The Rider

“What?” Paul glanced down, questioningly at his bike. “What the bloody hell’s wrong with you?”

The large, black machine had been running smoothly and Paul had felt relaxed in the weak morning sunshine. He had taken a road unknown to him, cutting across the ‘holiday brochure’ countryside that was the border of Devon and Dorset.

Now however, some unseen power had decided it would not allow Paul to enjoy himself too much, and his bike died. No warning coughs or splutters from the engine, only a quick halt to silence.
Paul turned the ignition off and on, pulled in the clutch lever and hit the start button. The absolute silence from his machine was mocking.
“Right. Let’s have a look.” He could feel his anger beginning to rise.

After taking off his gloves and lid, Paul got off the machine and used the ignition key to unlock the bikes’ seat. From underneath he retrieved a small tool roll from its securing strap, placing it on the petrol tank.

“Okay. We’ll start at the beginning. It must be electrical, as the starter aint even turning.” Paul once more turned on the ignition and then noticed that none of the lights for the ignition came on. “Bloody idiot!” he berated himself. “Bloody fuse must’ve blown. Tosser!”
Paul dug out a screwdriver and allen key from the tool roll and started to remove the left-hand side panel of the Suzuki. Gloveless, the crisp air soon started to chill his fingers.

“Only wanted a quiet morning ride.” He muttered as he worked. “Best time on a Sunday, everyone else is asleep.”

After removing the panel, he quickly found the fuse holder and began to check each fuse in turn; they appeared intact so he traced the main feed line from the fuses to the battery. He soon found a smaller fuse holder containing one fuse. He looked at the burnt and split wire filament within.
“Ah, got you git face!” Paul took out the fuse. “Thirty amp! Shit! Ain’t got anything that size!”

Paul stood up and nearly threw the screwdriver over the hedge with frustrated anger. Then he picked up his tool roll, turned and nearly sent that skidding down the tarmac. He held his anger in check, threw the tools at the floor and kicked the rear tyre. “You bastard!”

Reaching into his leather jacket, he took out his mobile phone. He hoped his dad would be awake, or wouldn’t be too hacked off at being disturbed, to once again come and rescue his teenage boy. He looked at the phones’ small screen; blank. He pressed the little green button and waited for the device to light up. The screen briefly came to life, showed ‘Low Battery’ and immediately returned to blankness.

“Shit! Shit! Ahh! How can that be? I bloody well charged you last night you shit-kicking… BASTARD!” With his anger now close to breaking point, he looked around; he had no idea about this area. He knew that on his bike, (if the bloody thing worked), he could find his way home. But where could he find help?

It was then that he heard it. The sound of an engine far away, the faint noise gaining that Doppler effect from the distance and surrounding hillsides, but it was definitely an engine; it was getting closer and moving fast. Paul strained his hearing, willing the noise to get louder and closer. It sounded like a motorcycle, only it wasn’t a modern day ‘howler’ or ‘screamer’, it had the resonating thump of an older style bike. Paul didn’t care what it was; to him it signified civilisation and the chance of some help. He was beginning to feel isolated and the cold was beginning to leach into him.

After a short while, the quick thumping ‘dud-dud-dud’ sound of the approaching engine grew louder and the source of the noise came into sight. Paul couldn’t believe his eyes.

Coming along the road, was a motorcycle and rider straight out of a museum. The rider was wearing a leather cap, the sort Spitfire Pilots wore in the Battle of Britain, complete with goggles and white silk scarf. The outfit was finished with a long, thick coat; the sort of coat Paul had seen in pictures of soldiers from the First World War.
“Bloody hell, Biggles to the rescue!” Paul immediately felt a tinge of guilt for poking fun at his potential rescuer.

Paul did his best to conceal his amusement as the old bike slowed and spluttered to a stop. The rider turned off the engine and got off his machine, he was around five and half feet tall, the long coat making it difficult to work out the mans’ build. Paul looked on as the rider deftly pulled the bike onto its stand; he had only ever seen a bike like this in old photos.

