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Ducati 999
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Issue 125 : October - November 2002The Bristol Show
The great novelty of this show is the location. Several narrow streets in the heart of the old city are closed to all traffic but the bikes, which are arranged pretty much here there and everywhere. Stone buildings, a covered market, and a labyrinth of alleyways provide a 19th century atmosphere complemented by gas lamps and street traders. The classical surroundings provided an unusual backdrop that made a refreshing change from an open field. Chops, classics, restorations, there didn't seem to be much discipline about the arrangement of the exhibits but that was part of the charm. Here was a stunning V max, there a CBX 1000, farther down was a scooter with a hundred mirrors, around the corner in an alleyway out of the full sun lurked a radical Harley chop, then some Italian and British classics. One I recognised as my first bike, a BSA 500 B33 next to an old Post Office Bantam. Diners lunched at pavement tables where I ran into familiar faces. Bart and son from Thames Valley HOG on Road King and Sportster respectively, Western Region's Rep Aine Gale who was clearly over the moon with the weather and the attendance, MAG stalwarts Eddie Garnier and Paul Watts and then I ran into Western's Chris Selway who had a bad accident recently and had made a Hurculaen effort to attend. I photographed a group of marshals with red horns and then it was time for a break. Having waded across 20 miles of London traffic and 100 on the motorway I decided it was time for a coffee. I went for the al fresco option in the company of MAG's substantial Public Affairs Director Trevor Baird who was cheerfully wrestling with a pastry. What finer way to spend an afternoon than to amble about in convivial surroundings decorated with pretty girls and impressive motorcycles and then sit in the sunshine and watch it all revolve around you? There are many days when I am beset by the nagging feeling that I could be enjoying myself better if I was somewhere else. This was not one of them. Ian Mutch
Summer Slammer
The site of the slammer, a stone throw from the famous WW2 fighter station comes as a pleasantly surprising anachronism after the manicured Bentley-fringed front lawns of neighbouring territories. Several permanent buildings enclosing a few timber garden tables provided a rustic ambience in which a collection of characters relaxed, marinating in the high summer sun percolating through the heavy boughs of chestnut trees. Beyond a five bar farm gate, a vista of rolling hills provided an idyllic backdrop against which I took several pictures of a rather lovely girl called Adelle. MAG Stalwart and pillar of Sydenham MAG, the ubiquitous Krutchie seated himself next to her on a bench at my direction. 'I bet I get cut out of this shot when he prints it' reflected Krutchie morosely. Right again mate, no offence. Over in the main field I encountered another MAG stalwart, Neil, in the company of some Swiss bikers who'd made the Slammer part of their UK tour. Leaving them to shovel mouthwatering plates of chicken curry into their faces I ambled across the field to stroke a horse's nose. The string stretched along the top of the low fence looked harmless enough, but catching it with my elbow as I touched the beast's nose I realised too late that it was electrified. The horse reared up in some shock, cantering off to stop and turn to me with an expression of bewildered distrust on his long face. I wish to record my apologies to him right here, so if you're reading this, sorry mate, no harm intended. The Slammer needs some more support from people if it is to continue and it would be a great shame if it didn't. I shall try and get down again next year but might leave out the horse whispering. Ian Mutch
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Bristol is a good sized city. Big enough to feel like a city but compact enough for a visitor to get a feel for the whole place, free from the tedium of sprawling suburbia. From the motorway to the centre took only a few minutes and I spotted the bike show by chance when I reached the middle.
I've never been to the Summer Slammer before but with temperatures in the mid 80s, the perversity of life in front of a computer screen seemed unusually perverse. I was only an hour or so from the litter-strewn squalor of East London to the rural tranquillity of Biggin Hill on the lush stockbroker fringes of the capital's Southern extremity, so off we went.
