The joy of an SX

I want you to pause for a moment and think of all the things that
you have ever loved. When you have done this, discard the living and
the dead. Then put-aside films, books, music and places. Do you have
anything left? I do. Yes, I have loved an object; a Lambretta. But, I
was seventeen, I was me, and I could do what I liked.


I bought it at 8.30 p.m. on the 8th October 1982 from a guy
that had owned it from new. He told me every detail of its fourteen
year life. At least, I think that is what he was telling me. I could
not hear him for I had only one thing on my mind: I was one hundred and
twenty pounds away from owning an SX200. Yes, just one hundred and
twenty pounds. Why did he not want more? He could have had my blood.
Was he blind to its beauty? And, why could he no longer love it? The
thought that something could have come between them made me feel
desperate pity for him. I wanted to hug him - to tell him to be strong.
But, I didn't. I was seventeen. Instead, I gave him the money and set
off in to the night with my new love. It was wonderful. We rode the
three miles home without insurance - unprotected SX at its very
best.


This wasn't my first scooter - I had had others. But, this
was an SX ; the most sought after scooter of them all. It brought
together speed, form and functionality. It was Italian styling at its
best. For the first time in my life I had something that I thought
other people wanted.


I was seventeen, I had an SX 200, and I had a great
girlfriend. Her name was Jane and she was almost as lucky as me; for
she had a boyfriend that had an SX200. No wonder we got on so well. In
the evening on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I would visit her. We
would sit in her brightly lit sitting-room watching bad TV with her
father, Cyril, and her brother, John (her mother worked evenings as a
nurse). At ten o'clock we would go through to her dining room to snog
for an hour. I have no idea what Cyril and John did during this time.
When we were finished, I would say goodnight to Jane and ride the six
miles back to my house - just me and my Lambretta on country lanes in
the dark. It was Gloucester, but it was also heaven. A-levels were just
a guilt trip to remind me that life is never ever
perfect.


The remaining evenings of the week were spent in the garage
at the bottom of the garden. This became my second home (perhaps even
my first). It had two white plastic power sockets - one was for the
freezer and the other had a gaping crack that whispered, "I want to
kill you." There was also a ghostly strip light that threw a cloak of
shadow over whatever you looked at. But, despite this, it was a happy
place. The scooter and I were together - safe from the winter rain -
and, we were always alone. Not once did my parents take the trouble to
make the short journey from the house to enquire how we were, or to
bring tea or coffee. Didn't they care what we were up to? No, they
didn't. And, thank God for that.


One night, when I was thinking how nice a biscuit would
taste, I took a look in the freezer. There was the usual mixture of
meat, vegetables and things that nobody likes, but nestling in an
unmarked box were about twenty profiteroles. And, like an Arctic choir,
they began to sing my name.


Sitting in a cold garage waiting for choux pastry to thaw in
your mouth isn't too bad. In fact, I developed a mild addiction. No
matter how resolute I was on entering the garage each evening, I could
not resist their calling. At 9:30 I would open the top of the chest,
take out a little brown ball and make myself comfortable on a
sun-lounger. After a minute or two, my palette would become numb. When
I could stand the discomfort no longer I would open and shut my mouth -
rather like a fish - and large plumes of dense mist would roll over
themselves in to the chill winter air. This was my
treat.


The first sign that this idyllic world would come to an end
came about a month later when I opened the plastic box and was
confronted by the last three remaining profiteroles. This posed a
serious question: Should I just eat them and throw away the box, or,
should I confess my crime and face a mother-administered detox
programme and punishment scheme? As I considered my options I decided
to increase (or decrease) the problem. I wasn't sure which it was, but
the roof of my mouth ached as the anti-penultimate profiterole slowly
thawed.


The following Saturday morning there came a real blow. Guests
were due that evening and my mother announced, "I had better get the
profiteroles out." Oh, shit. My in-grained sense of optimism did its
best to find a glimmer of hope. As she entered the garage I wished for
something to happen. Like what, for Christ's sake? She quickly
reappeared and marched back towards the house with the translucent box
in her hand. From my seat I could see the solitary, lonely object
sitting in its cold prison. Over the course of the next seven days I
learnt how it must have felt as I sat in my bedroom, cut-off from the
outside world with nothing but homework and a prehistoric computer
game.


