At this time of year the coach loads of travel-myopic, Bath-Stonehenge-Bibury-Shakespeare n’ Stratford-inna-day tourists are still tucked up and posting acid on TripAdvisor. Instead, Bibury was free for the ducks, the cold and huddled bundles of legged scarves, hats and Barbours. And motorcyclists. Two of us.

Keith was riding an old favourite of mine. A patinaed K75RT sat at the kerb, a few feet away from him as his eyes tracked the ripples in the river moving past. Busy with his thoughts.

He looked up as I cut the Ural’s engine and said hello, as one does to a fellow rider.

“I’m 70 next week.”

The statement hung like his breath in the cold air before it dissipated.

“I’m 70. Time to give this up. My nephew says he’ll have the bike, although he doesn’t understand it like I do.”

I suggested that seventy wasn’t much of an age to hang up one’s helmet and gloves. But my words bounced off him like grains of rice off a tortoise shell. Keith was determined. It was as though some Calvinist feeling drove him to seek penance for the hours of real life in the saddle in the de-coupled, de-sensitised prison of a nice, sensible car.

“I love riding – can’t do enough.” he replied, shuffling the keys around in his gloved hand. “But I’m too bloody old. Time to stop.”

“Says who?”, I asked, thinking of pressure from family, perhaps Mrs Keith if there was one. But no. Keith had simply decided that, at 70, one gave up riding. That was that. It was how it was done.

He was no fair-weather man. He’d ridden four-seasons, snow and sun since he was 16. There was no logic, just a feeling as if a pre-ordained switch had tripped.

Problem was, If he gave away his bike there would be more than a motorcycle-shaped hole left behind for him. He’d had Bonnevilles, Bantams, triples, twins, R90 airheads, and now the K. He guessed he’d ridden half a million miles and he tipped me off about lanes in the Cotswolds I’d never heard of or even seen signs for. Without his bike, Keith knew he was bowing, turning the lights off and shuffling quietly into the wings.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, both watching the river ripple by.

I wish I could say I persuaded him to hang on to the K, clearly loved as it was. But I didn’t. I rode away leaving him as blindly determined as before. The bike would go. I wish I could say something satisfyingly concluding, but I can’t.

For me, there is no date set for hanging up helmet and gloves. No time to hand a cared-for and mile-polished machine to a nephew who won’t understand the story, the ride or the road.

I hope perhaps Keith will realise that dates and ages are arbitrary before he gives up and hands his keys on.

I’ll keep looking out for a blue K75 in my mirrors. It’d be more than the usual pleasure to give him a wave and stand him a cuppa at the tea wagon.

I had nowhere to go. That always makes for a good ride if I can actually enjoy the lack of focus rather than being troubled by it. It leaves all the possibilities open. That, in itself, is exercise for the soul. No targets. No deadlines. Just a Cotswold-wide web of lanes, single tracks and winding. And it was perfect for unpicking my rather over-tired, stressed and snarly mood.

I turned the bars for Minster Lovell, thinking a pint and a prod through the Sunday papers by the winter fire in the Swan might do. But the car park was full of midrange BMWs and shiny, snarl-grilled Audis. I couldn’t face the idea of a barful of chinos, polo shirts and blather about KPIs, so I rode on.

The lanes jinked through Field Assarts, Fulbrook, Swinbrook, Asthall Leigh, Mount Skippett. Village names that deserve their own stanza. And, as I rode along the ridge by Field Assarts, I was suddenly grateful to the corporadoes for repelling me from The Swan.

The winter sun was starting to lower in the sky, turning the whole of the ridgetop russet. As one can do on a combo, I put the sidecar wheel on the verge, snicked the ‘box into reverse to hold it and stopped the engine. And did a bit of being.

Apart from a desultory chorus of light baa-ing from the sheep working their way against gravity on the ridgeside, there was just the ticking of the cooling engine. By now, the filigree of the winter trees was picked out against the reddening sun. The sheep, clearly with more interesting things to do than gaze at sunsets, baa-ed on.

