My Mercedes V8 trike had been sitting in a corner of the workshop almost, but not quite, finished for several weeks. To be quite honest, I was pissed off with working on it. One morning I opened my mail and out dropped a flier from Belgium. advertising the 'European Trike Trophy'. Needing a kick up the arse, or a carrot on a stick, to complete the build, this seemed ideal, so I faxed them and entered it. The fact that it was less than two weeks off didn't deter me. Two weeks of total mayhem followed. I had okayed it with the organisers to trailer it there, but I wanted it running anyway. By Thursday afternoon, it was indeed running. Just time for a quick blat up the bypass. Flav followed me. I couldn't get it to pull over 50mph, when Flav came blasting past frantically waving me to slow down. The rear discs were flying out of the calipers. The servo had cut in and locked the brakes on. Mere teething problems. With the master cylinder re-adjusted, it was loaded on the car trailer and we set off for Harwich- The only problem was that it was rush hour and we had to be at the docks 120 miles away by 8pm. Plus, I had been working on it since 4am. How we did it, I'll never know but we pulled into the terminal with just under five minutes to spare, to be greeted by a panicking Nutty Norman, Herbal, Ralph, Ian and Sue.

argument ensued and at one point the cop undipped his gun. It was getting out of hand, especially when Norman, sat astride his supercharged V8 said to him, 'How fast will your fucking car go?'. In the end we sent Flav and Herbal to the next town, from where they returned with two helmets (£100). We arrived at the site, Norman resplendent in a nifty stars 'n stripes lid. I think Ian's had a big American eagle on It.
We later found out that there were indeed no laws regarding lids on trikes. The cop was a scam. As soon as he pulled us he would be £120 richer after an on-the-spot fine, for which I know we would have got no receipt for.
Arriving at the site on Friday afternoon, we were surprised to see it was virtually empty. It was advertised as a three day event. However, we had come well prepared. The van was loaded to the roof — Snap-On toolkit, cushions to sleep on, a Calor gas barbecue and even a generator and outside lights. A quick trip to the nearest town saw us fully stocked with beer, vodka and food. Let's party. Laying the cushions along the car trailer, the magnificent seven settled down on it in reclining glory, with a full view of the still empty site. We were to spend three days slobbing out on that trailer. After a while, a convoy of four more Englishmen roared in. A couple of Reliant rats, an amazing Rover V8 complete with enormous truck stacks for exhausts and an incredible Rover SD1 Beach Bastard complete with exposed six-pot. One of the stalls had a British flag flying over it and I was amazed to meet an old mate from my Chopper Club days called Pedro. We had a very messy first night. Come Saturday morning, the place was still pretty well deserted. A stream of bicycles rushed past the site entrance, part of the Tour-de-France race. A bit later, another load, then more. Herbal thought it was the same lot and that they were lost.

trike. I wasn't quite prepared for what greeted us. It was now 2pm, and the place waspacked with trikes. I estimate over 200 (at least). We were waved up to the show arena and, as we pulled in and switched off our engines, we could hear all this cheering. Unknown to us, the sound of two V8 trikes had completely done in the others and when I turned my head to look down the field, about 2000 people were running up the site, totally gobsmacked. The trikes were swamped for the rest of the weekend. We left them there and got back on the trailer.
A couple of blonde slappers with the other English lads came over. Every chat-up line under the sun was tried, finally degenerating into: Would you like to see my ball bag? It gets longer the hotter it gets', accompanied by said filthy pervert whipping his sack out of the leg of his Bermuda shorts. They returned sadly unmolested. Hello girls.
For some reason, the Europeans gave us a wide berth, but 1 suppose we were getting a trifle messy. In fact, we were well pissed. Then, shock horror, someone told us they were doing the prizegiving. We didn't think it was till Sunday.
The English did pretty well, taking all the awards. Norm got one. I was a little stunned when they read out my number. The Merc got the European Trike Trophy'. Even though 1 knew I'd got a pretty nice trike, the standard of the Euro trikes was completely stunning though, thanks to the TUV, they were all without exception VW-based, so whilst they were all a variation on a theme the detailing they applied to give them a modicum of individuality had to be seen to be believed. In fact, Ian had the only bike-engined trike there.
When I went up to collect my trophy, dressed in old Bermudas, straw hat, silly glasses and jelly sandals they refused to hand it over, thinking I couldn't possibly own the winning machine. It was a boiling hot day, but dress order seemed to be leather hats, leather chaps, leather jackets, the longer the tassles the better. We looked like we had just staggered out of deckchairs on Blackpool beach. Saturday night deteriorated into a drunken, extremely stoned affair. Norman had taken charge of the barbie, and managed to get a lightbulb stuck to his forehead, resulting in a pretty nasty burn. At that moment, Ralph debagged him, so Norm whipped a big long Belgian sausage off the barbie and shoved it up his exposed bottom, only to yelp in pain as it too was red hot. He now had both a burnt head and a burnt arse. But he whipped the sausage out of his ring, chucked it in with the rest, and jumbled them all up. We were starving, so someone ate it. 1 reckon it was Herbie.
Sunday loomed. Norman had a big bullhorn on his trike, and he gave it a blast. Next thing, about 20 cows in the next field stopped eating and stared at him. A couple more blasts and all the cows, along with a pretty serious looking bull, were thundering towards us, bellowing and mooing. We were on our backs creased up. It had been a good weekend. Norm had a go on Ian's BMW, treating the locals to some pretty impressive two wheel riding whilst careering off the road into a field. But he wasn't satisfied with that and ended up giving a burnout demonstration on 'Blow Job', with Ian swilling water on the road like a drag racing marshal on the main road outside a bikers' bar. The ride back through Belgium and Holland to the Hook of Holland was pretty amazing. Norm took on a huge Buick, the driver raising his hands in defeat as Norman tailgated him at 140mph. As soon as he knew he had run him into the ground, he floored the throttle and shot past him like he was standing still. He must have been doing a good 175mph. No wonder they call him Nutty. All in all a pretty good weekend. If you're into trikes, make the effort next year. And I put in over 250 miles on the Merc first weekend out, with no major problems, all on foreign soil. And I found out something. It pulls women ... and police.

Words & Pics : CHRIS IRELAND

Footnote: A couple of things made me really laugh on the way back. Whilst waiting to get on the ferry, the trikes were the focus of attention. An old duffer had been looking at Norman s parachute and walked over to Ian and Sue sat on the Bee-em. Why haven't you got a parachute?' He asked, to which Ian replied 'Don't need one. mate. The missus just pulls her knicker leg to one side. 'And Ralph let off a horrendous fart on the ferry (he never stopped all weekend) and a pretty looking girl tittered ... till the stench got to her. She started retching and jumped out of her seat 'Cheers' said Ralph, immediately sitting in it

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