The Flying Brick

I’d been scouring AutoTrader for weeks — every spare moment, even before I passed my full motorcycle test. What I really wanted was one of those stripped-back BMW R80s. The ones with the café-racer aesthetic, the fairing removed, knobbly tyres, a kind of retro sexiness and the muscle to back it up. They had shaft drives instead of chains, giving the rear wheel this hovering, magnetised look from the right angle. I dreamed of getting one in its original state and customising it — a true one-off. Mine.

Unfortunately, my budget didn’t stretch to an R80. What I could afford was a K100 — nicknamed “The Flying Brick.” Less pretty, heavier, with an engine like a sideways Peugeot 104. But it was affordable. And I was determined to fall in love with it, like you do with a rescue dog that bites you during the home visit.

It was up on the outskirts of Manchester. I called ahead. Still available. I booked the train.

I remember setting off from home in my new Belstaff motorcycle jacket, thick with armour at the elbows, shoulders, spine. My gloves were still stiff, my helmet shiny and heavy in the heat. It was the start of a heatwave, and I was thankful for air-con on the train. But with the changes — the bus replacement service, the long waits — I didn’t arrive at the dealership until after 3 p.m. Already dehydrated, already sweltering.

The neighbourhood didn’t exactly inspire confidence — boarded-up windows, graffiti, stray litter. A twitching net curtain or two. But there it was, a proper dealership, and my future bike sitting in the forecourt like a giant armoured insect.

I introduced myself at the desk. The salesman took one look and probably clocked the type — middle-aged, freshly qualified, mid-life crisis pending. He’d seen it before.

“I bought a one-way ticket,” I said, forcing cheer. “So I won’t be leaving empty-handed.”

He gave a weary smile. “Sure. Have a look.”

The bike was enormous. Fully faired, panniers included. It looked less like a motorbike and more like someone’s weird attempt to draw a car from memory, then chop off two wheels.

I remembered from YouTube that I should check the suspension. So I stood beside it and began pumping the handlebars up and down. On the third lift, the kickstand sprang back. The whole beast toppled. Not just that — it dominoed into the bike beside it, which shunted into the next.

A staff member ran out. We managed to right the bikes, and miraculously, nothing seemed damaged. Except, of course, my confidence. That was beyond repair.

I paid. I wanted the transaction over. I wanted to leave before I did something worse — burst into tears or piss myself.

They handed over the keys. I zipped up the jacket. Helmet. Gloves. Still blistering hot. I could hear my breath inside the helmet like Darth Vader.

“Just go,” I told myself. “Get out of here.”

I mounted. Kickstand up. The bike leaned into my leg like a cow that needed milking.

Ignition. It purred.

I turned out of the forecourt — indicators, shit, where are the indicators? No time. Just go. I rounded a corner, pulled over to catch my breath. Found the indicator switch. Idiot. Okay. Restart.

I pressed the ignition. Click. Nothing.

Again — weaker. Battery flat.

No way I was going back. Not after that. I was at the bottom of a hill. I had no choice but to push the beast up and try to bump start it on the other side.

It took an age. I passed old women and curious children. No one offered help. Finally, at the crest, I threw my leg over, coasted down, and popped it into first.

Success.

I didn’t dare stop the engine again. Not even to check directions. I coasted into a petrol station, figured out the faff of opening the cap with that flimsy key, praying the battery had revived. It had.

I hit the M1 and headed south.

It flew. At last, the flying brick did what it was supposed to do.

But every time I hit a winding road, every time I slowed to a crawl, I imagined dropping it — this half-tonne behemoth with no graceful way to dismount.

I arrived home salt-streaked, shaking. I dismounted like a cowboy after weeks on the prairie. Limped inside. Collapsed.

But I had done it. I had bought my first big bike. I had survived Greater Manchester.

And that, I suppose, was the beginning of the anxiety dreams. The ones where I’m riding some machine I don’t understand, something huge, unwieldy, and hurtling towards a wall