I’d like to be able to claim this simple stop, just a few minutes of peace, of beauty, restored me to equilibrium and good nature. What it did was give me a sense that’s been missing for a couple of months. A sense of balance. Rather ironic on a combo.

“For God’s sake!”

For the third time that evening, Squadron Leader Martin Delaheye cursed his decision to ride the BMW. Even in mid-summer it was hopeless. You’d think, in June, you had a chance of getting home without half-drowning. But no, the rain had got to the electrics and and that was it – the bike was spluttering, coughing and regularly dying by the roadside.

With that bogging, helpless sensation known to every motorcyclist who’s run a classic, the 1959 R50‘s engine coughed and stalled. No power. Delaheye coasted to a stop, realising as soon as the water started filling his boot that he’d put his left foot in a puddle the size of the Channel.

German reliability. Right.

He pulled his helmet and misted goggles off and wondered where the hell he was. He eschewed GPSs – particularly on classic bikes – but now, at nearly midnight, in hacking rain and dark, he was regretting not slipping his Garmin into the panniers. There was no point in getting the map out, it already resembled papier mache. He rummaged around for his headtorch, only to find it glowing dully at the bottom of the pannier. He realised the switch must have got knocked on. The light faded and died.

“Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.” He thought.

The ride had started beautifully. Summer country lanes, dappled leaf patterns on the tarmac from the sun. All the way up through Dorset and Hampshire had been the very English motorcycling idyll, even on a German bike. Then, just after Wantage it had started. The sort of rain he just knew would start dribbling coldly down between his flight jacket and scarf. The sort of rain that was going to cause a short somewhere in the ancient wiring loom and strand him on some lane somewhere in Oxfordshire.

He guessed he was just south of Burford, near one of the old WWII bases that litter that part of the county. RAF Broadwell? RAF Southrop? Windrush? Could have been any of them.

From recent experience, he knew what came next. A wait of about twenty minutes for the thing to cool down, then kick, kick, kick and it would fire and run for maybe another half an hour. With a bit of luck he might make RAF Brize Norton before 1am and a glass of whisky in the mess before bed. He couldn’t be that far away. Assuming he could find the problem without his headtorch…

Delayheye kicked the back wheel, more for want of anything better to do than out of malice, and leaned on the saddle. He wished he still smoked.

A light flickered in the right-hand mirror. At first, barely a glow, then as it got closer, a narrow slit of light casting a vague puddle on the wet road as the rider approached. Over the rain, Delaheye could sense – rather than hear – the regular beat of the single cylinder. British, almost certainly. His money was on a BSA, probably one of the early post-war singles. But whatever he was riding, another rider would surely stop. He might even have a torch. An Imperial toolkit wouldn’t be much use, but that wasn’t a problem. Delaheye always carried a full set of metrics. That 1am whisky in the Mess was suddenly looking a whole lot likelier.

He was wrong. It was a Norton. Probably an old wartime WD16H (“WD” for War Department and H for “home” as opposed to C for “colonial”) despatcher’s bike. The bike stopped and the rider climbed off with a wave.

“Evening, Sir. Everything alright? Saw you stop. Not the night for it.”

“Good to see another idiot out on a proper bike at this time of night! Glad you stopped – think there’s a duff wire and I can’t see a damn thing, my torch battery’s buggered. Haven’t got one have you?”

Delaheye took in his rescuer’s bike and kit. Flat matt green paintwork, serial number and a division crest on the tank. Single seat and canvas panniers. A beautiful restoration, he could see that even in the gloom through the rain.

“Always liked those old 16s, quite fancy one myself. Better than this thing.” He commented, kicking the BMW again.

“Standard issue, Sir. Good bikes, front brake’s a bit vague if you know what I mean, but they go well.” he added with a grin.

“That a Douglas, Sir? Flat twin, yeah? It’s gorgeous – not seen one like it.”