There was no plastic covering the engine, and both cylinders had their own highly polished exhaust gleaming in the sunshine. On the back of the seat, Paul saw a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, tied down with string. The bike even had the old style number plate along the top of the front mudguard. ‘Head splitters’ his dad called them; after going over the handle bars riders would invariably smash down on the thin, sharp metal, and the obvious results would be made worse by the fact that helmets were never worn.

The Biggles look alike strode towards Paul whilst removing his large gauntlet style gloves and pulling his goggles down to hang around his neck. He gave Paul an infectious, warm smile.

“Hello lad.” Biggles looked around forty years old and spoke in a crisp ‘Queens’ English’ accent. Paul half expected him to say, ‘I say, what ho chap?’

Oh Christ, thought Paul, I’ve got mister ‘I fought in the war for the likes of you’ here.

“Having a spot of bother are we?” The man asked, looking over Pauls’ shoulder.

“Yeah. Bloody things died.” Paul became self-conscious of his Plymothian accent, making ‘th’ sound like ‘ff’. “Main fuse has blown. Fu…” Paul caught the swear word in time. “Bloody, things thirty amps. Don’t ‘spose you…”

“I see. I see.” The well spoken man interrupted. He had a taking charge air to him. Paul could easily picture this stranger, leading troops over a trench wall.

“Well let’s have a look shall we, you don’t always need the correct equipment to make roadside repairs you know.”

Paul watched as the stranger hunched down beside his bike and looked at the problem. He found himself liking this man. Not simply because he was helping him, no, he had a relaxed manner, and a fire in his eyes that said he had a “I don’t give a rats’ ass” kind of attitude. Not the stuffy kind of ex military Paul had imagined.

“This must be one of those modern machines I’ve heard about,” The man spoke over his shoulder to Paul. “I don’t know much about these, slightly ahead of my time you see. Ah, I see, it needs the connection made between these two points.”

“Yeah. I was wondering, what’s that you’re ridin? I ain’t never seen one like that. Triumphs, B.S.A.s, I know ’bout them, but yours?”

The man straightened and looked questioningly at Paul. “Why it’s a Brough Superior SS100 dear boy. Have you never heard of them? Why they’re one of the fastest machines on the road lad. I’ve reached over 100 miles per hour on old Boanerges here. I am taking advantage of this glorious sun and popping to the post office.”

“Bow Ann who?” Paul asked.

“Boanerges lad. It means ‘Son of Thunder’. It was tailor made in 1932. Not bad eh?” The man started to fumble in his coat pockets, searching for something. “Old Boanerges here knows these roads extremely well…Aha! There you are, knew I would have something that would do the job.” The man took out his hand and held up a thin piece of wire between his fingers.

“Right. Let us see if we can get this contraption of yours, back on the road. This will only be temporary though lad. There’s a Garage a few miles up the road, you should go there and get Sam the mechanic, to fix this properly.”

Paul watched, as the stranger wound the wire around itself and bent it into a shape so it would fit into the fuse holder.

“There you are my lad. Let’s give that a go.” The man said after firmly pushing the wire in place. Then he stood up and looked confused. “I say, how do you start one of these?”

“Step aside my good man.” Paul smirked. He turned on the ignition and was delighted to see the speedo and rev counter needles sweep across their dials and the green and red lights come on. His bike would live.

“Son of thunder? Meet the sound of thunder!” Paul pushed the start button and immediately the engine burst into life, the loud deep note of the exhaust was music to Paul’s’ ears.

Giving the throttle a quick, hard twist, Paul revved the engine as if to admonish the bike for letting him down. The deafening roar vibrated through Paul’s chest as he watched the rev counter needle climb. He double checked for any warning lights, none showed, letting the engine settle at tick over, he waited for any sign of trouble from his bike. Everything was looking and sounding good. Paul felt his earlier happiness come flooding back.

