Chapter 6

Saturday morning, I decided a ride was just what the Doctor ordered.

Parenthetically and appearances to the contrary, I did and do not spend my entire out of office time entertaining or being entertained by young women. Since Stacey and Charlie had set up their sharing arrangement, I was probably getting more and more consistent sex than usual, but it was still about four nights or less out of seven. Other times, I would sit with development proposals, or sometimes spreadsheets, in order to let my instincts mull over possibilities. I have always considered that my most productive thinking took place as I was sleeping. So that Friday I'd been alone with the Korean file and my music system ... oh, and a bottle of good Scotch ... and by Saturday morning I was ready to relax with a motorbike, followed by a few hours in bed with Charlie. I was to be disappointed in the latter.

Breakfasted and coffee'd, in black leathers and boots, I made my way to the garage. Where I was met, not by my biker-girl paramour, but by my slight, oriental, supposedly lesbian, chief of security.

"Good morning, Boss. Where to today?"

"Where's Charlie? Is she okay?"

If Jen was upset by my asking for Charlie, she didn't show it. "She's fine, Boss. But Miss Sharpe was going sailing. Charlie did quite a bit in her off-duty time when she was on the guard detail at Annapolis, so we felt it would be more discreet if she went with Miss Sharpe as her guest. Are we going riding today?"

"I was intending to ride, yes. But I was intending to ride in company with Charlie. I didn't think motorcycling was one of your skills."

"Then you didn't think, Boss. I can ride – I even have an Advanced certificate to go with my Advanced Driver. I admit, though, that the larger machines are difficult for me to handle, and it's not my preferred form of transport. I could also ride pillion with you, but I prefer to use a second vehicle so I have better awareness of what's going on around my Principal."

"Fair enough. We'll take the Miata or the SLK – your choice – to the garage. Then you have your choice of vehicles."

Her eyes lit up. "The Escort Mexico?"

My lovingly restored, mark one, Escort Mexico, is a gem, and one of very few genuine examples left roadworthy and road-legal. But what the hell? I let Charlie ride my Vincent-HRD Black Shadow.

"Will that please you, Jen?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

I laughed. "Then the Escort it is. Why don't we take the Miata to the garage? Perhaps you'd like to drive. These boots are a bit clumsy."

Her eyes sparkled with life and excitement. Not for the first time I thought it a pity she wasn't at least bi...

Jen had to adjust the seat, not only to reach the controls comfortably but also in order to see out adequately, but once we were moving it was obvious that she was entirely in control and comfortable with the machine. At the garage, she backed into a space neatly and faster than many could drive straight in, hopped out, leaving the key in the ignition, and stood waiting.

I took my helmet and gloves from their place and headed for my International Norton. Nortons have a gear-type oil pump; very effective, but prone to permitting oil to trickle down into the crankcase, whence it is pumped out of the breather when the motor is started. In my opinion, the best way of dealing with this is to use a single-grade, SAE 50, oil, rather than a 20W/50 or a 10W/30, which is thin at ambient temperature. In turn, it's necessary to be gentle warming the motor up. However, the oil tank was full, indicating there was no problem. The tyres were hard, too; the lights worked, and there was no excessive play in the brakes. A glance at the Escort showed me that Jen was running a similar check on that vehicle, with the bonnet up.

"Just going to warm up," I called across, pushing the bike off its stand and to the open air. Jen looked up briefly and waved.

Ignition advance retarded ... petrol on ... prime the carb ... valve-lifter ... piston to top dead centre ... kick. Nothing. Piston to top dead, kick. Cough. Again ... bark and rumble into life. Oil returning to the tank, a continuous flow for a minute or so, becoming a regular spurt. Ammeter showing charge ... lights all working.

Over the sound of the Norton I heard the Escort come to life, the beat irregular at first. Jen let the car idle out of its place and stopped next to me as I donned my helmet. We looked at each other. Jen had an almost imperceptible smile on her lips and gave me a thumbs up. I withdrew the clutch and kicked the bike into gear, wincing, as always, at the clunk as the clutch unstuck. I trickled out onto the road as the garage doors closed behind me.

The bike is geared for ordinary road use, but city traffic is still not a friendly environment for the race-bred machine, however it pulled steadily up Granville Road and onto City Road through Manor Top and Birley to Mosborough, passing Eckington, though Renishaw, crossing the M1 at Barlborough. A wait for the four-way lights crossing the 617 in Clowne. The big single throbbing like a heart-beat, I led Jen through Cresswell and the little hamlet of Budby, then peeled off towards Edwinstowe, passing the Sherwood Forest visitor centre.