Delaheye’s rescuer didn’t wait for the answer, but pulled his machine onto the stand and started hunting for his torch. He found it in a remote corner of one of the panniers and handed it across the bike with a grin.

Delaheye took it. Cold, wet, metal, with heavy tube body, a belt clip and the head at a right-angle. He suddenly realised. Re-enactment. No summer weekend was complete without some battle being re-enacted on a field somewhere. The guys always had the right kit – he’d been amazed at how accurate the old RAF uniforms and equipment were. And the Luftwaffe ones too, he thought, with a wry smile.

The re-enacters often had mid-week pub meetings. His rescuer must be on the way back from one locally and have got caught in the storm too. He was clearly into his hobby – the “Sir” comments, the uniform, the immaculate bike. It all fitted.

“I’d check the magneto if I were you – loose wire I’d guess.”

Delaheye slid the switch and pointed the light under the tank. There it was! Why hadn’t he spotted that before – magneto wire loose and almost off the post. He reached back and pulled a 12mm spanner from the roll and nipped the nut up as the Norton rider looked on.

“Sorry,” Delaheye said, making conversation, “I didn’t get your name. Mine’s Delaheye – Martin Delaheye. Trying to get to bloody Brize before the mess shuts!”

“Guessed you were RAF with a flash new bike like that. “ The other rider grinned again.

“Tarrant – Harry Tarrant. My lot are all camped over there. Nearly time for the off though.”

He nodded a direction and Delaheye could just see a row of army-issue style tents stretching back from the road. A few figures moved and glowing cigarette ends blinked on and off as they cupped the smoke.

He gestured at the three stripes on his arm,

“Mind you, it’s Sergeant Tarrant nowadays. But a rider’s a rider, if you know what I mean – doesn’t matter who it is, you always stop. ‘Specially on a night like tonight. G’luck, Sir – she should start now.”

Delaheye grinned in return, handed the torch back and straddled the BMW. Pulling out the kickstart, he weighted it carefully, found compression and kicked. The engine fired. He waved his thanks to Tarrant as he let out the clutch, mentally planning to look up his re-enactment club on the web – should be easy enough – and thank him by e-mail. Maybe even get him in for a mess night as a thank you.

As he looked back in his mirrors, Tarrant had already disappeared in the darkness behind a curtain of grey rain. And, half a mile later, as the familar landmark of the derelict RAF Broadwell control tower loomed up from the left, he realised he’d be at the mess bar with that whisky in about fifteen minutes. He opened the throttle a little wider and smiled happily in anticipation.

————————————-

December 11 2010

As the heavy door shut behind him, Delaheye wondered why he’d passed the Plough so often yet not come in before. Handing over his coins, he drew off the top of his pint and was soon happily reading the old cuttings on the walls. As the nearest civilised pub to Brize, there were plenty of them. Stories about long-scrapped Vulcans, Lancasters, Spits, even a few about the D-Day Douglas Dakota glider tugs from Broadwell.

He usually drank in the Clanfield Tavern. He had only dropped into the Plough because he was out for a ride before the light went, just to clear the cobwebs after a day of clearing admin from one tray to another. He didn’t fancy bumping into his colleagues and having to stop to chat. The R50 was going a storm. New bearings after that summer’s engine rebuild and no trace of magneto problems.

A framed cutting a little higher than the others caught his eye. A bike and rider. The paper yellowed and the mount speckled with pub nicotine and age. It was just too high to read, so he reached up and took it down.

A Norton 16H and – yes, it was unmistakable – Harry Tarrant. Delaheye would recognise that grin – and that bike – anywhere. He felt a pang of guilt. He’d still not got around to sending that e-mail. He patted his pocket, reassured that his iPhone was still there. He’d sit and read the article and send Harry his belated thanks as he drank his 6X.

