Caterham 7 vs Honda CBR

Scotland, July2004. Beside the Pentlands, close to Edinburgh. The engines take a break, the brakes cool down. One of the many after work blasts we had. Brett on the CBR, me in the Caterham. We worked together. Yes, our employers were stupid enough to let us work together. The chips were massive. We spent a lot of time writing scripts to automate jobs. Wrote emails between us. Electronically planned the road races, the hill running, sometimes both the same night (Schiehallion). We kicked off “string_the_jobs_together_and_bugger_off.csh” and exited.

Glenshee.

Friday afternoon. Engines already warmed. Martin arrived, joined Brett and I. Sped out the office car park, Brett wheelied, I gassed Caterham 2nd, we raced to the roundabout. Whatever was the limit past the office entrance? Through Livingston, over Dechmont (fucking potholes), the M90, Kincardine Bridge, past the Ochils. Took it easy, through the rush hour traffic, let oils and rubber warm. Dollar to Glen Eagles and the engines started to breath. Toyo Proxes T1-S tyres stuck like shit to blankets. Bends: bikes in the rear view. Straights: came roaring past, Bike exhausts beefing it big time. Crieff to Amulree, was sweet man. Pitclochry was Optimax refuel time; made sure the machines were juiced for the main event: Spittal O’ Glen Shee late on in the evening. Things wound up from there on. The lower section snaking around bends, over humps. Caning engine noises cut through the solitude and tore up the last summit straights. 1 or 2 km’s visibility. No traffic. No traffic cops. Only a Caterham and two fast bikes absolutely fucking nailing it to the summit car park. WOW!

Engines off, break time again. Silence. Grins. Massive mother fucking GRINS!

Dusk. No wind.

“Hi Karen” Brett phoned the Boss. The I-won’t-make-it-home-tonight explanation was class. Best I’ve heard. He had other plans: race track it down to Braemar, Pizza in Ballater, over night in Banchory (Drams). Understanding wife. Martin and I speechless. And laughing.

Light faded and engines sparked back into wild-life. Good visibility again on the other side. Full beam lights full speed ahead. Long open straights. Snow poles either side, reflective lights merged like some surreal arcade game. Bikes behind me. What was keeping them? Oh yeah, the bends. Obeyed the limit through Braemar. Darkness came quickly for the final forest straights to Ballater. Everything attuned, the mind, the Momo connected to quick rack steering thought the car through bends. Bikes were behind. Four cars in front. Volvo T-5 the first to get past. Indicated. Began to nail. Bastard Volvo pulled out, cut me up. Fuck it. Nailed it. Kissed his fat T-5 exhaust. T-5 cleared the three and I still kissed T-5 ass. Bikes kissed my ass. Volvo pulled over, at last. Caterham and CBR dusted T-5 to a cacophony of sweeeeet loud engine noise.

Ballater 10 minutes later. Rolled up outside “The Barrel”. Engines off, tired now. Silence. Brett met the parents: “Hi Mrs Stewart, did you realise your son is a lunatic in a car!?” No question, just a statement. Brett’s social skills always worked wonders. Pizza was warm, moist and tasty. Mmmm. Scoffed outside Ballater’s famous drinking hole. What a night. Unplanned. Spontaneous. And will live with me forever.