Probably a modern bike is more powerful ... accelerates faster ... runs smoother. I dare say the chassis of the Norton is much less sophisticated, so doesn't handle so well. But I don't believe there's a more satisfying machine to ride through the country. Through Edwinstowe, we were briefly on the A614 before turning onto the narrow road passing the Rufford Park ... through a ford ... and then to Wellow, where we rejoined the A616. Although classed as an 'A' road, the A616 isn't much until after the little village of Kneesall, where it opens out and is straighter. I was able to open up a bit. None of it tested Jen in the slightest and she kept station a safe distance behind. We got onto the A1 Great North Road at North Muskham, heading south, but I turned off at the A17 junction with the intention of heading for R.A.F. Coningsby and the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight. However, we weren't more than a few yards onto the road when Jen tooted the Mexico's horn to get my attention; she was indicating for a left turn. I slowed and moved over to let her pass.

I was puzzled, wondering if there was a problem with the car; the road she took led to two places and through to the A46. I didn't expect Jen to be interested in the Newark Show-ground or the Air Museum. I was wrong.

Newark Air Museum is dedicated to post-World-War-Two aircraft and is on part of a former WW2 airfield, R.A.F. Winthorpe, the runways no longer serviceable, though gliders are still launched by winch, and the aircraft are preserved in non-airworthy condition.

Jen drew up by the gate, parked, and waited by the car. I stopped alongside, stopped the motor and heaved the Inter onto its stand. I removed my helmet.

"Sorry, Boss," Jen said, "I've seen the sign for this place several times before, and wanted to stop. Hope you don't mind? If you do?"

"Not at all, Jen. I didn't think you'd be interested."

We went in and I paid the admission, picked up a guide, and we wandered around the enclosure. Jen certainly seemed interested in the machines. In fact, she stopped by a T5 Hawker Hunter (a two-seat trainer version of a fighter jet that served with the R.A.F. until the sixties) and laid a hand on its nose. She turned to me.

"Oh, I'd just love to fly one of these."

I just raised an eyebrow in enquiry.

"I am a pilot."

"I didn't see that on your résumé."

She smiled. "I wasn't applying for a job as a pilot. But I have commercial certifications and pay for enough time each year to keep current."

"In future, why don't I lease a jet when I travel to the continent and you can fly me? Maintaining your skills should be worthwhile to the company."

She cocked her head and considered that. "Sure. If you like, that'd work."

About the time the Boss was letting the Inter warm up, Charlie was finding a wet-suit that almost fit her, wet-boots, gloves and buoyancy aid. As I was pulling out onto the road, the two ladies were making their way to the boat-park and were intercepted by the Commodore.

"Oh, Miss Sharpe..." he looked at Charlie, "and..."

"Good morning, Commodore. This is my friend Charlotte Kowalski. She's here as my guest."

He held out his hand to Charlie, who took it and smiled. "Good morning, Miss Kowalski," he said. "It is Miss? Or Ms?"

"It is Miss. I don't mind Ms, but I'd prefer Charlie, sir."

He inclined his head. "Thank you. I hope you enjoy yourself. If so, I'm sure Miss Sharpe would sponsor you to membership." He paused and looked back to Melissa. You know we'll be running heats round the buoys this morning in an hour or so?"

She nodded. "We'll see how we go. Perhaps we'll put ourselves on the board."

Rigging the little Lark dinghy went smoothly. Despite Charlie's lack of familiarity with that particular craft it was quite obvious she knew what she was about. On the water it quickly became apparent that she had better than average skills with the boat, too.

Soon it became apparent that others were gathering at the waterside. Melissa headed for the slip, where Charlie hopped over the side as the forefoot grounded. They pulled the boat up until it was safe, then walked to the clubhouse.

"What do you think, Charlie? Want to have a whirl at competing round the buoys? It's only club level stuff, practice for everyone, especially the newest members."

"Do you want to?"

"I don't mind. I'm not really competitive – I just like to get the boat moving the best I can."

"The winds are pretty fluky, aren't they?"

"Yeah ... that's part of the challenge. With the dam set in this steep-sided valley, and all the trees on the valley sides ... well, it's difficult, as you've seen. The other club members, well, they're very variable. One or two are competitive at the national level. I just don't take things that seriously."

"Mel ... I am competitive. It goes with the territory when you've been part of an elite military unit."

"You want to helm, then?"

Charlie looked at her for a long moment. "I may shout at you."

"I expect I'll be able to forgive you. Let's do it."

Melissa soon found that Charlie was not kidding about being competitive, or about shouting at her crew. Her focus was absolute. Apart from short food and comfort breaks, the food eaten whilst intently watching the heats they were not a part of, it was a very intense day's sailing, the end result of which was a third place overall on handicap, first in class.

Melissa was very tired on the way home, where Charlie entered first and checked the house. Once she was sure Melissa was happy and the house was clear, she left.