Babysitter Bike

“Am I glad to see you.” An unfamiliar voice, Scottish. I turned to see a slight, middle-aged man walking wearily towards me, a trio of shopping bags in one hand, the other clutching the arm of a small, blond boy.

“It’s him,” he said with a half smile, perhaps uncertain of his audience and indicating the child at his knees. “Twenty minutes it’s been now. Bike, bike, bike, while his mother’s in the shop. Now that you’re going, maybe I’ll get some peace.” The half smile broke into a grin as he indicated my bike , parked up on its side-stand, and as if on cue the child thrust a podgy digit forward in the direction of my Ducati and announced “Bike.” He looked like a mini- tifoso , his arm and pointed finger redolent of an altogether more threatening, political gesture, made ridiculous on one barely out of the pram.

“His first two words,” the man continued. “Dad and bike.” Obviously one destined to keep dad on his toes, the toddler turned to his father and said “Mum.”

They stood watching as I crammed my own shopping into my rucksack, struggled to put the bag, which kept catching on the sleeve of my jacket, over my shoulders, took off my glasses, put on my helmet, put my glasses back on, pulled on my gloves and, after what seemed an eternity – surely by now the child was bored with the whole notion of motorcycles, having seen them turned into an endless round of ritualistic paraphernalia – slung my right leg over the seat, turned the key and pressed the starter. A moment’s computer-driven whirr-whine and the engine barked impatiently into life. A glance over my shoulder showed me the infant laughing and clapping as the bike’s engine growled its twin-cylinder growl. After the man selling outsized balloons to the early Christmas shoppers, I was probably the best value distraction the kid had seen all afternoon. A couple of blips on the throttle by way of an encore, and the street entertainment pulled away with a wave of a leathered arm, into the Harrogate dusk.