‘Not Marriage Material’ – Submission 7: ‘She’ by Rod Young

Not Marriage Material is an upcoming anthology of non fiction and poetry – submissions are currently open. More information can be found here.

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‘She’ by Rod Young

I had ridden down to the coast from my home in rural Dorset to Poole, on my first motorcycle; a 50cc Honda that I had bought very much against my father’s wishes. I was 16 years old, brimming with confidence and full of adventure. With absolutely no direction for any of that.

Consequently, I had no plan, I just enjoyed riding and the pull of the coastal towns had always been strong. They offered excitement in all the forms that appealed to a young man in the early 1980’s. Parked up by the quay, I smoked a cigarette whilst wondering what to do next.

She walked up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I had a spare cigarette. Helmet in her hand, long dark hair, shabby black leather jacket and dark brown eyes that I instantly lost myself in. I wordlessly obliged her request. After what felt like an eternity of staring into each other’s eyes, I asked her what she was doing in Poole. She pointed at her bike, a 125cc, which aged her instantly to at least 17 due to the licensing laws. She smiled, throwing the key to my soul away in that one moment.
“I thought I might go to France” she said. And then, sealing my fate, “Do you want to come with me?”
Oh I did. I really did. More than anything I’d ever wanted in my short life.
I replied with a likely far too keen and definitely uncool, possibly even feverish, affirmation.
She laughed and threw herself at me for an enthusiastic hug which I can still feel today, 40 years later.
We walked to a cafe and shared a beer. We devised a basic plan which meant leaving my bike where it was, riding to the port together on her bike and somehow sneaking onto the ferry. After emptying our pockets we discovered that our combined wealth did not stretch to buying a ticket, further discussion revealed that neither of us had a passport. None of this phased either of us. We were young and invincible.

Less than an hour after meeting, we were parked by the road into the port. Me standing by the bike. She, sweet-talking truck drivers. Suddenly she was fast dancing her way back to me, all laughing eyes, hair gloriously flowing behind her and giving me our first kiss before telling me the good news that she’d found a truck driver who would help us on our mission to get to France. In what seemed like only moments later, we had loaded her bike and ourselves into the back of a truck and were standing dangerously close to each other in the total darkness. Hours later the truck doors clanged and creaked open and we emerged, hot, deliriously happy and blinking into the bright sunshine in a layby just outside of Cherbourg, France.
In the brief moments between being entirely consumed with one another on the journey, we had formulated this least complex of all travel plans:
We would take turns riding, until we found somewhere we liked, then sleep in a barn or other such building. We executed the plan flawlessly on that same first day and that night we slept in a barn on some farm in rural northern France, neither of us knew where that might have been on a map, which we didn’t possess, but none of that mattered. There was only us and the total freedom that we were experiencing.

I woke first in the morning, the light creeping through the slats in the side of the barn sliding over her face, I watched her sleeping, totally mesmerised. It was at this moment that I realised that we had not exchanged names, nor had we gained any knowledge of each other’s lives. We just existed together during this time of perfect joy. I could no more imagine a time when this might change or end, than I could say where I might be the next day. These thoughts did not even occur to me.

Leaving her sleeping I felt hunger, knowing neither of us had eaten since before we had met the day before, I took her bike and went in search of the farmhouse. It wasn’t far and after telling her that we had slept in the barn, the farmer’s wife was happy to provide bread, meat and cheese plus a container filled with hot coffee, inviting us to stop by after our petit dejeuner to meet my girl, whose name I could not tell her. I didn’t question this generosity either.
Arriving back at the barn, she was waiting outside, leaning against a hay bale with her ever present smile, a kiss and an invitation, so breakfast was delayed for a while longer.
All manner of hungers sated, we rode up to the farmhouse to deliver the coffee container and thank the farmer’s wife for her hospitality. This led to a carafe of wine as it was now almost midday. And to Karen introducing herself to the farmer’s wife and to me finding out her name some 24 hours after we first met. It could just as easily have been a year.

Without further thought we left on the bike and rode without direction for a while. For all we knew we could have been riding back towards the channel. But we had no care for anything of that practical nature until a little later when it became apparent that we had no more fuel in the bike. A quick pocket check revealed the same amount of cash that we had back in Poole, which was about enough for a tankful but no more. We had not spent a penny since we had arrived and our cash was of course British pounds, not French Francs.
We were on a country road, out of fuel, no local currency and hadn’t seen another vehicle for some time. This did not concern us in the slightest, but we did take the stop as an opportunity to re-acquaint ourselves physically for a while in the nearby field.
As we lay in the delicious afterglow and warmed by the late summer sun, we heard a tractor approaching. I looked around and saw that it was heading towards us from across the field. We made hasty repairs to our respective attire and were soon met by a young man on the tractor. He greeted us cheerily and seemed happy that we had found his field comfortable. He also had some fuel for the bike in a shed, so we rode with him by tractor to collect it. He would take none of our English money and asked if we were planning to go grape picking. 
After some explanation of what this might involve, it seemed that this would solve our most immediate situation regarding our financial situation, although we remained unconcerned having survived what was now approaching 2 days into our adventure. We resolved to attempt the grape picking but only if the opportunity arose, being quite content to ride on the whims of the world which had been working out so well thus far.
That night we slept in another barn, somewhere south of Paris is about as accurate as I can be. We had a leftover bag of cheese, meat and bread from our petit dejeuner and a bottle of wine from the tractor driver that afternoon. We set up some bales in the barn and imagined that we were at a fancy restaurant in Paris. But I doubt anything could have been finer than our own dining arrangement, no matter the cost or elaborate surroundings.

