Back in the saddle
Iremember fondly the days when the family was living in married quarters at Hendon Aerodrome.
The perimeter track was the perfect proving ground for a novice motorcyclist, with zero traffic, potholes for roundabouts and the occasional rabbit a disconcerting presence. Whilst my father would commute to his post at the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall, I had been shipped off to boarding school.
Returning home on the occasional weekend, I would change from coat-tails and straw boater to ice-blue jeans and chunky boots, white T-shirt and white silk scarf, the archetypical rebel with a cause. I had acquired my leather jacket from a friend. Black, with ripped red silk lining, I adorned it with metal studs and chains. Flipping the collar up and coughing profusely as I hung a No.6 cigarette from the corner of my mouth, I reckoned I was a dead-ringer for my anti-heroes Marlon Brando and James Dean.