Then, he spotted the date at the top left of the framed article. August 3 1944. Not quite registering, he sat down and started scanning the text under the picture of a smiling Harry and bike:

“Local Hero – Despatch Rider Decorated. Sergeant Harry Tarrant, son of Peter and Mary Tarrant of Alvescot, was, last Thursday, awarded the Military Medal for his gallantry in the recent Normandy Landings. After flying from RAF Broadwell on D-Day, Tarrant, a despatch rider in the Royal Corps of Signals, not only rode into hostile machine gun fire to ensure vital signals were delivered to forward HQ positions, but continued to do so in order to rescue two fallen comrades whose lives were in mortal danger. He later died of the injuries he received.

His award of the Military Medal is posthumous.”

“A rider’s a rider, if you know what I mean – doesn’t matter who it is, you always stop.”

Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee O Lord;

and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night;

for the love of thy only Son our Saviour Jesus Christ.

As I’m sat, as ever, at the kitchen table (with a bottle of whisky this evening) I can remember so many evensongs.  Quiet, reflective services.  The procession in silence through the dark-cornered church.  Fine music.  The silver threads in the air spun by canticles and responses by Stanford, Gibbons, Walton, Vaughan Williams.  And, at the end of the service, wheeling my bike (pedal in those days) out of the vestry and riding home.

In my memory, evensongs are always autumnal.  That’s daft – there were just as many spring, summer, winter services but somehow evensong suits autumn.  Reflection.  Quiet.  The close of the day.  Ellerton’s words:

The sun that bids us rest is waking

Our brethren ‘neath the western sky…”

I was reminded of those days as I rode this evening.  No pedals now, just a throttle.  And no evensong anymore – not now the Church of England has left its liturgy to the dead-handed, censorious people who write tax forms.

I love riding in the dark and tonight was the first time for a few weeks. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it.

There’s a night-defined cocoon in which one rides. Instrument lights. Headlights. The edge of the road.  The syncopated flash of indicators.  The pooled limit of the lights ahead.  There’s a reassuring solitude.  And you see so much more, but only in glimpsed vignettes.

Through Wootton, a man, on his own, washing up in yellow gloves at the kitchen sink, picked out in the light from a solitary fluorescent tube.

Outside Sunningdale, A girl, early twenties, rubbing sight through the greasy, wet misting of bus windows.

Huddled against the rain in a bus shelter, a lad, no more than sixteen, his face lit by the glow from his mobile phone.

And on to the artificial dawn of Brize Norton’s lights as it welcomes home, perhaps safe and sound, another plane of soldiers.

And, throttling back as I ride into Bampton, a stooped, elderly man pushing his bin carefully to its place for collection tomorrow – two lads running in unison back from football practice, in perfect step as their trainers splash in the same spouting puddles – the beer and laughter-infused lights of the Morris Clown’s windows and the faint whiff of cigarette smoke from a single pavement-banished smoker and, finally, the lights of home.  Pip, her back to the window, and just catching the noise of my engine, turning and smiling.

I feel like I’ve been riding a long, long time.  But I’m all the happier for it.

As I usually do on a trip like this, riding done, I unrolled the Ural’s toolkit on the ground beside the bike, opened a beer and started checking the machine over, part by part. This is therapy and my favourite part of the day. Miles covered, supper and another beer earned and in view and a chance to tinker with the bike as the sun goes down over the sea.

The Ural – my bike and sidecar combination – rewards care. Without it, she’ll sulk, get upset, run badly. With it, she’s happy and runs with the same unstoppable precision as a vintage caliber 1560. She’s a high-maintenance girl. But she’s far from sophisticated. An antique horizontally-opposed 650 pushrod twin, barely making 40 horsepower. Carbs, not injectors. Cable brakes, no hydraulics. Plenty of milled steel and no plastic at all. She’s slow, needs fear-assistance to make the brakes work, struggles on hills and gets out-dragged by pizzaboys on mopeds, but she’s a proper motorcycle. A motorcycle with soul.

