The Ride

"Yes, absolutely."

"How long would you want it for?"

"Honestly, sir, I'm not sure. This is a dream of mine. A long held dream. I don't know if it's going to work. I might be useless."

He smiled, and the place warmed a couple of degrees. He was a charming old guy. He must be well into his eighties, but he still had it. His bright lucid eyes showed years of experience and knowledge. "Lassie, it'll cost me a couple of thousand dollars just to clean the place up."

Sandy jumped in unsolicited. "We'll clean it up, take away anything you don't want."

He nodded, "All right. You clean up, you pay the power and utilities and we'll call it five hundred a week. One month in advance." He held his hand out. I pushed past his hand and wrapped him in a tight embrace. "Thank you, Mr. Duncan. You won't regret it."

Taken aback, he chuckled softly. "My name is Duncan. Only people I don't like call me Mr."

"Nobody calls you Mr., you old thief," Bertie chipped in. "Usually, they call you a thieving old bastard. You should be bloody ashamed of yourself, stealing from a pretty young Lassie like Stella. This place has been empty for at least ten years. The equipment's all junk. Blimey Dunc, It's not worth more than three hundred a week."

Duncan gave a chuckle, "Yeah, all right, Bertie. If she's a friend of yours, then we can do it for three-fifty."

"You'll do it for three hundred, you Scottish git."

He laughed loudly and nodded, "All right then, three hundred it is."

We shared hugs all around. As Bertie came in for his hug, I whispered, "Gee, you're a cheeky bugger, but thank you."

"Ah, it's all right, Lassie, he never uses the place. It'll be good to see some life down here."

"I'll get a lease drawn up; how do I get in touch with you Stella?"

"I'm working at the Union. Come down and I'll shout you all a beer."

I couldn't believe it. Three hundred a week, and it had some good gear, and tons of steel laying around. All I needed now was a welder, a gas set, some hand tools, and I suppose, some office gear.

Sandy and I celebrated long into the night. We ended up crashing about two in the morning, pissed off our faces. The hangover was a shocker.

Friday night, Duncan turned up with a lease and the keys. Bertie was there, as usual, and I started buying beers for everyone. It turned into a real party atmosphere. Late that night, somebody pulled out a guitar and we had a drunken sing along. Another hangover.

Saturday morning, hangover or not. I wanted to make a start on cleaning up. I drove down to my new workshop, rolled up the big doors and set to work. First thing was going to be getting rid of the junk.

I rolled all the old tyres, wheels and shit outside. There was actually a steel rack on the back wall. I just needed to start stacking and sorting through the dross. Thankfully, there was a broom in the corner.

After a full day, the place looked half clean. I needed to sort out power. At some point, it had been disconnected. My to-do list was growing by the minute. Lights, the ones in there wouldn't be suitable. Office desk and chairs, fridge, printer, extension leads, plug boxes. Yeah, my shopping list was getting pretty big.

Locking up and heading back to the Union, I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. It was the first step. Okay, it was a tiny step, but it was a move in the right direction.

Sandy was run off her feet, so I got changed and gave her a hand. The stories were already growing and everybody had questions about the new business. It pumped me up, my spirits were high.

"Hello, stranger." When I looked up too see who it was, I was shocked to see Kyle. "Hey, Kyle. How was the fishing?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, all good. Rough as guts, though."

I served him his beer and he asked. "Can we talk, when you get a minute?"

"Yeah, I'll be back in a sec. I need to get Bertie another."

By the time I got back, he was sitting at the bar, his pint half empty. "What did you want to talk about, Kyle?"

He gave me a pensive frown. "I wanted to say sorry for being a dick. I was pissed off. No excuses. Guess I'm not a good loser."

"Kyle, it's cool. I hate to lose, as well. I learned to accept it when I raced. It wasn't very often I won, so it was learn to eat humble pie, or give up and walk away."

"Yeah, I get that. When guys eat me up like that, it hurts, but not that much. Being beaten by the girl I wanted to impress. That was hard to take. I shouldn't have been a dick like that, though."

"Nah, you're right mate. You bloody shouldn't." Giving him what I hoped was a reassuring grin, I said, "Your shout."

He nodded. "No worries, Stella. When you finish up, It'll be my pleasure."

Through the night, I found myself talking to him more and more, squeezing him in between serving everyone else. I saw a new side of him. He was actually all right. A bit serious and shy maybe, but not the arsehole I thought he might be. I think he was one of those guys who tries too hard when it comes to women.

