Story - Old Friends

**Paul in NZ** · 7th September 2004, 15:24

This is a true story. It's not funny or particularly amusing but this actually happened. It's dedecated to my friend Steve that has been overseas for a few years. He may read it one day and I'm sure it will mean something to him...

To Steve...

“Friendship is the source of the greatest pleasures, and without friends even the most agreeable pursuits become tedious” . St. Thomas Aquinas

From the glorious solitude of my grassy vantage point high above Christchurch, I looked down the ancient motorcycle that sagged in remains of the days heat at the side of the winding road. The warmth of the late afternoon air had chilled as the last blaze of a setting sun slid reluctantly behind the silhouetted crags of the Southern Alps far across the Canterbury Plains. Like myself, these last rays of daylight seemed reluctant to slip their grasp on such a golden day.

The once gleaming red and black bike was now layered with hard won trophies of road dust and oily streaks. It sat like a billboard of adventure proclaiming hard traveling in recent days to the lesser breeds of stay at home motorcycles. I paused to wonder if the artisans who had first breathed life into her cylinders all those years earlier in Italy had ever imagined she would end up here in a small country, high above an even smaller city on the far side of the globe. Probably not, I decided as it was an unlikely destination and I doubted the artisans of Mandello del Lario had even heard of New Zealand! The old Guzzi Le Mans had been for me at least, the realization of a schoolboy dream and I felt a twinge of pride that my old bike had carried me so well on the long journey.

And so with the sun slowly giving up it grip I sat under a solitary circling falcon (appropriately Guzzis emblem), overlooking the place of my birth wondering why, just when life should have been full and complete, something or someone was missing. In the gathering dusk, my thoughts skipped back to my earlier years, all celebrated on this thin strip of asphalt shimmering in the golden summers of memory. What was it? Why was this perfect moment so imperfect?

Luckily the memory carousel stopped on a distant summer 10 years previously. Vicki had ‘needed’ a new kitchen table and (being Vicki) had found a ‘perfect’ little shop selling handmade tables in solid wood at prices we could certainly afford. Or so she informed me and who was I to argue the toss? It was, I was told, one of those little shops in Sydenham full of half finished projects, interesting odds and ends and I would just love it! As a 15 year veteran of marriage, I could take a hint and so I departed post haste, cheque book and tape measure in hand to check workmanship and to place and order for a table to fit our renovated kitchen.

**Paul in NZ** · 7th September 2004, 15:24

Part 2

For once, our taste in shops and shopping agreed, I did love it, it was my kind of place. Time seemed stopped at the door as the little shop was filled with the warm smell of beeswax polish and fresh wood shavings. Tools and odd bits and bobs of old and half made furniture lay about in various states of repair. Freshly restored pieces gleamed golden soft next to tired and battered odds and sods, straight from the garage sale or the attic. Mellow sunlight filtered through stained glass and air thick with scented woods. The total effect was the real and unsanitized version of what the exotic gift shops in your local Mall try to recreate with a stick of incense!

Over a cup of, free and totally un-yuppie (and totally revolting) instant coffee, a table style was discussed, a size determined, an order was placed and the deposit paid. I had connected well with the owners and was so impressed with the finished product that we had a couple of other pieces from the house repolished and repaired. Before long we had run out of pieces to be restored and yet we still called in as there was a friendship growing. Almost before we realized we were on first name terms with the owners and exchanging promises of a dinner “over a few stout red’s” one night in the near future.

Time passed, wine was drunk, problems solved, food was consumed and a mutual love of boardgames indulged. Then, one sunny Christchurch spring morning I had to drop into the shop to pay for some long since forgotten item that had been repaired. For some reason, this time I took my old 1970 Triumph motorcycle rather than the car. As I recall, there was no particular reason, I was just off for a ride on a beautiful crisp Canterbury day. Steve, the new friend from the shop, came running out dragging his partner with him! “See!!! Seeee!!!” He exclaimed in a highly agitated fashion. “Do you see that, not everyone who rides a motorcycle is a thug!! That’s the kind of bike I want..” It seemed that the old Triumph had struck a chord with at least one of the pair!!

I was not all that sure it was a compliment I wanted! In my late thirties I was hoping to look at least a ‘little’ cool verging on thuggish! Regardless of my feelings Steve danced around the bike with his eyes sparkling with potential midlife crisis and pointing out various features to his bemused partner, It turned out that he had a sudden desire to get back on 2 wheels but she was unsure about it!

