Between rides, I seem to spend a lot of time patiently
refuting some of less flattering stereotypes about bikers. In my experience, as
I’ve said here before, bikers aren’t sexist, or pigs. HOGs, yes, maybe, but
that’s different.
So when I stopped by the Hollyville café on the A21 in West
Kingsdown on a chilly and damp winter morning, I was disappointed. Firstly, it
has to be said, because I was served instant coffee in a place that has a full-on espresso machine, but more so by the clientele.
Now this part of the world is the birthplace of the café
racer, when bikes used to race from Johnson’s café (a little further down the
road) along a nice straight (unusually so) piece of tarmac, and a few of the
Hollyville’s customers have been there, done that, and in some cases still have
the T-shirt somewhere. I am generally all for hearing about motorcycling
history and mythology. But please. I ride a 1200CC Harley. I have stickers on
my windscreen that prove I have ridden some of the twistier Alpine passes. While your concern for my safety on damp
Kentish A-roads is sweet, it’s also completely unwarranted and somewhat
condescending.
I have been riding for many years, in myriad conditions. The
Alpine motorways of Italy in the pouring rain, all the way from Riva Del Garda
to the Monte Bianco tunnel spring to mind. I may be young enough to be your
daughter, but that gives you no right to metaphorically pat me on the head. So
I ride corrected. Some bikers are sexist.
I wish them joy of their instant coffee. I shall continue to
visit places where ‘espresso doppio, por favor’ is a valid and usual, and the comments are about my biking, not my relative youth or beauty.