Sandy kept nudging me as we walked back and forth behind the bar. "Somebody's gonna get lucky tonight," she warbled in her teasing lilt. We did have a few drinks after closing, but Sandy's prediction didn't come true. Kyle was nice, but he didn't seem to pick up on the hints I was throwing out. I added naive to the list of faults. Plus, we were all too drunk.

Over the following week, I finished off the clean up, got the power and phone connected and bought an old second-hand desk from the Sally army. They kindly threw in a couple of chairs.

I got some more good news. The two Beemers I placed bids on, I won. Getting them boxed up and shipped turned out to be harder than expected, but they duly turned up. It was one of the times I realised how lucky I was with the workshop. I hadn't noticed the little overhead crane, but, wow. It turned out to be really handy for unloading trucks.

With the bikes on site, I needed to get a bit serious about what to do with them. I did have some ideas circulating in my head. Getting those thoughts onto paper galvanised me. I needed more parts: suspension, forks, wheels.

I still needed a welder and hand tools.

It was funny. Being down by the wharf, I got plenty of walk-by traffic. People just wandered in to see what was happening. Of course, there was lots of interest, but lots of sniggering laughter, as well. That really annoyed me. I had put up with that shit ever since I started riding. Bike shops treated me like an idiot. "No, love, that's not what you need. Go home and ask your boyfriend. He'll set you straight." Fucking morons. I hated them all. Just because I'm a woman, I know nothing. The fact I was a girl meant they assumed I didn't know what I was talking about.

It took ages to track down the parts I wanted. I talked to bike wreckers up and down the country, even a few in Australia. Finally, I found the bits I needed: forks and wheels from a Gixxer 1100, fuel injection from a Ducati.

Sandy was amazing, so supportive and helpful. She came in early before opening up to help me set up the office, helped me slap some paint around and set up the kitchenette.

She helped me register my business, and I think she was impressed when I named it S&S Bitches & Bikes. She asked me what the S&S was for. "That stands for Sandy and Stella. Two bitches together."

I tried to spend as much time helping her out, but the business started to get busy. Not just the bikes I was building, but I got some calls about whether I did maintenance. It wasn't really what I wanted, but it did earn me some money. Not big jobs, just tuning and minor engine work.

Kyle got me to do some tuning on his bike. He spent the day with me on one of his days home from sea. We talked and it became apparent I had judged him wrongly. He was a nice guy. I liked him. We managed to squeeze another ten horse power from the R1. He seemed pretty impressed. It didn't help him get in front when we rode together, but he liked the feel and response.

He became a daily visitor, he made me coffee and brought morning tea or lunch. He seemed to like watching me work.

I started work on the Beemers, the R90 first. I stripped off the whole frame, throwing away the lot. All I had left was the motor.

It made me think, how was I going to make this different to every other modified R90?

I wanted to get rid of the frame as much as possible, make the engine a stressed member.

I wanted a single-sided swingarm, and I wanted the exhausts to bend up over the motor and swing up under the seat like a Ducati 996.

I wanted fuel injection. I envisaged the rear shock to be a monoshock arrangement, with the shock connecting to the back of the motor/ gearbox. Upside down front forks; the Gixxer ones were perfect.

Most important was getting rid of the bloody driveshaft: I wanted it to be chain driven. In the end, it was too difficult. BMW had already produced a twelve hundred version, with a single-sided swing arm. I decided that was going to be the simple solution. All I needed was a wrecked twelve hundred, with a straight swingarm.

With drawings and sketches spread all around the workshop, I started work. The first bit was building the rear subframe: the swingarm pivot. I wanted it to not only be strong, but look cool. I elected to go with a space-frame design. As I was welding it up, Kyle walked in. As I chipped away some slag from the welds, I saw him out of the corner of my eye.

"Fuck, Stella, is there anything you can't do?"

I laughed. "Shitloads, mate. Welding is easy."

He helped me fit the swingarm and then hold the wheel in position so we could see what it looked like. He shook his head disbelievingly. "Bloody hell, that looks fucking cool," he breathed out reverently.

"Yeah, I like it."

Fabrication took me two days. With it finally finished, I jury rigged it so I could see the finished look. It was awesome. It looked a lot like Tesi's rear.

