HOUDINI CONNECTIONS

Wrapping, strapping, chaining and tying
TOPICS

SCRAMBLES & HILL CLIMBS
(MOTORCYCLE)

“DIRTY WEEKENDS”
Spectator sports played out-of-doors can involve a certain sort of masochism.
None more so than off-road motorcycle trials or scrambles. These often involve standing around on muddy hillsides for hours on end, often in freezing wind, rain or even snow. Mainly because of my life-long attraction to heavy duty protective gear and the men who wear it, such events have always attracted me. Essentially straight men using protective clothing for legitimate purposes being of particular interest.
Such men seldom admit getting any sensual kick out of the gear - but a kind of masochism seems to lurk behind many of the activities which involve such equipment.

In a previous episode from my autobiographical writings (see link to ‘Black Prince' at the end of this page) I describe my time in Barrow-in-Furness at the age of seventeen. Sharing some of my emerging sensuality with a resolutely ‘straight' married shipyard worker known as Banny, he encouraged me to sample the local pleasures of watching Saturday afternoon football in the rain, winter-time night fishing, and helping out with farm work for his in-laws in all weathers.

Being a keen motorcyclist, one of Banny's special kicks was standing around on a muddy hillside watching bike trials. At what seemed like dawn on Sunday mornings we would climb into gear suitable for the worst weather imaginable and set out for some remote Lake District location. Once there, we would join a gaggle of like-minded masochistic enthusiasts bundled up in waterproofs and wellies for several hours. We were all there to watch even more extreme masochists wrestle dirt bikes up muddy tracks and freezing streams. Water and shit spewed in all directions as spectators stood as close as they dared. Unexpected skids were part of the attraction. A bike in trouble was never short of helping hands to drag it out of a mud-slide, and it would then roar away spraying the helpers. Grinning mud-splattered faces were congratulated as all stood waiting for the next contestant. Mud-caked suits were battle scars to be admired later on the way to a local pub.

These very social occasions also included women and children.
Boys kitted out like their fathers were either keen to prove themselves or were being groomed to manhood by Dad. To some extent Banny's invitation to me to join him at such events had a similar motive: he regarded me as a wimpish southerner who needed to be toughened up. As our friendship developed he took a certain delight in making our expeditions more rigorous than they need have been (but more of that anon). It was generally a sport for men and boys.

Women at such events were either mums who went along to keep an eye on their kids and men-folk; or girlfriends there to show a willingness to share in their man's interests.

Some of the women may actually have been bike enthusiasts in their own right - or were they there just to enjoy wearing the gear and watch the rugged activities and the men who indulged in them? But, the majority of married women stayed home to prepare the traditional Sunday mid-day meal, timed for when the pubs closed at two o'clock.

As far as I remember, hill-climbs and scrambles were always morning events.
Sometimes they spread into afternoons - but the lure of Opening Time usually saw the crowd thin out. Some hostelries did not welcome the muddied-up customers.

Bikers as a social class were already tainted in some minds; but in an area where hill-walkers were a main source of trade, established rules were in place. Signs such as “Muddy boots outside only” and “Wet weather gear facilities round the back” barred each front entrance. In several pub yards there was a tap and buckets, and a hose for washing down suits and boots.

Convivial fun was often to be had as survivors of Scrambles hosed one another down and water-fights were inevitable. In the early days of plastic bin bags, the worst of sodden ‘togs' were peeled off and stowed in panniers before the drinking began.

The local community was mainly involved in hill farming or the tourist industry, and lively Sunday lunchtime drinking session were a tradition in the area out of season. On ‘Trial' days the local crowd was sometimes outnumbered by in-comers.
I've stood packed into a Sunday lunch-time bar and watched steam rise off well soaked woollies as they began to dry out.

Strict licensing laws ended any pub mid-day session dead on two pm, and bikes and cars would depart dutifully en mass. A Sunday dinner going cold waiting for the men-folk could generate serious family rows.

Groups of men who'd travelled from further afield might have planned to make a day of it. A core of cronies often adjourned to a pre-arranged spot at closing time. Banny and I (with a dispensation from his wife, Lill) would inevitably stay to join a few of Banny's farmer brothers-in-law and other cronies. Even in the grimmest of weathers we would congregate at some barn or remote spot. There, machines might be compared or repaired while opinions of new developments in the world of motorcycles would be shared. With massive home-made sandwiches and plentiful drink, the conversation could become bawdy and (as the drink flowed) more muddy horse-play might develop. All in the name of manly fun, dare-devil riding, physical challenges and country-style rough-and-tumble was enjoyed by most - but occasionally not by the targets of challenges issued.

As I describe in the ‘Black Prince' essay, Banny and I eventually developed a secret agenda more clearly focused on my interest in HOUDINI. But, when I first went to lodge in the house of Lill and Reg Bannerman, I had kept my emerging sensual interests desperately secret. Attracted by Banny's bike gear and oilskins I had imagined illicit opportunities. From early childhood I had indulged in self-applied bondage when there was nobody willing to do it for me. The taciturn Banny often went on solitary fishing trips or spent time alone digging his allotment on the edge of town. When he first invited me to join him on a bike trip and even wear some of his protective gear, I tried desperately to hide the fact it turned me on. After the first time, I even dared to indulge in some cock bondage under the oilskins. This I justified to myself because sitting behind the gear-clad Banny on his bike made me uncomfortably horny and hard. He was certainly not a man to mess with and, in the early days I thought that even a hint that I was in any way queer or even kinky would have been disaster.

