Early Morning Rain Pt 2 – Kick Start Scooter Rally review March 13 2010

In the early morning rain

With a dollar in my hand

And an aching in my heart

And my pockets full of sand

When I was a teenager I was a Rude Boy. Two tone suit, pork pie hat and wrap-round shades. Two years later I ditched the look and became a Mod.  Sharper threads, better sounds and chrome scooters.  A few years later, I moved on.  Football got the better of me and the casual look was where it was at.

I may have swapped lanes, trading parkas for Fila tracksuit tops, but some things never change.  I never lost my love for Weller and I never lost my love for scooters.  The years may have passed but that smell of teen spirit has never left me.  We move on.

Standing under the gaze of the London Eye in the early morning rain, I cast my mind make to those teenage years.  The scene before me has got me thinking. Nobody does youth tribes better than the British.   It seeps into our soul at early age and stays with us forever. That’s why 300 plus like-minded souls stand under grey skies, next to treasured scooters.  They’ve come from far and wide.  Portsmouth.  Leeds. Reading.  Whisper it, but a fair few of them appear to edging towards 50.  Some might say they should know better. But they can’t kick the habit. British youth culture will do that to you.

And so we leave.  Cameras flash, tourists are awed.  We’re quite a sight, “Those Brits, fuck they’re cool,” is written all over their faces.  I’d give a dashing smile and a royal wave, but it’s wet and the rain is getting heavier and I’m on my first scooter run and I don’t know the route…so better concentrate!

I easily keep up with the pack, the traditionalist might sneer at my scooter, but new school scooter means new school engine. 

Over the Embankment, the lights dance between red and green.  The pack thins out.  We head East, which is fine, it’s my manor.  But here, I should have slunk off.  I’m wet, I’m miserable and my £200 desert boots are getting ruined.  Still, I go on.  Down the A12 and over to Wansted, nearly messing up big time and ending up on the M11…don’t ask.

At some point, sanity kicks in.  I can’t make it to Epping.  300 have dwindled to 12.  The traffic lights and rain mean that groups have splintered off into smaller and smaller packs. 

I’ve lost Gary (ages ago).

I’m soaking wet.

I’m hungry (note to self…eat brekkie before you head out).

I conclude it’s an ok debut.  Of course, there’s a nagging doubt.  If I can’t do Epping which is only a few miles from home, how the heck am I’m going to do the IoW.  It’s a worry for another day.  I have a full summer ahead of me to gain more ride out experience and to research the scene. Right now it’s time to head home…

…With a dollar in my hand

And an aching in my heart

And my pockets full of sand

Finally…

Paul watched Spurs draw with West Ham and was truly gutted.  If we want Champions’ League footie again, we’ve got to beat West Ham, Wolves and Blackpool (we drew with two, lost to one and all three teams are shit).

Paul read the Guardian cover story on Ed Milliband and is still not convinced.

Paul was wowed by the greatness of Aretha Franklin on the way to gym.