An old bill car cruises past, slows down, checks us out. It’s a matter of routine. Saturday night has its patterns, its own rehearsed choreography. Move on, before they move you on. They know us by name. We know them by reputation – they’d probably say the same. They know where we live. They know we’ve got somewhere to go and it’s about time we got there. They’ll be waiting outside later.
Twenty or so two-stroke engines kick over. Vespa 50 whines, throaty AF exhaust growls, revs and smoke. Some bump start – second gear, run to speed, open the clutch and wait for the catch, jump, close the clutch and rev. We get it together and ride out. Stop the traffic. Turn right for a 30mph drive down the high-street, a head-turner, a procession around the one-way system, past the Priory Grill and back. At the war memorial we break in ones and twos, opening the throttle, belting up Station Road, past The Maxwell, under the railway bridge and turn right into the Civic Hall car park.