Harley

Before I say anything else, I should point out that the only thing I know about motorbikes is that my mum doesn’t approve of them. (This is based on the fact that when I was about six she told me that she never wanted me to ride one. Only Steve McQueen has ever come close to convincing me to ignore this request.) I’m saying this because I think this is a Harley Davidson in the photo but I’m not sure.

And the reason I think it’s a Harley is that this weekend is the one where loads of owners converge on Kirkby Lonsdale. Although, now I think about it and continuing in the spirit of doubt, I did only see them this morning, when the market square was full of them and their bikes, so maybe I’ve got that wrong, too.

Anyway, the bikers were, for the most part, older than me and were almost uniformly dressed in that combination of denim and leather that is peculiar to that demographic of older than middle-aged motorcyclists

They wandered around the square admiring one another’s machines in the same manner adopted by all the other motorcyclists who congregate at Devil’s Bridge every Sunday and bank holiday, come rain or shine, before – abruptly – in response to some unseen signal, taking off like swarming bees.