Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [65]
I must have looked pretty good, if I say so myself, because I can’t think of anyone else who would have got away with the stuff I did at the Hungry Years. Apart from the heavy-metal disco every weekend, there was a jukebox in the bar that everyone used to play their Iron Maiden, Motörhead and AC/DC favourites. Not me. The money I saved on drinks went straight into playing Perry Como, ‘Rambling Rose’, Neil Sedaka, old classics like that. If another biker gang had come into that pub, the Rising Sun’s reputation would have been gone.
Actually, I don’t know if there was much of a reputation. They weren’t Hell’s Angels or anything like that. There wasn’t a leader as such. They just liked to feel part of a group, so they all had their Rising Sun emblems sewn onto their coats and stuck on their bikes. They were all just happy to spend their nights playing pool in the Hungry Years – where I was a bit of a shark, I kid you not – and their days haring up and down the coastal roads.
I loved anything on two wheels – the faster, the better. My little 50cc would be barely out of the blocks when some of these other guys were dots in the distance, so I’d just jump on the back of one of theirs and enjoy it that way. Looking back, if I discovered my son was doing that now, I’d go spare. We would be clocking 100mph up these windy roads, bombing along, weaving in and out of traffic, with not a care in the world. Then we’d hit the five-mile straight on the A27 to St Dunstan’s and really put our feet down. That’s when I’d be clinging on so tight I could barely breathe and the speedometer would creep up and up until it was ticking 160mph. Absolute lunacy. But absolutely the best feeling in the world.
I had no trouble finding a ride. These guys were all in their late twenties and early thirties, so having the sexy sixteen-year-old on the back was a bit of kudos for them. But it wasn’t all cock fighting because Simon, or anyone who didn’t have their own powerful machine, was also invited to ride pillion.
I wasn’t the only girl in the group. There were a few women, mostly about ten years older than me, and all of them happy to get involved in the laddish games of wet T-shirt competitions, topless dancing and the usual bloke-pleasing antics. The era of ‘free love’ was very much in vogue in the Rising Sun. I’ve always been a one-man woman, so that wasn’t for me. But as a teen, at the height of my nascent sexual powers, I found it all really erotic and fascinating. I felt so mature just being part of it.
I suppose, reading this, you’re thinking: ‘How did you not have an accident?’ The answer is: I did. Ironically, it didn’t come when we were racing with the Rising Sun. If it had, I probably wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale. I was out with a couple of Simon’s friends. Their bikes were only 125s, but that was still more powerful than mine, so I was on the back as usual.
We were in Peacehaven, pottering along, looking for somewhere for lunch. Simon pulled alongside us to indicate there was a Wimpy coming up and that should have been the end of it. But as we fell in behind him, his back and our front wheels connected. The next thing I knew I was flying through the air – with the bike just behind me. I landed on my knees and didn’t have time to react to the giant shadow bearing down on me. Fortunately, most of the bike missed me, but the exhaust settled straight on the open wound on my leg. It already had gravel and crap in it, now it was being seared by the heat of the engine.
From there it was a case of waking up in an ambulance and panicking. Am I alive? Do my legs work? Can I still walk?
They obviously gave me painkillers, but not enough. Worst of all, nobody answered my questions. I must have blacked out again because the next thing I remember is being in a hospital bed, cursing and screaming at the shock and the pain. Suddenly I heard a disapproving voice.
‘I really don’t think you should swear quite