Wannabe Hairy Bikers

Up early. A light mist envelopes the site as bleary eyed I step out of the van and head for the bathroom. Of late, an early morning mist has normally been a good indicator of a nice day ahead. Fingers crossed, we are off to Southampton again, with The Volvo. It’s developed a leak on the windscreen, right above my seat. Whilst the summer has been very dry, winter is coming and we can’t guarantee the quick fix duct tape job will hold the rain at bay. Whilst having the lock fixed recently at the dealer in Southampton, we mentioned it. “Is it the original windscreen? There was a fault, obviously out of guarantee but we will have a go at taking it out and resealing it as a goodwill gesture, it could break when we take it out, then it’s your responsibility.” The Boss chuffed to bits at the thought of getting it fixed for free, booked it in.

As we leave the caravan, early doors, there’s a nip in the air. First time in ages that I’ve grabbed a jumper and worn, jeans and boots. Traffic into Southampton is bonkers as the Millbrook roundabout is closed. The Volvo dealer is conveniently located to the side of said roundabout. Following diversion signs we are taken through back streets and residential streets popping out right in front of Volvo.

We are warned, once again, that if the nice man is unable to get the windscreen out in one piece then it’s up to us to sort it. Fingers crossed he’s as good as he says he is.

Breakfast has been promised. With Volvo being right opposite McDonalds and not much else in walking distance, our options appear limited. Whilst handing over the car keys, the nice man behind the desk, grimaces at our suggestion. “You don’t want to go there, Harley Davidson next door have a lovely cafe.” We look at each other, processed, fast food, breakfast wrap or a slap up full English? Why cross a busy dual carriageway if you don’t have to!

Entering Harley Davidson and there’s a smell of bikes, polish, leather and bacon. The quirky looking staff potter about as their day begins. We wander through rows of highly polished bikes, chrome twinkling in the strategically placed spotlights, to the back of the store where the cafe sits.

A handful of tables and a cheery greeting from the guy behind the counter welcomes us. Two full English, minus the egg for me, and a pot of tea for two ordered. We choose a table over looking a sea of bikes, possibly the quirkiest place we’ve ever had breakfast. Tea for two arrives just as a tattooed guy with a long beard slowly pushes a beautiful machine past to its new resting place by the counter. Carefully placed on its stand and fingerprints rubbed away with his sleeve, he stands back to admire the changed display.

Two plates arrive loaded with cholesterol and calories. A squirt of brown sauce and a slurp of builder’s tea and we tuck in. Really glad the guy in Volvo recommended this, so much better than a processed McDonald’s breakfast. Brown sauce and bean juice mopped up with the final slice of toast, last glug of tea drunk and we’re ready for a mooch.

Having never taken his bike test, these bikes are out of our league. Long gone are the days of The Boss riding his Vespa to work, complete with L plates, then parking it next to the biggest truck on the road and driving off. It doesn’t stop us looking though.

Slightly surprised by the prices, some of them affordable right up to top of the range where you almost need a small mortgage to drive one away. The Boss finds a burgundy little number that quite took his fancy. Meanwhile, I’ve spotted something at the back that looks quite interesting.

Carefully navigating my way through rows of the wet dreams of middle aged men, I stand in front of the women’s clothing and boot section. I find the boots of my dreams. The nice lady behind the counter with numerous piercings and a flash of purple in her hair shakes her head. It’s a discontinued line and they don’t have my size.

Back to reality with a bump, it’s time to go and collect the car. On our return the windscreen is still out and in one piece. Bonus. The Boss is almost rubbing his hands together with glee.

Polished and refitted and resealed, The Boss has a meltdown and slips the guy a plastic note, (Do they remind anyone else of the little plastic fish that came in Christmas crackers and curled up on your palm to tell you what mood you were in?) I digress, he’s just given away money, a note, telling the guy to get himself a drink. I think he needs a temperature check and a lie down in a darkened room.

Where did he get the money from in the first place? He’s like the queen, he never carries cash.