What on earth does that mean? What’s ‘soul’? How can an inanimate machine have ‘soul’? Plenty of people talk about it – in Watchland as well as Bikeland. A 1964 1016 Explorer has soul. A G-Shock doesn’t. A classic Laverda Jota has it, a new GSXR600 doesn’t. But perhaps soul is more about time and our relationship with something than the thing itself.

For a start, we make the inanimate animate; petrol and a kickstart for a bike, our own movement for a mechanical watch. A watch that only ever needs a battery every five years doesn’t allow that interaction. A hyper-efficient Japanese superbike that is only ever serviced by a computer-wielding white coat is far more competent than its rider, but that very competence keeps him at a distance.

My most competent watch is easily my Breitling Aerospace. It’s gained just three seconds in six months, so it never needs setting unless I’m feeling more OCD than usual. It can wake me up, precisely measure my morning run (and subsequently accurately time my breakfast eggs), tell me the exact time in Tokyo and its titanium case keeps it waterproof to deeper depths than I’ll ever plumb. I hardly ever wear it.

Instead, I’ll pick up my old Explorer I, a Timefactors PRS3 or my favourite – my IWC Mk XII. They’re all less accurate. All they’ll tell me is the time-ish (although the Rolex is frighteningly accurate for a 40-year old watch) and that’s it. They’re heavier, clunkier, less accurate and much simpler. But they allow me a level of interaction that the Aero simply doesn’t. When the Aero dies, I have to buy a battery. When my mechanical watches stop, they need movement – mine – to make them live again. I need to interact with them to re-set them once the energy of the mainspring has lapsed. And I like that, because that interaction gives me a sense of relationship that the Brietling and its quartz cousins just doesn’t.

And maybe the very lack of precision and presence of faults is part of this relationship, this attribution of soul. We’re not precise animals. We don’t always do the same things in the same ways, react consistently and we change our minds. Something more organic, more flexible just fits us better than something with the hard edges of absolute accuracy. It’s why a Cotswold village’s higgledy architecture and meandering lanes is more comfortable than the ruler-edges of the town planner’s gleaming flats and open boulevards.

For me, there’s a lesson – albeit a slightly whimsical one – here. And that’s that human beings are best when they’re allowed and left to be human. Because we’re designed to harness our imprecise, organic, chaotic humanity and turn it into creativity. And the more precise, hard-edged and controlled we’re made to be, the worse we run. So I’m finishing this here so I can bugger off and do something irrationally human, like go and check the valve clearances on the Ural. After all, I haven’t done ‘em for at least a week.

If you have any charitable soul, you’ll drop a few quid into one of the collecting buckets too.  That’s because Cassington’s primary school and a few local charities always organise a serious BBQ, a couple of bike parks and somewhere to dump your helmet and leathers as you stroll around.

This year’s event was even sweeter than usual.  It wasn’t the sun, or the old friends, or the remarkable machines that rolled in from across the country.  It was the sheer damn triumph (see – a pun) of common sense and community.

You see, the local Council wanted to smother the event with pages of dull grey forms, regulations, guidelines and ‘what if?’  An example of the sort of thing:

“…responsibilities included a provision of the risk assessment, proof of relevant insurance cover, proposed traffic management for the event and payment for the costs associated with all safety aspects of the event.”

Apparently the Council had looked at some photos of last year’s event, reasonably anticipated a few thousand bikes and decided, rather like milk monitors, that “something must be done”.

Sadly, rather than letting the event go on unhindered as it has for years without problems, it meant trying to strangle the whole thing with the sticky, tangly red-tape of the bureaucrat.  This tape is insidious stuff.  It clings and wraps and multiplies and chokes and the only things that hold it (temporarily) at bay are hard Council-Approved facts of the Right Sort.  ”It’s always been OK in the past.”  That’s no good.  ”Common sense.”  Not a chance.  ”We’re not children, you know!”  Nope.  Where’s your Risk Assessment form?

