Letting Go at 125

The Bullit Hero 125 went for its MoT last week – No.2 Son’s, not mine. He’s twenty-five now, and that modest little bike represents something much larger than its certificate. After a couple of months of coaxing it into life – cleaning contacts, fettling carburettors, tightening bolts that seem to loosen out of boredom - I realised I wasn’t just recommissioning a machine. I was preparing to let go.

It’s a Chinese-built Bullit, with all the quirks that implies. The metal’s a bit soft, the paint’s more enthusiasm than quality, and the fasteners seem to be made from compressed tea biscuits. But for all that, it does look the part - chunkier than most 125s, with a stance that flatters its modest displacement. It’s not quite what it pretends to be, but then, neither are most of us at twenty-five.

He’ll be commuting on it this winter - from Old Sodbury down to Bristol for his PGCE lectures, and over to Chippenham for his teaching placement. Through the rain, the wind, the frozen mornings – all the character-building misery I once took for granted and now regard as lunacy. He insists he doesn’t want a car. So be it. I suppose this is what independence looks like: brave, slightly daft, and dressed in cheap waterproofs.

At some point, he’ll take his full test and move on to something faster, heavier, infinitely more dangerous. I can’t say a word. I did the same, and my Triumph Daytona 955i returned the favour by putting me in hospital. I’ve lost friends to scooters and motorbikes – too many. Those memories don’t fade; they idle quietly somewhere between the ribs.

Still, one has to let go. Independence doesn’t arrive quietly – it comes with noise, exhaust fumes, and the faint whiff of petrol in cold air. So I watch the Bullit head down the lane, its tail light shrinking to a red pinprick, and feel that peculiar blend of pride and dread. Every parent reaches this point – the moment when your role is no longer to steer but to trust the work you’ve already done.

I put the spanners away, close the workshop door, and listen to the fading growl. It’s the sound of freedom, of youth, of daft courage – and of growing up. For both of us.