“Cheers mate.” Paul turned to thank the man. “You are an absolute bloody life save..er…”
The stranger had gone.

“Hello?” Paul looked up and down the road, no sign of the Good Samaritan or his bike. “That’s weird.” He walked into the road trying to gain a better view down the tarmac, surely, there would be some sign, or sound. There was nothing.

“Bloody hell, that bike is fast!” Paul joked to make himself feel better about the ‘disappearance’.
Paul returned to his bike, confused, it was as if the stranger had been just part of his imagination. He began to put his bike back together and decided to check out the garage the old boy had told him about.

A vibration from his jacket pocket startled him.
“What the…” Paul dug into his pocket and retrieved the small, annoying phone. The screen showed, ‘New Message’. “Eh? You were bloody dead just now!”
Paul stared at the phone for a while then opened the message, it was from one of his mates wondering if he wanted to ‘go for a ride?’ Christ thought Paul, if only you knew. He considered calling Martin to tell him about his mishap and the strange, disappearing stranger, but the thought of the ‘ribbing’ he would get, (and the accusations of early in the day to start drinking), made him decide against it.
Moments later Paul was back where he felt happiest. Riding his machine through the country lanes, forgetting any troubles (or disappearing strangers).

Soon, he rode around a sharp curve in the narrow road and saw a garage. It was a small brick building with a large workshop type building to the rear. Beneath the slate roofed canopy at the front, stood two petrol pumps; their fading paint and stuck dials, harking to a time when motoring was in its infancy. The whole place seemed deserted.

Paul rode his machine off the road and stopped in the shadow of the canopy. The windows of the garage had thick wooden boards covering them.
“Bugger me.” Paul said to himself. “No-one been here in a few years.”

Taking off his gloves and lid, Paul got off his bike and started to wander around, his curiosity increasing.

The shop part of the garage was secure. The workshop at the rear had large, wooden doors for vehicle access. To the left of the doors, Paul saw a weak looking smaller door, and gave it a small shove, it would relent under a heavier force, he pushed it slightly harder, yes it would give.
“C’mon this aint right.” Paul told himself. “This is breaking and entering.”

He walked away, looking around the side of the workshop, no obvious way of entry there and still no sign of any one else.

“On the other hand, we’re in the middle of nowhere and I need a fuse…you never know…” Decision made, Paul walked back and gave the door a hefty kick with his boot. With a sharp crack of disapproval and a shower of dirt and dust, the door relented.
Waving his hand to disperse the dust, Paul tentatively stepped over threshold into the gloom. He saw a light switch beside him on the wall, and gave it a flick. Unexpectedly a couple of overhead lights flickered, then came on.

Inside, Paul saw the usual suspects for a garage workshop, a set of ramps for vehicles, an open pit in the floor and a series of large wooden workbenches along the outside. Dust hung in the air along with the slightly metallic smell of old oil, petrol and neglect. Every surface had a thin covering of grey/brown dirt, showing the passage of time.

Paul slowly walked further into the workshop; he may be lucky, there might be a fuse. Searching along the workbenches, he found all kinds of discarded things, scraps of paper, rusting tools and unidentifiable parts of vehicles.

Paul’s attention was drawn to an open metal box. Inside he found a small pile of old, yellowing newspapers and underneath them he could make out, what looked like photograph frames. Carefully he picked up the top newspaper, it wasn’t a whole paper, it appeared to be a cutting. A date was hand written next to the feature; ‘20th May 1935’.
“Hell!” Pauls’ voice echoed around the empty building, making him jump. He lowered his voice, “That’s old.”

He scanned the story; it was about a man, who had been killed in a motorcycle accident the day before. Some of the words had been ‘eaten’ by the ravages of time, and in places, whole sentences were gone. Paul pieced the story together; the man who had died was some kind of celebrity of the day, killed on his bike, or ‘motor bicycle’ as the paper said.

