The next day, we arrived at school to see three Harley-Davidson choppers lying dorment, waiting for us. Next to each lay a helmet, with some pretty cool designs on each. Alex, a strident anti-fan of American things, began moaning instantly:
"Fraser, these bikes are a load of bull and no trousers."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means they're rubbish. End of."
"Quit your moaning. You haven't even got on the damn thing yet."
Now began the tricky part; trying to explain to passer-bys how three underage school pupils had bagged a Harley-Davidson each, and they haven't. The same answer was said every time:
"Discovery Channel, fools. Suck it up."
As you'd expect, these Harleys were brand-new, so you'd expect them to be on a "you damage this, you pay for it" basis. Unaware of this, Duncan fired his up (fitted with the Screamin' Eagle exhaust, enough to deafen nearby students in, oh I don't know, WALES, when we're in Scotland) and almost instantly fell off it. Like the foolhardy dunce he is, he simply got back on the bike and proceded to repeat the act again.
However, for me and Alex, it was surprisingly easy to come to terms with the big Harleys. Simply be gentle with it and don't be too hasty. Much like treating a woman, I suppose, as Alex put it. So we rode into the cold Scottish morning sun, with Duncan staggering behind us, scuffed trousers and all, turning the air blue in his helmet, in search of the first test of our abilitys. Which was oddly nearby, actually...