Rather than recognising an event like Cassington as a benign opportunity for people to get together, raise money for charity and enjoy themselves, it’s treated with grim-eyed seriousness.  ”Ah, but of course,” the bureaucrat will cry, “WHAT IF?!?!”  And with those two words, he binds up and denies the rest of us the pleasures we’ve enjoyed – without incident – for years.

And ‘What If?” is a powerful thing. There is always the potential for a small child to put a hand on a hot exhaust or for someone to step in front of a bike.  Shit happens, chaps.  But your regulations, rules and restricting our experience of life doesn’t stop it.  Despite your best efforts, shit still happens and always will.  But part of life is simply accepting that any experience worth the candle (fire hazard) carries risk.  Dealing with it is part of having a life worth living and not an infantilised, ersatz existence starved of pleasure, learning or enjoyment.

As one of the marshalls said to me, “Council said ‘no’.  Community said ‘yes’.”  I think this both explains and illustrates something important.  Councils, by extending their remits way beyond what is reasonable, needed or justifiable, are now at odds with the communities they serve – but in reality, rule.

It’s not because they’re stupid, nasty or horrible.  Most of the council officials I’ve met are decent people who give a damn, care about what they do and want to do a fine job.  It’s simply because we’ve decided, as a society, that we’re too scared of “What If?” to face up to it, give it the bird and just get on with living.

So I’m delighted to say that shit didn’t happen last night and that “What If?” got the bird.  Instead, good people enjoyed bikes, drank beer and ate fatty food on Cassington green and, most importantly of all, raised their faces to the sunshine of friends, shared experience and life.

There’s never trouble at Cassington.  There’s never been an accident – despite more than eight thousand bikers turning up for the space of about three hours then riding home again.  It’s a good-natured do.  Even the local speed camera partnership only got a bit of good natured ribbing when they turned up a couple of years ago.

But this year it’s different.

I heard from a riding mate that Cassington had been cancelled.  In Bikeland, that’s like the Royal Wedding getting the can.  I asked why?  Apparently, the organisers had been faced up by the local authority who demanded they close the road and jump through an entire course of Health and Safety hoops.  Now, how much do you think it costs a local authority to close a road for a few hours?  £50?  £100?  Nah – this is Localauthorityland.  It’s a place where real money doesn’t exit – until it’s taken out of taxpayers’ pockets.  Closing half a mile of road in Cassington for a couple of hours clocks in at £1,500.  I wish someone would pay me a grand and a half to say “no”.

But, even were the organisers (the splendid British Motorcycle Riders’ Club) to stump up the money, the County Council says it’s too late to get the grind-oh-so-fine cash-greased Council machinery moving in time to shut the road.

So, to post a couple of policemen and a sign or two, fill in a few forms, tick a few boxes and genuflect thrice (mind the trip hazard) to the little tin gods of Stealth & Hasty not only costs £1,500 but can’t be organised any faster than a glacier on tamazepam?

It gets better.  According to another mate, the local district council told the organisers to apply for a road closure.  Better still, they apparently demanded that all 8,000 bikers push their machines the last quarter mile into the village. Ever tried pushing a motorcycle a quarter of a mile?  On 19th April apparently, the BMRCO met the district council again and, sensibly, explained that 8,000 people trying to push their bikes that far would be more dangerous than riding them.  Not content with a good injection of common sense the council asked for a “traffic plan” instead. But when BMRCO asked them “What’s a traffic plan”, council officials didn’t really explain.

David Cameron is our local MP here in West Oxfordshire.  On 10 July last year, he said “The Big Society will be the biggest, most dramatic redistribution of power to the man and woman on the street”.  And  ”This is all about giving people more power and control to improve their lives and communities.”

Cassington is the archetypal Big Society event.  It raises thousands of pounds for the local primary school and local charities.  It brings people together.  It inspires some with a love of bikes that lasts a lifetime.  And now it’s been pecked to death by the petty blunt-billed ducks of local authority and wrapped up with a red-tape bow on top.

