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As
I wound the bike deeper down south through the bleakness of Dartmoor,
a couple of things annoyed me. The light yet unrelenting drizzle,
the kind that pesters visors plus stings the eyeballs and so due
to the classic britishnes of our weather my view from the saddle
was limited to the car in front. The very same car I'd been caught
behind for what seemed like forever, ye Gods that was the longest
eighteen miles of my life. Never mind, I'll live to see the stunning
wilderness again. I didn't anger because my journey had a meaningful
purpose. The West Country Bike Show was my destination today,
a great event held on Newton Abbot Racecourse now in its second,
and by far drier, year.
Easy
to find just follow the brown horsy signs, moderate Saturday shopping
traffic didn't hinder progress. Good marshalling with loads of
hard standing for parking up on as well as a patch club running
security. If those are the bouncers I don't wanna see the guests
up for causing trouble. Paid me £7 while smiling in an unthreateningly
way, hopefully suggesting I'm not picking a fight, or too much
of a wuss just because I'm in thermals and textile waterproofs
against their t-shirt leather waistcoat combi. Ok, they win, but
only narrowly.
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So into the
show, first call for relief satisfied by a long choice of port
a loos. Not glastbo standards either. Wow, my eye is drawn to
a bungee crane, hmm may be not so soon before lunch. And what's
that? Bouncy castles for kids, I wonder if campers made night
time use, be a shame not to. A choice of usual burger bar food
with the welcome addition of jacket spuds and Thai vans, nicely
unexpected. Refuel then inside to explore.
Not as many
display bikes as last year if I remember, but still a big mix
from every kind. Classics to customs to classy to costly. I was
in ore of the paint jobs, the craftsmanship and dedication to
the art of creating and maintaining such motorbikes. The super
charged 'Busa's left me giggling like a schoolboy. I'd spotted
the Nos bottle; it must have sprung a leak.
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Two tattootists were
on hand for that permanent reminder of your visit, both buzzing like the
dentists drill of nightmares. Seemed to do fair trade mind, the Japanese
koi's got me pondering the maybe. Back out side straight into the trike
marquee to see engineering at the best. Do I spy a v8 in there?
Wait, what's going
on over there? Have I been fed acid or are there really elves in red
coats riding a human pyramid? Further inspection is needed. The world-touring
IMPS aged five to sixteen, but don't let their youth con you. Watching
the stunts with open mouth muttering "but they're so young…" properly
left me looking like a pillock. You'll do the same; hundreds of hours
must have been spent practicing on the infantry of 50cc to 250cc dirt
bikes. Stunts and clowning around very un child like. Misspent youth?
I'm only jealous. Going strong since the seventies (obviously not the
original line up) catch them if you can.
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With beer
on tap till 2am I'd wager some green on sore heads seeing in Sunday.
Not sure when the bands stopped but the rock was a rocking from
early. Four good bands filled the day, some better then others,
if I'd lasted 'til throw out I'd have listened to them all then
taken in the fireworks.
Stopped by
the Blood Runners stall to give my lose change support, if you
donate to the air ambulance give also to these guys. Part of the
Free Wheels charity, unsung heroes of the NHS couriering vital
supplies voluntary. Give generously; you don't know when you'll
need them.
Oop's is that
the time? I've got a roast waiting for me so it's off back home
till next year when I plan to camp. An excuse to sample more beer.
Recommended to every one interested in bikes or those wanting
to enter into our world.
Pat Johnson
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