Before long, Steve had his bike and we were off on little jaunts here and soon Steve, freed from the chains of restraint quickly amassed a tidy wee collection of old bikes, seeming determined to try them all before declaring that Norton Commandos were his thing!!.

Weeks turned to months and then years. The original casual relationship turned into regular meals and almost before we knew it, we were describing each other as “our good friends.”. We did a couple of wonderful trips as a foursome but mainly, as far as the bikes were concerned, it was Steve and I off for a ride on a sunny day!

**Paul in NZ** · 7th September 2004, 15:25

Part 3

The trips to the Greymouth Street races were something we treasured! Leaving Christchurch before dawn for a jaunt over to the West Coast via Lewis Pass and return later the same day via Arthurs Pass, usually getting home after dark. Even when we were riding in a larger group, Steve and I would somehow end up riding together. Never planned, it just happened that way and we saw no point in changing things.

The memories of the good and the bad times came thick and fast. Whether it was ratting both bikes on the side of a deserted highway to find a spare pair of 2BA screws to reattach the top of a carb or Steve patiently waiting while I cleared a fuel filter that I had stupidly forgotten to do the day before. It seemed that with every ride, we slipped deeper and deeper into that wonderful institution of lasting friendship that is born of a common passion and matured by adventures shared.

I had at the time enjoyed the luxury of working from my office at home. I discovered the delights of glide time and occasionally, if it was riding weather, Steve conspired to have a free afternoon. The phone would ring and, “We on then?” was all the question needed. Nine times out of ten the request was met with a hearty “Too right!” and we would quickly meet at the usual spot, gassed up and hungry for escape and adventure!

I don’t know why, but that summit road became our regular ride. I guess because we both lived handy to it and it was easy to ride after dinner on summer evenings. It was a quick fix to the thrill habit but it got to the stage where we thought owned it! We knew the lumps and the bumps, where to go fast where to go slow and even when the farmer was likely to be moving stock and if the council had been doing repairs.! We could ride that road wheel to wheel, somehow, each knowing what the other would do in any given situation. Sometimes we would pretend to race, sometimes one would just let me go and some glorious days we would just cruise! Just two happy guys on two old bikes, lost in the golden Canterbury sunsets.

During this time it became our habit, after the rush of the cut and thrust that we would filter quietly into the car-park which marked the end of the road above Sumner. If the weather was agreeable I’d smoke a quiet cigarette while the bikes cooled and we would listen to song of the Cicadas and the crack of the hot metal in the rapidly cooling night! At times we would sit and talk about the day, our lives and the troubles of the world and sometimes we would just sit in companionable silence as the adrenaline flowed from our bodies. Then, at some unmade but jointly acknowledged signal we would climb back on the bikes, stroke the kickstarts and follow the headlights gleam back to our lives and loved ones. We’d ride a little slower on the return trip, in no hurry to take up our duties again but happy knowing that we were sharing something special!

Alas! Nothing lasts forever and not all change is good so there came a time where I had to uproot the family and move to Wellington. In the rush to buy and sell houses, shift schools pack the entire house the bikes sat unloved in the shed awaiting the arrival of the movers van.

**Paul in NZ** · 7th September 2004, 15:26

Part 4

Steve and I had managed a couple of rides but somehow the magic spell was broken! The weather was unkind or the bikes would act up or one of a thousand other things would intrude until suddenly, instead of weeks left, we were down to days until the big shift! It seemed that the golden weather really had ended and nothing seemed right. Sure… There was the usual ‘Going Away’ bash and the group ‘Last Ride’ but something was missing and it sat hard on my heart..

Soon there was no more next week and yet, unexpectedly, Steve rang a little later than normal on our usual day! “Wadda ya reckon? You up for one last ride??” There! He had said it. The thing that we had never said but knew must be, was out and hanging between us! The last ride! In a thoughtful moment as I looked at Vicki, struggling to pack cartons with one hand and clear up the dinner table with the other while not letting the cat out so it would not get left behind. “It’s Steve”! I said, “he’s…. Um…”. There was a pause……

Vicki’s laugh lit up the room, “Go on!” she told me. “Get out of here you idiot and go play silly buggers with your mate. And don’t you dare set a foot back in this house until you have got your attitude straight.” If I had loved her before, I was a thousand times more in love now.

I literally ran from the house throwing on gear hastily retrieved from boxes. I dared not check the weather or glance to the sky. This was it. The last chance and it would take a lot more that a drop of rain to stop us. The bike fired 1st kick and before 10 minutes had passed Steve and I were pulling out of the petrol station and droning up Dyers Pass Road on the last warm December evening! As the houses thinned and with the engines fully warmed the syncopated exhaust notes rose in pitch as throttles were lifted and the last ride, truly began. Sooner than usual we were into the groove, an easy loping gait, never touching the brakes, never accelerating too much, covering ground swiftly and effortlessly holding good speed in the corners to the top of the hill.