Kyle came by every day and helped. He was pretty handy and I enjoyed his company. With the weekend upon us, we decided on a few drinks. With some music playing on the stereo, we settled back and talked about the Beemer and the new look. I don't know how it happened, but somehow we ended up kissing, and before I really understood we were making love on the old sofa in the corner of the workshop.

Oh god, it was good, I mean really good. I think I had pushed aside these emotions. Ever since Ryan, I struggled with men. That night, I let my desires to be with somebody take control and I was horny. I like sex.

The morning was a bit of an eye opener. Kyle snuggled up beside me, his mouth on mine. Sober and anxious, we made love again.

Sandy came in about ten. Seeing Kyle and me together on the sofa, she yelled loudly, "You dirty bitch. Oh my god, Kyle, you randy bastard."

He laughed. "Hey cut it out. That's my girlfriend you're talking about."

Sandy recoiled. "Girlfriend?"

It caught me by surprise as well. "Kyle..."

Before I could get anything else out, he said, "Stella, I like you; I mean I really like you. We are perfect for each other. I want to be more than a one night stand."

Completely stunned, I mumbled. "Wow, Kyle, I like you as well, but we hardly know each other."

"Give me a chance, Stella."

Sandy interrupted. "Let's go and get some breakfast. I'm starving."

Sandy kept giving me quizzical nervous glances. Luckily Kyle, didn't pick up on it. He was to busy talking about us, about possibilities, the future. Christ, he was almost talking marriage.

I was saved after a couple of days because Kyle had to go back to sea. I sighed in relief. I needed a break, time alone. I did a couple of days working for Sandy as she was short handed. "You're not that into Kyle are you?" she asked.

"He's okay, but he's scaring the shit out of me. All this talk about the future. Christ, all I wanted was a quick, you know."

She giggled. "Don't worry, Sis, we've ll been there. He is a serious bastard though. He's gonna take it hard."

"I know, I'm dreading it."

"Do it soon, sweetie. Longer you drag it out, the harder it will get."

"I know, but I like him. I don't want to hurt his feelings."

"Your call, Sis, although, I gotta ask. Is friendship enough to sustain a relationship?"

"I don't know, Sandy. Love hasn't worked out that good for me historically. Maybe friendship is a good place to start. Maybe it'll grow into something more."

"Pain, Babes, that's what it's going to grow into. You're not that into him, and he's head over heels. It won't work."

I knew she was right, but how do you tell somebody that you don't like them like that?

I threw myself into the Beemer. It took a lot of mock ups before I got the dimensions right for the rear shock. I mounted the top to the rear of the motor, the shock laying almost horizontal. I made up plenty of mock-up fulcrums to get the ratio right. I made the lever adjustable. It was starting to come together, and it looked great. The shock came off a wrecked Fireblade. It wasn't original, an Ohlins gas unit with adjustable rebound and compression.

As I started working on the front subframe, a Ute with a trailer pulled up outside. A big hairy biker dude walked in. "Are you Stella?"

"Yep, that's me. How can I help?"

"I crashed my Fat Boy on the weekend. I understand do repairs?"

We walked out to look over the bike.

Yeah, it was pretty badly smashed up. The rear wheel was on an odd angle, the top frame looked bent, there were lots of issues. The forks didn't look square, either. The body work was pretty smashed up as well.

"I don't do body work, or paint. I can probably fix the sub frame, but there's an issue with that front end. If the forks are bent, I can't straighten them."

He nodded. "Fair enough. How much for you to strip it and find out?"

"I can check out most of it for about four or five hundred."

"Sounds good. When can you have it done by?"

"Give me four days."

He backed his Ute in and I lifted his wreck of the trailer using the crane. I took his details and as we walked back out, he looked over the Beemer. "You building this thing?"

With an element of pride, I stated firmly, "Yeah, she's going to be a superbike killer."

He laughed hysterically. "That piece of shit couldn't beat fuck all."

"We'll see." I spat back.

"Why didn't you use a decent Harley motor?"

"Why would I? Buell already does it. This is going to be unique. Have you ever seen a BMW like it?"

He shrugged. "Seems like a lot of work for a piece of shit. You're gonna spend a thousand hours building something that's worth less than the original would have been worth."

Giving him a dark scowl, I snarled, "We'll see. Come back when it's finished. Then give me your opinion."

