Daft Old Duffer returns. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
For several years I was a member of a motorcycle club here on the Isle of Wight.
The majority of my fellow members were middle aged, married men who, together with their wives, enjoyed meeting up for tea and a wad and a chat about bikes, and cruising the Island lanes. Few of them ever ventured over to the mainland, for any reason.
And those that did rarely penetrated more than twenty miles or so inland.
No adventure
It is a mindset that affects many Islanders. There just never seems to be any reason for many to make the crossing.
In fact, I recall an occasion when an Oxford-based club came down for a short camping holiday. As we watched them set off for home, on a sunny summer day I remarked that they were in for a pleasant afternoon drive, reaching home in time for their evening meal.
At which my fellow bikers looked at me with something close to astonishment. As though I was describing a trip to the moon rather than a journey of a hundred miles or so.
Wanderlusters
There were a handful of exceptions to this Island mentality however. A couple of us for example, spent several summers cruising the continent – mainly in France but also in Northern Italy, Belgium, and just a soupcon of Switzerland.
And as a result we were regarded with something like awe by the stay-at-homes. On one occasion, in particular, my return from a couple of months wandering about France was greeted by something akin to that of an intrepid explorer emerging from the jungle.
All of which was amusing and, to be honest, a bit flattering. I was, apparently a bit of an icon, someone to be respected, to be listened to.
All change
Then, for a period of about eighteen months, for various reasons I stopped attending club meetings. And when I did show my face once more, it was to be greeted with a complete change of attitude.
Everyone was still pleased to see me.
But not as before, as an interesting colleague. Instead as an old fogey, well past his prime.
“How are you, how nice to see you, you’re looking well!” they murmured in those special tones reserved for the no longer with it. “Are you looking after yourself, where on earth have you been keeping yourself, you look remarkably fit,” they soothed.
In my brief absence someone somewhere had flipped a switch, changed the points. No longer the seasoned warrior likely to venture forth in search of adventure, I was now seemingly set firmly on my path to the grave.
Happens to us all
This metamorphosis from respected figure to poor old b**ger happens to all of us of course. But usually it takes place imperceptibly, over a period of months – perhaps even years.
In my case it happened abruptly. And it was quite a shock. A shock I still haven’t gotten used to.