A couple of late bursts along the final straights had cleared the bikes throat and had the Trophy’s twin upswept pipes singing their aria of mechanical joy as we pitched into the tricky uphill left at the top of the road. We were now truly on the famous Summit Road, particularly the section from the “Sign of the Kiwi” to Sumner.

We fairly sprinted the first section up hill, the light Trophy barely a match for the Commando’s stomp there until we carefully dropped through the sweeping right hander (watch the gravel from the car park) and emerged into the late afternoon sunlight.

Always at this stage it would become obvious if there was to be a race or a cruise. That night it was neither. Without thought or intention we found ourselves performing some sort of Synchronized Motorcycling. Never separated by more than a few feet we swept the roads in perfect union, slightly staggered with Steve’s Commando in front and right of my Trophy. In perfect formation and mesmerized by the surreal soft evening light it was if we were riding in slow motion or through a extra thick atmosphere. Gloved hands stroked the controls as the exhausts synchronized into that pulsating rhythm that 2 English twins produce. This is as good as it gets I thought! Life can be no finer.

Now, it is a common enough quirk of nature often observed, but after the long hot days in Christchurch a great wall of mist will roll in from the sea as the land cools. Often as not it will form in the long submerged volcanic valley of Lyttleton Harbor and spill over the Port Hills looking like a giant wave of breaking surf over a reef. Tonight, was one of those nights.

**Paul in NZ** · 7th September 2004, 15:27

Part 5

We could see the cloudbank forming and a couple of bends later we dove into the silent grey mist. Instinct took over and although the exhaust notes dropped a pitch or 2 we seemed to hardly slow until we burst forth again into the brilliant glow of the sun setting over the Southern Alps behind us and far over the famous Canterbury Plains. While there are many reports of the odd visual tricks that misty evenings can play on your eyes neither Steve nor I were prepared for what happened next.

There, silhouetted by the setting sun, on the great bank of cloud was the ghostly outline of 2 giant riders on thundering machines, 200 feet tall and surrounded by a blazing halo of fire. Even though we could both do the physics, and knew a sun corona when we saw one, we were transfixed. Close as we were, we both saw the same thing at the same time and while we kept one eye on the road we were held in thrall by the spectacle.

Wheel to wheel we thundered on, neither one of us game to break the spell, each aware that there was a real possibility that this was the last time we would ride together. The 2 ghostly riders kept silent station with us through the next 10 minutes or so before Mother Nature, possibly deciding we had our spell of fame, let the crest of the mist wave collapse and the grey mist crashed down upon us. The spell was broken, the image destroyed and now, the weather had turned. The mist had chilled us as we glided into the carpark. While the prospect of sitting in the carpark held little appeal, we sat there in the dark, as was our custom, lost in our thoughts and neither daring to speak.

Eventually, we saddled up at our unspoken signal and headed home in the gathering gloom until we reached the place where Steve would usually flip me a cherry wave as he peeled into his street.

Tonight he pulled to the side of the road and flipped out the stand as he switched of the Commando’s engine. We stood for a bit in the silence and the eerie orange of the sodium streetlight and finally he asked, “You did see that didn’t you?” “Yes, of course.” I replied. “Jeeze Steve, that was amazing… If I had not seen it…”

Steve, grabbed my arm as I stood beside my bike and while neither of us would have willingly acknowledged the tears forming in our eyes, for quite possibly the first time in my adult life I embraced another guy.

With a painful wrench, the years fell back to the present and still in the echo of my dream, I walked down the path to the Moto Guzzi (Steve had approved of it – almost as good as a Commando he reckons). Approaching the bike I reflected that it was odd that I was only a visitor here now. The knowledge of the bumps and bends was still there but it was not the same. Ownership of this road had passed on to another generation. Steve too had moved, an oil company job in Indonesia. Life for both of us had changed and nothing would ever be as it had been.

I hauled the bike off the stand, lit the ignition and stabbed at the button. As the rumbling Guzzi idle settled I looked up and saw the first wave of familiar mist crest the distant ridge and again I was back on that dark street with Steves last words echoing in my helmet….

“You know what Paul” he had asked… “We are a couple of lucky buggers eh?”

You know what…. I think he was right and I was damn lucky to have a friend like that….

Paul N