He vanished, and I started stripping his Fatboy. The rear subframe was an easy fix. I made up a jig and used a small chain block to pull it back into shape. The lower subframe wasn't quite so easy. I had to heat it up and try and pull it back out.

Over the next couple of days. Earl the biker kept coming back. Sometimes he brought his mates and we became friendly.

It took me the four days. The hardest part was the forks weren't bent, it was the headstock that was the problem. It was twisted. Took me ages to slowly heat it and bend it back into shape. When Earl saw me, his forks off and gas axing his beloved Fatboy, he went off. "What the fuck are you doing, bitch?" he bellowed nastily.

"I'm trying to straighten your headstock. It's fucked."

He calmed down as I showed him. He stayed around and watched as I heated, bent. Heated again and slowly got it right. Another day and it was all finished.

He and a couple of his mates stopped by to pick it up. They dropped off a box of beers and paid me in full. A job well done. I made some new friends, and I was pretty sure I would get more business.

Kyle came back from fishing and he took me out for dinner. There aren't a lot of options in Greymouth. He was nice, we talked bikes and he talked about fishing. We ended up back at his place, and we made love. At least Sandy didn't bust us, although that night when we walked into the Union together she gave me a hard time.

Staying at Kyle's became sort of a thing. It seemed like we slipped into a relationship. I liked him, he was nice, seemed honest. There was just something missing. I didn't get a racing heart when he walked in after being away for two weeks. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to love him, baby him.

Kyle was an all-in kind of guy. There was no middle ground, no friend with benefits. I was his, that's the way he wanted it.

I was right about Earl's friends; over the next few weeks I got lots of extra work: tuning jobs, modification work, and they were good guys. Fun to be around. Nothing was too serious. There were lots of laughs.

Kyle knew most of them, and I could see he wasn't happy with them being around the shop so much.

It was after he came back from one of his trips away. Earl and the boys were in the shop. I had just fitted a new set of pistons and high performance heads to Mike's shovel head. We were celebrating with some beers, as was their custom.

There were lots of laughs. Earl and I were sitting back on the sofa, feet up on the new coffee table that one of the guys donated. Earl had his arm laying along the top of the sofa behind my head. We were taking sips from our drinks when Kyle walked in. I saw straight away he wasn't happy. He walked past the other guys, brushing aside their greeting. "Get your fucking paws off my girlfriend, you fucking arsehole," he barked.

Earl moved his arm and snorted. "Settle down Bro, we're just having a fucking drink."

"She's my fucking girlfriend, dickhead."

Earl stood up slowly and placed his drink on the table. Glaring angrily back at Kyle. "Look, Bro, I said we were having a drink. Nothing else is going on here. Now you either calm the fuck down, or you and I are going outside to settle this."

I jumped up and moved between them. "Whoa, calm down, guys." I turned to Kyle. "Honey, take a breath. There was nothing going on."

I could see the anger, his eyes glazed over and a blank expression stretching his features taut.

"Bullshit, Stella. These fucking losers aren't hanging around here because of your skill. They're after you."

Before I could stop him Earl walked over the table and punched Kyle in the face. Kyle went flying. I tried to get between them again, but Earl's mates grabbed me. Mike snapped curtly, "Let them settle it, Stella."

They went at it trading punches back and forth, then wrestling each other to the ground. There were several more blows before they both lay on the ground panting raggedly.

After several long minutes they got up, Earl standing and helping Kyle up. Earl gasped. "She might be your girlfriend, Bro, but she's our fucking friend. You better get used to that, because we aren't going anywhere.

Mike let me go as I snatched my arms from his grasp. Kyle glared at me before storming, well limping really, out of the workshop. Earl shook his head. "Sorry, Stella, but that wasn't my fault."

I nodded my acceptance with a deep sigh. "Nah, you're right, Earl. I don't know what his problem was."

"He's just one of those guys. He's always been a moody prick."

They helped me clean up before hitting the road.

When I arrived at the Union, Sandy asked, "How come you're not staying with Kyle, he got back today didn't he?"

"Yeah, but he went off his nut. He found Earl and some of the guys at the shop and blew his fucking lid. There was a fight and everything."

"Ah fuck, girl, I'm sorry. Let's get a drink in ya."

I could see she was busy, so I pitched in. All the usual crowd were there, and that made it a fun night. They were good people, full of life and funny stories. Before we kicked them out at closing time, they had managed to wash away my blues.