Back in 2005 , when I wrestled the long chopper around this particular corner , I was confronted by an Austrian policeman waving me into a lay-by with an extra-large reflective lollipop . ‘ Do you know the speed limit in that village ?’ he asked , after checking my passport . ‘ No , sorry I didn ’ t see the sign ’, I replied honestly .
‘ It is 50 kilometres per hour and you were riding at 70 kilometres .’ ‘ Oh , sorry ’, I replied , expecting the next questions to be about the fact I was riding a chopper made from two Lambretta frames welded together , with huge chromed forks . ‘ How old is your son ?’ asked the Austrian copper .
Sam looked up at him from the pillion seat wondering what was wrong . ‘ He is three . He ’ ll be four in August ’
‘ What is the age that children can ride on the back of a motorcycle in England ?’ asked the policeman .
‘ There isn ’ t one ’, I replied truthfully . ‘ In Britain the only regulation is that their feet must touch the footpegs and I ’ ve moved them so he can comfortably reach them .’ ‘ In Austria children must be 12 before they can ride on the back of a motorcycle .’ ‘ Shall I put him back in the van then ?’ ‘ It would be a good idea ,’ said the policeman , helpfully , before letting us go and then finding another speeder to pull over .
Sam , despite protests , was duly put back in the passenger seat of the van for another few miles before we stopped again and allowed him to reclaim his rightful seat , just in time to ride pillion onto the campsite for his first ever scooter rally .
Eight years and one month later we pulled back onto the Route 69 Biker campsite , again on a Lambretta , and Sam – already taller than his mother – still wasn ’ t legally old enough to ride on the back . Not for another few days at least .
The wooden building that acts as the Route 69 restaurant and bar was sparsely occupied by a few fat , old bikers when we pulled up . There was no welcome for scooter riders and the terselooking waitress made a point of ignoring us when we sat down at an outside table . I wandered inside to order some drinks and check out the trophy wall to see if my object d ’ art was still on display .
At the rally in 2005 Tracy and I took it in turns to stay in the tent with Sam at night . She partied on Friday with Lambretta riding chums from all over Europe , which turned out to be a raucous affair lasting until daylight . My turn on Saturday night was far more subdued because many of our European Lambretta chums were now nursing hang-overs . After the gala dinner , members of the London Lambretta Club pointed out burn-marks on the wooden floor of the bar where the campsite owner had performed tyre-smoking burnouts on his motorcycle .
I can ’ t remember exactly why , but some time in the early hours I finally relented to Steve Bone ’ s constant nagging to ‘ go and get your scooter ’. I went to get my scooter . The campsite owner didn ’ t bat an eyelid when I rode the chopper into the do , propped the front wheel against the bar , and with the engine screaming like a toddler ’ s tantrum , dumped the clutch .