December is a very tense time in the palatial MCUSA offices because this is when we undergo our annual performance review. Not only is our work assessed in terms of syntax, grammar and paragraph construction - goodness me, did I get a hammering for my slack use of modal adverbs in a story last year - but, critically, we are evaluated in terms of our status in the motorcycling world.

This is reflected in our job titles. Steve Atlas is Executive Editor because he gets to hang out with all the cool WSBK dudes. Bryan Harley is Cruiser Editor - it would be illegal not to have him in this position with a name like his - and Bart Madson is Managing Editor because he receives all the important press releases whilst the great and the good from the bike industry are killing themselves to be on the “receive call” list of his cell phone.

Meanwhile, I am a mere Contributing Editor. I did once complain about this lowly status and was reminded that I could, easily and very quickly, be re-branded as: “Fat-Bald-Old-Wrinkly-G.50-Obsessed-With-No-Dress-Sense-Editor”if I didn’t quit complaining. Obviously, being a man of sagacity and wisdom I shut up immediately.

The big problem is that I really don’t know anyone important in the bike world - or out of it for that matter - and so my contact with the glitterati has been very thin on the ground. This stretches all the way back to High School. I remember, briefly, dating a girl who was obsessed with The Beatles. She promised that I could fondle her left breast in the movie theater if I could prove a strong link with the “Fab Four”. After a lot of research, I found a lad in the year below me whose older cousin’s friend knew a man who once serviced Ringo Starr’s Ford Consul car - allegedly. For some reason, this did not score sufficiently highly to allow carnal thoughts, or actions, on my part.

My next brush with stardom was at Oulton Park where Giacomo Agostini was riding in the Easter holiday international. I was so star struck that I tripped over the 15 times World Champion’s five-gallon fuel can. Whilst I was lying in the mud, Ago’s mechanic screamed Italian abuse at me. Not really a five star performance on my part - and not likely to get me many ratings on the star front.

I came a lot nearer to achieving celebrity status at Brands Hatch during the Anglo-American match races. It was pouring with rain and the windscreen wipers on my ancient van only worked intermittently. I was driving through the paddock whilst reaching out of the window trying to tease the wipers into action. Being fully occupied, I didn’t notice Barry Sheene and Kenny Roberts deep in conversation outside the Suzuki truck. Another 15 feet of windscreen wiper massage and they would have had a much bigger thrill than racing. Now, that really would have raised my profile: the two icons of 1970s racing wiped out by a club racer driving a $200 van. I would still be famous today.

Much later, when I was rich enough not only for a vehicle with fully functioning windscreen wipers but could also afford food that did not exclusively come in the form of dented tins from the “Quick Sale” section of the supermarket, I really moved up the social ladder in terms of superstar biking accidents.

Three years ago, having managed to blag my way into the MotoGP paddock at Valencia with cunning use of a library ticket and a fishing permit - the old scams are always the best ones - I managed to come within a gnat’s eyelash of getting personally killed by none other than Nicky Hayden. Like all MotoGP stars, the Kentucky kid eschews legs and feet except as accessories for braking and changing gear. Thus, Nicky could not possibly walk the 100 yards of naked tarmac from his motorhome to the Honda hospitality tent but had to blast across it on his Repsol branded scooter. And if a hapless classic racer happened to be occupying the very strip of tarmac Nicky needed he was going to DIE!!!!

Having the finely honed reactions of a life-long coward, I did a ninja roll and was saved. My skill was actually very significant, since had Nicky t-boned me and in the process damaged his precious body, then Rossi would have been World Champion in 2006 and history would have been very different.

When I passed this news on to the God of all Gods at MCUSA, Editorial Director Ken Hutchison, he did agree that getting smashed into the ground by Mr. Hayden would have been newsworthy - quickly adding that the first communication my hospital bed would have received from Ken was the news that I was being fired so that Honda didn’t pull their advertising. Truly, a fine example of all that makes motorcycle journalism great.

And so to the present and this year’s appraisal. We live near to the very beautiful, but delightfully small, city of Chester . The city was well established 2,000 years ago and has been a top spot to visit ever since. During December, Chester is all lit up with Christmas decorations and it’s the one time in the year that I nearly, but not quite, enjoy shopping.

The swishest hotel in Chester is the Grosvenor. Truly, the adage that if you need to ask the price you can’t afford it, applies to the Grosvenor. Packed in the narrow street outside the hotel was an immense, uber luxurious coach complete with blacked out windows and polished stainless steel trim. Surrounding the magisterial carriage was a crowd of hundreds of hysterical, and I use this word with extreme caution, fans. Since hysteria in Chester is seen as tutting audibly because the line at the Post Office is too long, having anyone scream in public meant that the end of the world was nigh.

It wasn’t quite Armageddon, but far more importantly, Beyoncé. Thanks to my teenage daughter, I actually knew who Beyoncé was and I immediately saw my chance to move up the MCUSA pecking order. No longer would the bathroom janitor and I battle for bottom spot on the ecological ladder but I would be ascending the escalator to stardom. Maybe “Contributing Editor Who Has Personally Met Beyoncé” would be my next by-line.

In the dark, there gleamed the polished heads, mirrored sunglasses and bulging black suits of the personal assistants. Then the sidewalk integrity checker carried out an inspection of the six feet of uncarpeted ground between the coach and the hotel. Two press officers ensured that Beyoncé enjoyed complete privacy - whilst still being heavily photographed. Finally, the team’s meteorologist took temperature readings to ensure that the great woman did not suffer hypothermia in the 12-second transit from one air conditioned zone to the next.

My mouth was dry and my bowels were churning. Lap 1 heading into the south banking at Daytona was nothing compared with this. Beyoncé and I were almost best mates. My future at MCUSA was assured. Then the coach drove off and team Beyoncé trooped back into the hotel. Beyoncé, it seemed, had left secretly by the back entrance and was now limo-ing onwards to her next performance.

Does this count as a home run for me on the path stardom? I think so - but I await your judgment.

I would like to conclude by wishing both readers of Single Track Mind a happy Christmas and a peaceful and contended New Year and, most of all, lots of great riding.