But, my emerging sexuality made me rash. I once went as far as to secretly add a butt plug (guiltily purchased by post and kept well hidden in my room) before one of our day long bike rides into the Lake District. It was disaster. At the first opportunity for a piss stop I had to disappear into the toilet and remove it.

All this was before I had enough confidence to admit to Banny my long-established obsession with ‘Houdini Stuff'. As described in the previous story, the eventual revelation that I was kinky for getting tied up and trying to escape, surprisingly did not freak him (but the word gay was never mentioned). So, resolutely ignoring any homo-erotic implications, this complex but somehow innocent thirty-five-year-old decided that tying me up would test my endurance and toughen me up. After a couple of opening tying-up challenges, I encouraged the use of oilskins and bike-gear ... to make the challenges more difficult. Banny took it in his stride and seemed willing to indulge my kink for the gear. Now, when setting out on the bike trip with him, he began to dictate precisely what I should wear - and then with a sardonic twinkle in his eye would watch me deal with whatever situation he had created.

For example; in preparation for a fishing day out he might insist that I put two sets of thermal underwear under warm clothes before adding oilskins over - not just for the bike ride, but keep them on all day even when the weather was uncomfortably warm. He started to enjoy this new form of creativity - and I encouraged him - while at the same time acknowledging that his challenges were certainly ‘testing'. In this new mode, for a motorcycle scramble day as we dressed (Lill always stayed in bed) he one day suddenly insisted I should wear two pairs of his extra long woolen sea-boot socks inside rubber waders UNDER thick cord trousers. With heavy oilskin pants over the top it was virtually impossible to bend my legs on the bike - or to sit down during the day. Standing around on the hillside was no problem but he would tease me in the pub (and in the company of others) by asking why I didn't sit down.

As a memorable escalation of our secret games, (after I'd daringly introduced the topic of self-applied genital bondage) he suggest firmly that for one of our trips I should add “something to keep me out of mischief” under my clothes before suiting up before a bike trip. He supervised the process without taking part in it (on the first occasion) - and his mischievous eyes glinted during the day every time he asked how I was enjoying the challenge.

Other venues for our progressively more elaborate tying-up sessions were a remote corner of the ship yard where he worked, a barn on the family farm and the 'allotment' where he grew vegetables to supplement the family budget. A wooden hut on this remote plot was an ideal place where he would occasionally leave me trussed. "Escape or deal with it" was his usual parting shot. The games reached a new level when I was forced to piss myself because he didn't return in time to release me. Banny thought this was a great new weapon in his armoury. So, as we prepared for our next Sunday day out on the hills, he instructed me to wear waterproof trousers UNDER my clothes and tuck them into wellies before adding bike waterproofs. He then told me that he wasn't going to let me piss for the whole day till we got home that evening. I challenged his proposal, saying that once inside a toilet I'd be free to relieve myself; a provocation he couldn't resist. Being a practical man, a length of chain and padlock at my waist - and I was introduced to locked-on clothes for the first time in my life.

It turned out to be quite a day. My layers of clothes stayed closed - and he enjoyed several hours of watching me build to a point when my bladder was ready to bursts. He watched in delight as I was forced to let go the first time, while standing there in public - then spending several hours on a hillside among a crowd of people we knew. His eyes twinkled as he offered me tea from his flask and beer from a bottle he'd brought along. I grimly refused, but it was soon time to go to the pub. There Banny insisted on buying pints, setting them before me pointedly; a look in his eye defying me not to drink them. Then each of his cronies was encouraged to continue the session, and the pints kept arriving until closing time ... and the ordeal was not over ... and for the rest of the year I was in Barrow the 'challenges' continued.

For more on this relationship see BLACK PRINCE

Mud for the sake of getting muddy contributions will be welcomed
also, more mud-bath biker, scramble pictures.

A rugby player whose e-signature is ‘mudhook' has sent in a vivid description of being trained to ignore muddy conditions. In this true account he reports how his rugby coach insisted that in a practice match in bad conditions, because his players were complaining, the coach insisted that the whole team must play the second half having turned their wet and muddy kit inside-out during half-time. Another description of a rugby coach forcing his team to train wearing hooded waterproof suits under their kit to get them used to uncomfortable conditions is, I'm assured, genuine. These two descriptions will be added to the sports training ‘Authority Figures' section as soon as time allows.

Other ‘mud' situations are already well described in a semi-fictional story on the army training page. Fighting forces are trained to function in wet and uncomfortable conditions - but a process of systematically forcing a soldier to climb into deliberately muddied clothes and boots muddied on the inside before being systematically ‘dried off' is only one episode from the army story HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOSS

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