Mr Cameron again.  ”I can announce today that we are taking on the enemies of enterprise. The bureaucrats who concoct those ridiculous rules and regulations that make life impossible. The town hall officials who take forever to make decisions…”

So, Mr Cameron, this is in YOUR constituency.  A Big Society event has been strangled by the nylon-trousered and risk-averse.  If you’re really serious about promoting a Big Society and getting rid of the pointless pointyheadedness that now characterises British life, show you mean it and drop in on Cassington on the last Monday evening in June.  We’ll see you there.  Because you need a lot more than red tape to stop a motorcycle – whether it’s pushed or not.

Sorry, chaps. I suppose I had it coming.

So, there I was, parked up and getting in no-one’s way:

Took a wander round part of the old peri track, took some pictures for you lot and wandered back to the bike. Out to supper with some friends for a birthday that evening. It’s 5 o’clock now and I need to ride home, get a shower and meet them for drinks first. We’re off to Allium in Fairford too, so I’ve been looking forward to it for a while.

So it’s with a happy heart at the prospect of a good evening stuffing my face and drinking decent wine that I stroll back to the bike.

Key in. Swing leg over saddle. Key to “on”. Press starter.

Click.

Rats.

Somewhere, the spirit of an old LAC was leaning against a hangar, mug of sweet tea in hand, pissing himself laughing at me.

Click.

Buggrit.

Click.

Now he was joined by his mates, and they’re all stood around collapsing in gales of laughter. “German bloody engineering – not much bloody good, is it mate?”

They had a point. And I was going to be late.

So I do what any chap as lucky as me would do in the circumstances. I ring The Fragrant Pip, who’s at home (fortunately), and she comes to rescue me with a set of jump leads.

She’s there in quarter of an hour, and so I break out the toolkit (still doubtless watched by sniggering groundcrew from on high somewhere) and set to.

Saddle off, side panel off, allen key out, tank up…

They must have really started wetting themselves when it began to hack it down with rain:

Jump leads on, The Fragrant Pip’s car connected at the other end.

Thumb the starter button.

Click.

I’m sure I heard sniggering from somewhere, turning into proper belly-laughter. He’s gone and found more of his mates, hasn’t he?

Click.

Feck.

It’s now nearly 6pm and that meal, the enticing bottles of red, are looking less and less likely.

So I call the RAC instead, and in ten minutes they send a mechanical angel in the form of one Robert Smith in his van.

What an absolutely TOP bloke. He looks at the bike, does what I’d done again and says, “You know what it is mate, don’t you?”

“No, no idea,” I reply.

“S’fecked, innit?”

Superb.

He then sets about the bike with a will. I now have the sense that the LACs are enjoying watching a fellow pro at work, nodding approvingly.

Rob decides it’s the starter motor, which is getting pretty hot. So, not one to be beaten, he takes it off and tries to fix it:

Sadly, the Allied starter motor (French, by Valeo) ain’t playing. The magnets are completely shot away. So Rob sticks the knackered starter in a carrier bag and we stash it in one of the boxes.

It’s six forty five. Supper’s looking more remote by the minute.

“Right,” says Rob. “I’ve got an idea – let’s bump it. You ride – I’ll push.”

So that’s what we try to do, heading into the sunset:

Rob stops after the third attempt – it’s nearly catching, but not quite.

And try again:

And again, this time with me pushing:

Assembled spiritual groundcrew now rolling around, clutching their sides and weeping with laughter. They’ve got the entire squadron out watching this one and they’re loving it.

Finally, we flag down a passing bloke in a 4×4 who helps us push and the bike catches. The LACs cheer – they’ve had their laugh and are decent sorts.

Rob follows me home to make sure I get back OK, and a couple of bottles somehow find their way into the cab of his van. Top bloke.