It is at times like this that a person needs a good friend.
Luckily, I had one - Andy. He kept me informed as to what was going on
outside. He went to scooter club meetings and made exotic excuses for
my absence. He took a letter to Jane, and he made sure that Steve
Woodman did not get too cocky. Woodman lived close by and was a member
of the Glevum Stax Scooter Club. This name provided Andy and me with
endless laughs. Who on earth thought that joining the Roman name for
Gloucester with one of the greatest soul record labels would make a
good name for a scooter club? It was ridiculous. They should have had a
proper name for their club?.one like ours??the Maltese
Falcons.


Andy also had something that could elevate him from being a
good friend to being a great friend: My parents disliked him immensely.
"Those eyes," my mother would repeat (and still does) whenever his name
was mentioned. Mind you, she did have a point. He did look mad. He also
had a bit of a problem; he loved a Vespa.


In early November he and I were obliged to attend an evening
function at school. It was an event locked in tedious tradition and
had, no doubt, happened every year for the last three hundred. At the
end of the autumn term, the first-years would attend with their
parents. They would hear speeches from the Headmaster, senior teachers
and some sixth-formers. The subjects of these speeches were predictable
- our benefactors and the glorious achievements of a handful of
old-boys. The prefects sat on the stage behind the staff and we did our
best to look hard and intimidating. We thought that this was a more
realistic introduction to the delights of the school. As I listened to
the sermons, I wished that we could acknowledge the former pupils that
had gone on to achieve bugger-all. I was sure that there were plenty of
them and that many of them would blame their impressive
under-achievement on the very men that were preaching that night.



The new intake listened intently. I knew how the next seven
years of their lives would be and I felt sorry for them. Did their
parents not know what their children now faced? If they didn't, then
the closing rendition of the school hymn should have provided some
clues. It was performed in a dead language with little subtlety or
musical quality. The excessive volume and over-indulgent use of timpani
suggested a latent insanity, but it achieved exactly what it set-out to
do: It terrified all that heard it.


When the echoes had finally died, Andy and I went to our
scooters and began putting on our helmets, scarves and gloves. We also
talked and laughed about the rubbish that we had just heard. As we did
so, I noticed a young lad. Out of the one-hundred-or-so first-years
that walked past, he was the only one to turn his head to get a better
view of our machines. We did not acknowledge him but he still looked.
He then slowed to a dawdle and kept turning back. He was mesmerised. I
knew the signs, and so did his concerned parents. They hurried him
along.


Andy and I carried-on talking for a while longer and decided
that we should go home and meet at the local pub. We kick-started two
reluctant engines and drove slowly past the snake of cars that had
formed on the school drive. At the main road we drew up alongside a
large Volvo estate. I peered in through the misted window. A small hand
cleared a patch and a face appeared. It was the love-struck boy. I
don't know why, but I nodded and raised my thumb. His face changed to
one of awe. It was the best bit of PR the school had ever had. A gap
then appeared in the traffic and Andy and I left the car behind. I
decided that if I saw the boy tomorrow I would ignore him. After all, I
was seventeen.


It was only a quarter past nine when we got back. I parked up
on the hard-standing in front of our garage. Ice was forming on
neighbouring cars but I chose not to put the scooter away. If I left it
where it was, passers by would be able to admire its form. As I moved
away I walked backwards, unable to avert my own eyes. The combination
of mist and street lights provided the perfect dull urban backdrop to
display its beauty.


I met up with Andy in the Ridge and Furrow - a ghastly
"traditional" modern pub. We talked until closing time. I can't
remember what about. But, whatever it was, it was irrelevant compared
to the goings on elsewhere. When we left the warmth of the fake
log-fire we were hit by freezing air. The grass had turned white and
crisp, and we left a trail of footprints across the field that lay
between home and the pub. After a few minutes we reached the alley
where we would go our separate ways. I noticed some tyre tracks across
the verge between the passageway and the main road. They were too wide
for a pushbike, but I thought nothing of them. We said
goodnight.


Since owning the scooter I had developed a simple and
rewarding game. Whenever I approached it I would keep my head down
until I was very close. I would then look up and be struck by the
wondrous fact that I owned it.


