoming car heading straight towards you?

Have you ever taken a corner on a bike so fast and low that you almost graze your chin strap?

At one stage, I thought the speedometer read 180. I could have been wrong, I’d left my contact lenses in the toothmug next to my bed. Nevertheless it was then that I shut my eyes.

Which is how we rode triumphantly into Cosmos.

Big Les and Little Carol.

It took him 10 minutes to persuade me to open my eyes. Then another 15 to unprise my arms from round his waist where they had locked in a petrified grip.

There was a herd of bikes. At least 2 000 parked cheek to cheek in straight lines.

What a glorious sight.

And in a vast, barn-like hall, the bikers of Johannesburg had congregated for eggs, bacon and sausages.

There were hundreds of them. Old, young, fat, thin, rich, poor and me.

“There’s nothing like the breakfast run,” said Les, relaxing over a cup of coffee. “Just you, your bike and plenty of space. Did you notice how beautiful everything looked in the early morning light?”

This was not the time to tell him that I’d kept my eyes shut for the greater part of the ride.

“Great, great,” I murmured. “There’s nothing like it.”

“We’ll take the scenic route home,” he said later, as we prepared to mount our trusty iron. “It’s longer, but there’s lots to see.”

We set off for home, my own personal Kork Ballington revving for all he was worth. Just us, the bike and plenty of space. It was perfect.

When suddenly the heavens opened and down came a torrential downpour.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?” shouted Les through the howling gale. Other people listen to the radio for fun. How dull.

“It’s great!” I shrieked back enthusiastically.

You certainly get that open-air feeling on a bike.

It seemed that we’d lost Johannesburg.

“I think we’re heading for Zimbabwe,” yelled Les hopefully but I could have sworn we were in Scotland.

An hour later we rode triumphantly home.

No matter that I was frozen solid and it took Les almost an hour to defrost me before handing me over to the warm bosom of my family.

“What an experience,” I trilled to my friend Betty. “Les says I’m such a good pillion passenger that we’re entering The Roof of Africa Rally together.”

“Did he really?” said Betty enviously. “That’s something.”

Well, of course he didn’t really — but who’s to know? Mind you, it’s nearly true.

Before he zoomed off, I asked him if he always sat in such a curled-up, tortured position, with his back curved and his head almost touching the handlebars. It looked most uncomfortable.

“I can’t sit straight,” he growled through clenched teeth, “you gripped me so tightly that I feel as if I’ve been squeezed through a wringer.

“What an experience!”

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