We even make it just in time for drinks and supper… And I make a point of raising a glass to Sgt Hancock, the men of 437, 512 and 575 and Rob.

This is one of the many stories I’ve read about Broadwell:

Harry Lingard’s story, like many of his war time colleagues, has remained untold. He was in the 1st Airborne Air Landing Light Reg. R.A and was a Dispatch rider and Signaler. On 18th September 1944 along with four other men, a jeep, a motor bike and ammunition he was loaded into a Horsa glider at R.A.F. Broadwell and towed off behind a Dakota to Arnhem where they had a perfect landing in the dropping zone.

On about the third day at Arnhem Harry witnessed the Dakota that was being used to drop the provisions was on fire, nevertheless continued to carry out its mission until the damage was so great it crashed. Harry later learned that for this completed mission the pilot, Flt Lt Lord, was awarded a posthumous V.C. for his bravery.

The bravery of the pilots flying out of Broadwell was quite incredible:

Here’s a pic of the man himself:

So, as a major historical site, at Broadwell today there must be plaques, memorials, signs, that sort of stuff? So I thought I go and take a look.

No. Here’s the site of the old Broadwell barrack buildings:

That’s it. It’s a feckin housing estate. Now that’s fine, but wouldn’t some recognition for men like Harry Lingard and the thousands of other men who flew as pilots, aircrew and troops from there be appropriate?

Anyway… The irony of this sign at the north of the site won’t be lost on anyone:

It’s by one of the old guardhouses and barracks. This is where men left, in vast numbers, in ricketty wooden gliders to get shot at. Kind of hazardous. But nowadays it seems a few tipper trucks pose more of a threat to life and limb. Bit of perspective, anyone?

Trespassers will be, yeah, whatever.

This is one of the remaining barrack buildings on the north side of the site:

It’s now used as a dump for the haulage firm behind that wire gate and HSE notices, but it’s interesting inside and, like Windrush, phenomenally atmospheric:

Wonder if this is genuine or someone later faking:

I imagine this would have come in for a fair bit of use:

One of the old generator buildings – it’s right by the side of the road:

On the south side of the airfield (it’s a biiig site, even now) some of the runway areas are still intact. Looking south…

Looking north:

It’s a big old site, as you can see from this grab from Googlemaps:

The runway in the pics above is the one running north-south on the satellite pic. In fact, the road that runs east/west through the site runs along the edge of the old east-west runway, intersecting the N-S runway.

And that’s where I parked my bike – right at the heart of the site. Not a good idea as it turned out.

On the image you can clearly see the peri track and dispersals too.

The control tower is in quite a state though:

and

Hard to believe this is where we launched the most crucial attack of WWII.

Tension rose quickly at the end of May for the invasion of the continent was not far off. Orders were given to seal the station and impound all mail as of 14.00 on June 2, for Broadwell was hosting over 1,000 troops for the Normandy landing. Upon receipt of the executive order on July 5 a final briefing for those taking part was arranged for 20.00. Fifty-nine crews attended, including six spare crews, for Operation [i]Tonga. Present al. the briefing was the AOC, 46 Group, who stressed the vital importance of the venture before the crews and troops boarded their aircraft.

Leading Broadwell’s contingent was Wing Commander Coventry of 512 Squadron who took off at 23:14. His 32 aircraft were away in 15 minutes, then came Wing Commander Jefferson with the first of 575 squadron’s crews. The whole force was airborne by 23:36, and the Para drop went well and without loss. On to the two dropping zones 952 troops had parachuted.

Now the control tower just stands in the middle of a field while it falls down. Bloody gets in the way of the ploughing – got to go round it, haven’t you?

This would have been the view over the principal runway – now a field:

Here’s the top storey of the control tower today:

The lime in the mortar is leeching out, creating stalactites:

…and calcifying the windowledges too:

But the RAF still have a few tricks up their gold-braided sleeves, and it’s a brave (stupid) man who wilfully rides a German bike right onto the heart of one of their key airfields…