This night I kept my eyes fixed on my shadow that shifted
position as I passed under successive street lamps. I waited and waited
and then raised my head to see the rear end of MAE 488F?.except, I
didn't see the rear end of MAE 488F. I saw the end of me. There was
nothing parked there.


I ran to the garage door. My scooter could not have been
stolen. I was just the victim of a prank or else a cruel loss of
memory. I twisted the handle and heaved. It began to rise, as did my
feeling of nausea. Time slowed down as each inch of the interior was
revealed. I willed my darling to come in to view, but of course, it
didn't. The garage was empty except for the freezer. My breathing
quickened and I struggled to keep the contents of my stomach down. I
ran to the garden. I had never put it there, but perhaps - no. I went
back and looked in the garage again. I then wandered and turned circles
in the roadway. This wasn't right or fair.


My parents were where I had left them - stuck to the sofa by
the adhesive of misery. The TV was blaring and they resisted looking
around. I paused before uttering the unthinkable.
"My scooter has been stolen."
They turned their heads. At least they acknowledged that this was real
drama. My father looked at me for a moment and then did his very best
to show sympathy.
"You should have put it away," he said.
I returned his gaze knowing that I would not save him if his life were
ever in danger.


The police showed a similar level of concern. They said that
they would be around in an hour. An hour! My life could be another 73
miles away by then. I felt totally helpless, but there was no way that
I could sit and wait. I ran around to Andy's. He would know what to do.
When I had explained, he went to his garage and opened the door - I was
envious at what I saw parked within, even if it were a Vespa - and he
chose a weapon. His choice of a shock-absorber seemed wonderfully
ironic. We then toured the estate for an hour, oblivious of the cold.
We finished our hunt at the tyre tracks on the verge. There was
something tantalisingly real yet unreal about these. I wanted them to
talk but they told us nothing.


When the two constables finally arrived they did their best
to appear interested and to give some hope that they might find it. I
knew that they wouldn't. I was seventeen?..but, I wasn't stupid. They
left, and my parents offered no words as I went to bed. Sleep was
fitful and punctuated by sobs that echoed around the silent house.



Eventually, dawn arrived and I went to the landing window and
looked out. Unashamedly, I hoped that it would be there. I didn't care
how, I just needed it to be there. It wasn't, and I had to cycle to
school for the first time in over a year - just another
nobody.


The most miserable day of my life passed agonisingly slowly.
The only respite came when Jane called in the evening. But even she
managed to make things worse; she told me that she had heard that I had
cried at school. She also told me who had started this rumour. It was
Richard Marston - my predecessor in her life. The most annoying aspect
of this was that, against all odds, I had somehow managed not to cry
during the day. At least I now had something to look forward to - I
would be seeing Richard in the morning and he would provide an outlet
for the rage and sense of injustice that was eating me.


Andy and I spent the following two weeks walking the roads of
our estate, checking wasteland, pathways and car parks. We found
nothing, but there were two major events during this period. The first
was Andy's wheel-trim being stolen. It was a rare item and he liked it.
Its loss pissed him off. The second significant occurrence was me
finishing with Jane. This had to be done: I could no longer give her
the time that she deserved and I could not risk her dumping me. Not
with the way things were.


Then, one evening, while we were patrolling, Andy saw a
wheel-trim a little too similar to his own. It was attached to Steve
Woodman's scooter, which was parked outside his garage. We stopped but
said nothing. Andy crouched to take a closer look. The wheel-trim had
been painted, but it was unmistakably Andy's. Then we heard voices from
the garage. They belonged to Woodman and a girl - though they were
barely distinguishable. Andy got up and walked to the side door. He
went straight in. There then started thirty seconds of cartoon-like
noises. Crashes and thuds were punctuated by yelps from the hapless
Woodman. The comic effect was heightened by the rather unimaginative
and repetitive cries of "leave him alone" from the girl. I waited
patiently outside. This wasn't my business.


When the commotion ceased there was quiet, and then Andy
asked rather casually, "Do you know who took Rob's scooter?" I waited
for the predictable "No," but, instead I heard, "Yeah, it was Danny
Wylie." There was one final crash and Andy reappeared. His face was a
mixture of satisfaction and fury. He removed the wheel-trim then pushed
the scooter over. It made an awful sound as it hit the floor - metal on
tarmac accompanied by breaking glass. He stamped twice on the side
panels and then we walked away.


