Golden Memories: The Cafe

When my bike was off the road for a few months, I thought I would walk around to one of the less fashionable biker cafes to see what they were up to. It was a daring decision really, because gangs were notoriously territorial and xenophobic in nature. So it was with some trepidation that one evening I opened the greasy door.

The place was tiny, with a 1950's counter, tables and chairs from a doll's House and a pin table. The denizens stopped talking in midsentence when I walked in, and I was scrutinised like a chimp newly arrived in the gorilla compound. Derogatory remarks followed, but these were largely good natured, so I seemed to have passed the first test. I then noticed an ancient crone staring at me from the counter.

She remained mute throughout, filling a large mug with dishwater and adding to it a glug of clearly curdled milk. It swirled around the 'tea' like a recent arrival in the communal spittoon of a Victorian pub. With dread, I wondered if the gang expected me to drink it in one gulp, as a rite of passage, but they had all left their own drinks untouched and I realised this was simply an entrance fee for the cafe, and nobody was expected to actually consume it. The ancient one returned to 'Coronation Street' in the backroom, and that was it.

After a few visits, I was provisionally accepted and I was able to appreciate the guys around me (girlfriends existed, but rarely appeared at Headquarters). They were typically attired in vintage, cracked leather jackets covered in studs, which appeared to have been inherited from older brothers, active in the 1960's rocker years. Although, only about half the gang actually had bikes, they more than compensated for this by looking the part.

Their leader briefly descended on the cafe, once every couple of days, like a returning Messiah, riding the best machine and being equipped with an incredible extrovert charisma. He was a magnet to women, and his bike was often seen parked next to various deserted fields, where he fertilised his latest conquest behind the hedges. He would represent the gang in all fights with local skinheads, always winning, but sometimes disqualified for eye gouging. His surprising contacts with promiscuous sixth formers, would often lead to organised, consensual gang bangs in churchyards.

On a rare bike run we finished the night by sleeping head to tail under a bridge. It was ice cold and only 250 yards away from my bed....

It all meant something.