In the morning we awoke to a beautiful day and discovered that our barn was set next to a river. We joyfully played, washed and swam naked, occasionally drying on the bank in the warm sun, before plunging back in over and over until it was way past midday and we were feeling hungry. We had a full tank of fuel so decided to ride on towards our next unknown destination where there might be a food opportunity.

Fortune soon smiled upon us again. Neither of us knew what grape vines looked like, it not being a popular crop back in cold wet England. But by chance we stopped to speak to some young people who were walking out of a fancy stone gateway to a long driveway. There was a sign over the gateway which we were told was the name of the vineyard that we had arrived at!
We enquired about grape picking and they told us that they were employed there at present to do just that and there was plenty of work. They invited us to join them at the local village cafe for some coffee and then to come back with them, to be introduced to the person in charge of the grape pickers! So that good fortune, once again, had visited us.
A few hours later we had gainful employment for as long as the harvest lasted. We had our own room to sleep in, with a shared bathroom. Free food and wine. The work also paid a very small amount of cash, for daily necessities, but we had no concern for that of course! We thought we had landed in heaven.
For the next three weeks we remained there, the work was simple labour, we spent every waking moment together, laughing and enjoying each other. We ate and drank with our new French friends and experienced each day as if it were the only one in existence. We had no thought as to when it might change or end, we were timeless, this had become our way. Our raison d’etre.

Of course, one day it did come to an end.

I awoke one morning to find Karen sitting on the end of our bed looking at me with her ever present huge smile. She leaned over, kissed me and whispered “I am heading home today.  Do you want to come with me?”
Without sadness or further question, I replied that I did and we left that same morning. The return journey took us four days as we had little sense of direction and also no sense of urgency. Just an ultimate goal to reach a port that would take us back to England. Our days were spent in our usual fashion, sleeping in barns, eating and bathing in rivers when the opportunity arose.

It was simply as blissful as it had been from the first moment. No two people could ever have been happier.

We eventually found ourselves back on a road to the port at Cherbourg. Karen did her thing, and soon there we were, two people standing close to each other in the dark. With, to be fair, not a whole lot of additional knowledge of each other’s lives.
In what seemed like a very short time, we were parked back on Poole Quay, next to my bike.
I stepped off her bike, we removed our helmets, she remained seated. We kissed for a while, she whispered, “au revoir”, started her bike and rode away.
And just like that, it was over.

I never saw Karen again, nor did I hear from her. There were no mobile phones of course back then, we had not exchanged home phone numbers, nor did we know where each other lived.

But we were in love. I remained in love with her for many years after. I probably still am. I often wonder if she is out there somewhere, telling someone the story of how, as a girl, she went to France, on her motorcycle with a boy; that boy, “Him”. When I think of her, her name does not cloud my thoughts, only “She”.

Photo by Dhally Romy on Pexels.com

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About the Author

Whilst I have been writing all my life, this has mainly taken the form of articles for motorcycle magazines. Sometimes regarding my travels, sometimes of a technical nature. More recently I wrote a series of books on the subject of motorcycle sidecars, following a period when I had a company designing and building custom motorcycle sidecars. 

Even more recently I have taken up poetry and begun writing a memoir which is yet to be completed. I have generally been employed in various roles in the world of motorcycles for most of my life, with an early phase spent at a University teaching product designers and software engineers. 

It’s fair to say that motorcycles have featured heavily in my life and this has brought me many good friends, exciting experiences and travel to wonderful places. 

Latterly I have moved to Croatia from the UK, where I spend my time enjoying the slower life here, hosting off road motorcyclists from all over the world and travelling when the feeling takes me.

I believe that life is best lived without a plan and that opportunities should always be met with a resounding “Yes!” Consequently, it’s been an interesting life, but nothing like the brochure.
I am older than the sea, and that’s a lot of water under the bridge. But there is plenty of time left for more of that.

Rod Young can be found here: http://www.threewheelsbetter.uk

Author website: https://blog.jacktreasure.com/