Andy and I kept our new-found information to ourselves -
parents and police were not part of this.


The next night I tracked-down Danny Wylie to a Glevum Stax
disco. He had heard that I was coming. He was dressed quite smartly,
but in his hand he carried a Tesco's bag. This contained a rounders
bat. Not quite a designer weapon, but, after all, this was Gloucester.
He needn't have bothered. I had no desire for violence. I just wanted
my SX. We sat down and talked. He admitted quite readily that he had
taken it, and that Woodman had been with him. After a few more minutes
he gave me the information that I really wanted. He said that Pepe
Rossi had my scooter. I might have known. Rossi was not nice or honest
- not even by Glevum Stax standards.


Wylie promised to get it back on the agreement that I would
not contact the police. He then finished our conversation by saying
that he wouldn't have taken it if he had known me. This was very sweet
considering that he was a thieving bastard.


I left the place quite pleased; I was going to get my scooter
back and, sooner or later, Danny Wylie would bump in to Andy. Things
were getting better.


After a few days it became clear that my new "friend" was a
lying, thieving bastard.


Andy and I went to Pepe's house - a miserable, pebble-dashed
post-war semi on a busy road. The front garden was a muddy patch
littered with scooter parts. I wondered how many of them were his. As I
started to snoop, Pepe appeared from around the side and was not
alarmed by our presence. He even seemed genuinely shocked by my
accusation. His protests were so loud that his mother came out to
protect him - appropriate considering the club he was in. She told me
to get off him. I did so and told her why we were there. In a
heart-rending monologue she told us that her son was not a thief. I
half-expected her to add that Gloucester was a pleasant place to live.
As she finished, her Latin indignation overspilled and she said that if
I didn't believe her, I could look in the back garden and sheds. I
wonder what Pepe thought as she said this. I took up her invitation and
strolled around. Andy and I looked everywhere but found nothing. We
felt stupid and made to leave. As I got to the gate, I stopped. I'm not
sure why, but as I did, I looked down. There, in the December mud was
my floormat.


Mrs Rossi would not let me call the police from her house,
even though I offered to pay. Andy went to the phone box that was just
a few metres from the garden gate. The forty minutes it took for the
law to arrive passed very slowly. Not least because of Mrs Rossi's
tedious defence of her angelic "Pietro". It was strange how his name
had changed now that he had been caught.


Two days later I was collected from home by a marked-car and
taken to the police station. MAE 488F had been recovered from the
railway embankment beside the Rossi house. I was told that it had
suffered, but we were going to be reunited. The policeman took me to an
anonymous lock-up and opened the door. I wasn't prepared for what I
saw.


The side-panels rested lazily against the left-hand wall. The
engine was in the middle of the floor. The frame was against the back
wall. I moved forward and squatted. It was one of those moments when I
should have asked to be left alone. There was something wrong -
something very very wrong. I reached out and touched the frame. As I
did so, the front half moved away from the rear. My scooter had been
sawn in half. No, don't ask, "Why?" because I don't have an answer.
This was not a reunion. This was the identification of a
body.


As weeks passed I continued to be introduced to some of the
harder facts of life. The insurance company told me that they would pay
me half its value. I was seventeen - I did as I was told. They then
told me that this sum was equal to the excess on my policy. This was a
term that I had never heard before, but my father was all too happy to
explain.


I was also introduced to an interesting police method. The
Gloucester Constabulary were keen to increase clear-up rates, so cars
would regularly call at my house with their boots full of scooter
accessories (these were not covered by the insurance policy). I was
encouraged to recognise items that I had never seen before. I did so
obligingly. This comedy carried on for over a month.


I sold these windfall items and bought a succession of
scooters. It was never love, just a case of sleeping around - trying to
replace what I never could.


Woodman, Wylie and Rossi pleaded guilty and were each ordered
to pay me ?40 compensation. I wondered how the magistrate had arrived
at this fee. It suggested that she had never seen a Lambretta. And,
whether she had or not, she was no help to me. Money was not what I
needed. Things had changed. I said goodbye to the Maltese Falcons,
goodbye to Andy and goodbye to being seventeen. Life was shit, but I
had been freed and there was the opportunity for things to get
better.


Now, when I look back at all this, I am amazed at how much I
hated those three bastards. And, what amazes me more, after all this
time, is that I still do.