Bogri and the Speed Cop
I'd got the Vinny set up with some trick parts, partly bought and partly put together with care, imagination and a set of adjustable hammers. First light Sunday morning off I set on the Six Hills to give it a good try. Through the town the motor was just ticking over and a tail wind carried the smell of methanol into me nostrils. The Thurmaston Bypass was treated as a drag strip. Green light - wag the tail for a couple of hundred yards just to get the rubber warm. Course it made a nice noise and outa the corner of me eye I noticed a white shape in the side road on the left. Doesn't take a flashing blue light to identify the fuzz; big feet, fat arse, stupid self satisfied leer. No mistaking PC Skidmark, scourge of the local mopeds and pride of the bike benders guild. But I didn't make the bike.
Approaching the island before the Syston bypass a glance over the shoulder revealed a crouched figure pasting hell out of a nicely finished bike with a nose fairing in white with a layer of fluourescent jam on it. Whatever it was it wasn't the usual rubbish, something on assessment no doubt. At the island I bent the Vin down and kept right, heeling over scraping boot and elbow. Timed it nicely, Skidmark was just in front as I came round and couldn't decide whether to turn, stop or what. Put his brakes on hard just as I came round for a full circle and roared past on his outside just as he glanced over his right shoulder. A Jota! A police spec Laverda triple by God. I was glad to have the drop into the Six Hills and as I screwed open the throttle I glanced back and saw him wobble, set his jaw, miss a gear and then smoke rubber and lift the front wheel two feet in the air as he set off in pursuit.
The Shadow clock swept round as I screwed it in the gears and the motor, specially lightened and balanced, wound up to a rare howl. At the ton I looked back and Skidmark was beginning to close the gap. The ton ten took a bit longer to pull as the road began to rise and Skidmark was almost on my tail but not gaining quite so fast. At 120 the Vinny seemed at full stretch and the Jota was still coming but Skidmark was flat down behind the nosecone. As we passed the Dumb Ox, Skidmark was just pulling level having slipstreamed the last couple of yards to gain momentum. He lifted his head to give some kind of shout or signal and nearly lost his helmet as the wind hit over the top of the screen. If you want to stop me chum, tell me! He couldn't lift his head off the bars and couldn't shout but he was still creeping ahead. Time to try the next trick I thought. I switched on the supercharger and hung on. It punched in the tail like a shunting loco and the revs began to wind up with an alarming howl. The front wheel went light and shook for a second or two and the whole bike leaped forward down the road.
By the time the surge had settled down and I dared to glance at the speedo again it registered 180 mph and my hair stood on end. Looking behind was the most difficult thing possible with everything a blur and the Six Hills road seemed like a chicane of S bends. Skidmark was nowhere to be seen. I let the throttle off as gently as possible so the weight didn't come down too hard on the front end and wound down to a pedestrian seventy to wait for him to catch up and race again but he was nowhere in sight. I reached the end of the dual carriageway and turned round for the return.
After a mile or two I saw the Jota smashed and battered in the middle of the road and a hundred yards further down the road Skidmark was flat on his back with his feet in the air. He was just coming round. "You OK Maurice?" I asked.
"Bogri, you b*****d!" he groaned. "I was just catching you by the Dumb Ox when you took off so fast I thought the Jota had stopped ... so I got off to see what was the matter!"