This is where a nice middle-class upbringing gets you – mid 30s and never been off-road on a motorbike. Until now.
Get out of the shot man. They think I am moving!
No messing about in the woods on a mate’s scrambler for me – I was resigned to watching kids on TV fall off logs on Junior Kickstart with Peter Purves (go here for your theme-tune time machine).
These days motocross is more famous for the Dave-screened Red Bull X-fighter style stunts performed at shows more scary to watch than a horror movie. But all those guys started by racing their knobbly tyred Japanese machines on dirt tracks, and that’s what I’m going to learn.
I'm told I’m going to fall off, no matter what I do. “The bike only weighs 100kg so it’s not going to squash you if it falls on you,” says Mark reassuringly.
The track near Chippenham of the M4 has been nicely moistened by rain and after a bunch of 14-year-olds churn it up to a quagmire, I’m allowed to join in. The seat on my 450cc Kawasaki offers all the comfort of one of those ride-on playground rabbits, but no matter: I’m not allowed to sit on it. Ex British champ Mark Hucklebridge has expressly told me – no sitting except in corners. That’s to let the bike twist and squirm under me apparently. All I have do to is hold on.
Gonna be a bugger to clean.
That and brake, change gear, stick my leg out in corners (while sitting down) and keep my weight forward. I’m told I’m going to fall off, no matter what I do. “The bike only weighs 100kg so it’s not going to squash you if it falls on you,” says Mark reassuringly.
My third corner on a friendly daisy-covered training section, I do exactly that. Having realised that falling off into squelchy mud is much more comfy than onto the Elephant and Castle roundabout, I relax and explore the Kwakker’s vast reserves of torque until the daisies are no more.
The track itself is short – half a mile of three loops, each with banked turns, jumps and bogs you wouldn’t risk a Land Rover in. Those are the worst bits. In the goo, I feel the back end bog down, then find grip and then lose it again within the space of seconds. I’ve got to keep it all in place with my legs and I’m not sure they’re going to last one lap – after about 200 yards the sweat is bubbling under my back protector and I’m panting like a sheepdog. In the corners I’m supposed to poke my foot out to catch unexpected twitches. But what if my foot digs in and cartwheels me and bike into the bog? So I end up waving it too high over the ground and so when I do feel a wobble, my size-11 stablizer is useless and I drop into the mud.
Now, if I can only get up to 5MPH!
Mark’s right though, my green machine is light. I pick it up and, gloom, the electric start has failed. Too many stalls on my practice run has flattened the battery and I’m kickstarting. One, two, three, four, five, six, on the seventh try my poor leg manages to fire up the single cylinder engine and I’m knackered. Did I say it was knackering? But it is also pure unadulterated fun. The feeling of taming this squirming, reeling machine under you through all the mud and gunge is exhilarating. I even got two inches of clear air under me on one jump (not verified). Just make sure if you try it, you’ve got someone to wash all the crud off afterwards.