‘…had been returning from posting a parcel when he and his machine, had somehow, collided with two errand boys, whom were pedalling their bicycles along…” The start and finish of the paragraph was missing. Paul felt a strange coldness slide up his spine.

“…taking advantage of this glorious sunshine and popping to the Post Office…” The strangers’ voice came back to Paul. The stranger with a parcel on his bike!

He began carefully sifting through the small pile of cuttings; they all appeared to be about the same accident, and this celebrity. He found no clues to the name, just bits and pieces about the accident and a few references to a possible cover-up. Some eyewitnesses described seeing a black, government type car in the area around the same time. One headline with no story attached proclaimed, ‘Was Lawrence Assassinated?’

“Ah! Lawrence. Got your name now, but Lawrence who?”

Paul continued to sift through his time capsule until he came to the photographs; one or two were in frames, others were loose. Paul carefully picked up some loose ones and blew off their jacket of dirt.

The black and white pictures, fading to a solid yellow, were of the petrol station. It looked like it was in its’ hey day, one showed a few people milling around, another a car in the background, turning off the road into the station. Hanging baskets of flowers attached to the canopy.

Paul stopped at one picture; in the foreground were two men, one sat on a bike with his back to the camera, the other dressed in overalls, talking to the biker.

The biker was wearing what looked like an Army Officers’ Uniform, complete with peaked cap, and brown leather ‘Sam Browne’ belt. The rider was somehow familiar to Paul, or perhaps he had seen a picture similar to this one. Paul turned over the photo; he saw the name of the photographer that developed the picture and the date of ‘August 1934’, but no clue to the subjects.

Then he noticed in the corner of his eye, a framed photo in the box. It was of a rider, wearing a long coat with a peaked officers’ cap, standing next to a bike. He stood with his arms folded across his chest in a defiant and proud manner. In the background, Paul could see the petrol station and the same overalled man from the other picture, pointing at the machine.

Paul grabbed the picture, he felt dizzy and almost lost the ability to breath, he had to support himself on the workbench.

“Shit the bed!” He couldn’t believe his eyes. “It’s you! It’s. Bloody well. You!”
There in the faded, dirty photograph was his Good Samaritan, the stranger, Biggles. That couldn’t be right. Paul wiped the photo and frame as clean as possible with his fingers and stared. It was a definite likeness, perhaps the stranger that helped him had been a relative, son or grandson. That had to be the answer, his grandson; they looked the same age therefore making the likeness even more uncanny.

Paul noticed a small inscription on the bottom length of the frame. “‘Lawrence of Arabia’ with Boanerges, April 1935”.

As if in a daze, Paul slowly reached for the next framed picture, this one showed the stranger outside the front door of a small country cottage. It was definitely the stranger again, yet this time he was dressed like some Egyptian merchant, patterned long robes with a loose Turban covering his head. On one corner of the photo, Paul could make out handwriting; ‘To Sam, my good friend and best mechanic, Lawrence.’

Again the strangers’ voice returned to Paul, “…get Sam the mechanic, to fix this properly…”
“Coincidence!” Pauls’ voice trembled slightly with doubt. “Stop it you tossser!”

Paul didn’t know much about this, ‘Lawrence of Arabia’, only snippets of information from some film made years ago and the odd mention of him by his dad. Dad, that was it; he would call his dad, he’d know about this man, and Paul would put money on the fact he had a grandson. Quickly he got out his phone to make the call.

The screen was blank. Cursing, Paul turned the phone on once more. ‘Low Battery’ flashed on the screen and the phone died. Then the overhead lights went out, plunging the workshop into darkness.

Paul stood motionless for a moment.
He heard the sound of voices, as if someone was walking along the main road. As quickly as he could in the reduced light, Paul made his way to the open door. As he exited the workshop, he swore he saw two push bikes go around the corner of the road.

Whilst trying to make sense of everything that had happened, Paul became aware of out another sound.
It was the same sound he’d heard when he’d broken down earlier, the steady thumping sound of an old ‘Motor Bicycle’ coming closer, at high speed.