Last night I made a teenage boy’s dream come true.
Not like that, you perverts. (TM @motonutjob)
By riding in a prom escort.
There are many advantages to being old. The first is that no pictures of my youthful indiscretions, from terrible haircuts to the aftermath of a bottle of mezcal, are on the internet.
(A brief diversion into the mezcal story. Wibbly sounds, wavy screen. Welcome to 1989, when a thrifty university acquaintance was notorious for shirking his duty to contribute to parties by bringing this revolting bottle, which may even have had a worm in the bottom. See, I have brought booze, he would say. It’s not my fault if no-one drank it. Then he would reclaim the bottle at the end of the evening, take it away, and bring it back to the next one. After a few episodes of this I spiked his guns by drinking it. Friends, it is a miracle that I am still alive.)
The second is that Prom was not a thing when I left school.
It seems that making an entrance that will be talked about for years to come is the goal, and the pressure of that must be extraordinary. The young lad’s mum explained that in recent years someone arrived in a tank, and four girls chartered a helicopter. This particular young man had been promised a Ferrari but the offer fell through at the last minute.
If you can’t arrive in a Ferrari then arriving at the head of a motorcycle club run is, it seems, an acceptable substitute for the “will everyone be talking about this tomorrow?” test. But that’s not an easy thing to organise at short notice.
MCs aren’t everyone’s cup of tea but it’s times like this that I think show the community in its best light.
At 6pm, a handful of us “99 per centers” were waiting with mum, dad and offspring, cheerfully chomping on some truly excellent rocky road, and having a lovely chat but you could see that dad was anxious that 2 sports bikes, a Ninja and a ropey old Triumph weren’t quite the dramatic force he’d hoped for.
At 6.25pm the roar of open pipes preceded the arrival of about 8 of one of our local Outlaw-affiliated clubs. Looked the part, sounded the part, formed up around dad with son riding pillion, in splendid vintage gear, and about half an hour later the Spectacular Entrance of Prom Requirement was duly made.
An hour out of my evening, but hopefully a life-long happy memory for one teenage boy and his family. Isn’t that what biking should be about?