It’s not a very original plot, I’m afraid. Girl-biker meets man-biker on holiday. Rides with him for a few days and starts to think, finally I have met a man I could ride round the world with, for he is friendly, and funny, and big, and capable, and rides at the back of the group to make sure she stays safe, and likes beer, and riding to interesting places, and knows how to tease her without hurting, a trick which none of her other men ever cracked. She offers her honour, he honours her offer, leaves on his next adventure and promises to come back soon. He changes his mind, which is his prerogative, and lets her know once by text, which is rescinded the next morning, and once by email, which has proved permanent. The sound of an inexperienced heart breaking echoes through the twittersphere.
For reasons which my counsellor used to enjoy earning a significant fee per month exploring, I have the body of a 40-year old but the emotional maturity of an 18 year old. Which seems to be a rather unfair way round. This rollercoaster is supposed to be ridden early in life by teenagers who fall for elegantly wasted lead singers, or the bad lad at the back of the class: who grow giddy with excitement when he smiles at them and weep buckets when he ignores them in the bus queue. To get Shakespearean for a moment, at my age the hey-day in the blood is supposed to be tame. And I wasn’t ever the one with the hopeless crushes at school either. I was the loyal, slightly puzzled friend standing by with the tissues and with a part-share in the long-suffering dog who was happy to do laps around the estate where the object of my friend’s affections lived, so we could casually pretend to be just passing if we bumped into him heading to the corner shop for some ciggies.
So this level of emotional suffering has been an unprecedented experience and it would be fair to say I have not coped well. In place of girls in grey polyester skirts, tumbledown socks and kitten heels forming a protective huddle round the sinks in the girls’ loos, the job of providing moral support and passing the metaphorical tissues has been amply upheld by my twitter army, who have made me laugh and cry in equal measure with their messages and replies. And with the continuing but so far unsuccesful campaign to #findfruitybikerabikerchick.
Thanks from me to you all, and a special mention to @ibikerapp. His mission in life is to improve biker safety with an iPhone app featuring James Toseland and safe riding tips. I’m not sure how sending me DMs helping me to keep breathing fits in with this mission statement but I’m very glad it does.
My smartphone runs Symbian, while the app comes in Android or iPhone versions. So I can’t tell you whether the app is any good. But I’m certain that the bloke that built it is.