Oh, go on then Bob!
Same killer Honda on the way back south from a flying visit oop north to take dear mater out for Mother's Day. The M6 had been a car park all the way from J21 (this was 1987 remember) and although I could filter easily it was hard work. Past B'ham and heading for the M5 the traffic eased slightly and then, just before the junction with the M42, the traffic magically cleared out of lane 3.
Opening the taps, I gave a nonchalant shrug over my left shoulder to check for fast-joining traffic and there, parked up on the hard shoulder of the M42 was a dark-coloured estate. I rolled off the throttle and came down from ooops'ish mph to a more reasonable 90 and then, as I watched a dark-coloured estate join rapidly, I came down to 80 and eased into the thin traffic in lane 2. By this time he was out in lane 3 going like a bat out of hell when he suddenly realised where I was hiding.
He sat out in lane 3 for about a mile before pulling alongside and inviting me to pull over.
When I joined them in the back of the car, the driver asked if I knew why they stopped me. 'Routine document check?' 'Not having the courage of your convictions!'
When I intimated that I didn't understand, the observer observed that they saw me flash past the junction and they also saw me spot them lurking on the hard shoulder.
They congratulated me on my observational skills but said that I should have shown more restraint and slowed to 70 after I saw them. 'If I had slowed to 70, I would have been run over by the rest of the traffic that was all doing 80!' 'But we wouldn't have pulled you'. So, dead but not pulled? It sounded like the old witch-finder ducking-stool theory; if you die you must be innocent but if you live you are guilty!
Anyway, up before the beak in Warwickshire a few weeks later and this time I had done my homework. Annual mileage, servicing records, record of having attended a Met Police fore-runner of Bike Safe, trainer with a local bike school, relatively clean licence, best bib and tucker and a very contrite approach rehearsed over many hours.
A long line of speeding miscreants traipsed in before me, all looking like the arch criminals they truly were. They all came out looking hammered and even those with a clean licence were shocked at the hand-downs. Gulp!
The chair of the bench began by asking what sort of a car a Honda CBR1000 F-H was. I explained that it was, in fact, a motorcycle. His eyes lit up and he said, unbelievably, 'Ah, so you are a motorcyclist? And you were only doing 80mph?' I nodded stupidly and apologised quickly. 'So, how fast would your motorcycle go?' I reeled off the theoretical top speed of 180mph but added that it would only really do 160, 'on the autobahns in Germany!' I added meekly. 'So, you could still have been in first gear at 80 then?' This had to be a trap, but I couldn't see how. 'Well, second gear, sir!'
'So, in terms of the performance available to you, you weren't really speeding at all?'
I shrugged and was still trying to work out where this was going as the bench conferred and I didn't really hear him tell me what my punishment was to be and it wasn't till I was outside the courtroom that the clerk told me I would get my licence back from DVLA (or whatever they were called back then) and asked how I would like to pay the fine. I pulled my cheque book out of my pocket and when I asked how much it was he looked at me sort of funny and said £100. I stared at him and asked, 'Really!' 'Yes' he retorted with a wry smile, 'you got off very lightly, the chair used to ride an old motorcycle to court until recently and obviously took a shine to you young man!'
Brian (who was floating on air all the way back home but has never passed a motorway or dual-carriageway junction at high speed to this day without a 'life-saver')