However, any romantic notions I had of Easy Rider free spirit quickly disappeared; glamorous it was not. Riding the back roads of Andalusia was like sitting on a pneumatic drill all day. And he never let me drive, even though I was perfectly capable.
The straw that broke the camel’s back was the constant breakdowns. The bike — some vintage thing Humphrey loved more than he loved me — worked for roughly two days in a row, then it spluttered to a standstill. Waiting for repairs slowed our progress down considerably. Humphrey saw it as part of the fun. I didn’t feel the same way.
Our itinerary went even further awry when Humphrey got the news that his grandfather had died. We were near Malaga, so he arranged to fly home from there, and I was left stuck with the stupid bike. It was only because I felt sorry for him that I promised to look after it until he returned. That and the fact that he agreed to meet me in Seville, and I was allowed to ride the bike up there all on my own.
Little did I realise how the bike would transform the rest of my journey. They say that bikes are a babe magnet but, for me, it became the ultimate bloke magnet. From the minute Humphrey left my side, I had never had so much attention. And I’m ashamed to say I grew to love it. The bike became my friend and ally. High up in the hills, on the windy roads I’d previously hated, people would see a blonde foreigner pulling into their little village and they would stop what they were doing, wave, chat, invite me to eat with them and ask lots of questions about the “machine”. It was my access-all-areas.
Then it broke down again. The garage I managed to wheel it to was in the tiniest of backwaters — and I would have to wait for three days for the repair, because the vintage spare part they needed had to be shipped in. The owner of the garage, Juan, was a bright, dashing young Spaniard. He invited me to stay at his mum’s guesthouse while the bike was being fixed. I accepted. When I got to the “guesthouse”, I realised that his mum didn’t live there at all. At least he had a spare room.
Advertisement
I don’t think Humphrey would have liked it, but I didn’t mind. That evening, Juan cooked a sumptuous dinner served with excellent wine. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that we ended up sharing a room — and a bed, for that matter. I was happy with my lodgings, and my landlord was equally happy with his guest. Maybe that’s why it took five days to fix the bike.
I said adios to Juan and set off for the airport to meet Humphrey. He would have had a horrid week in England and would be in need of some TLC. I felt a rush of guilt, but he would never find out about my dalliance. On the way, I tried hard to convince myself that Humphrey was still the guy for me. It wasn’t until I was standing at arrivals that I knew for sure he wasn’t. With seconds to spare before he came out, I sprinted back to the car park, hopped on the bike and headed off in the opposite direction. Free as a bird.