The Daily Journey
Motor cycling every day to work provided all sorts of experiences. I did get the wind up one morning when I reached the road block at the defence zone. I had now been doing the journey for several months and the sentries had got to know me, or at least that is what I fondly thought. That is, until one pitch dark, snowy morning, when I rolled up at the checkpoint as usual. Previously, after slowing down I got a cheery wave on, but this particular morning I slowed down at the waving red lamp, and at the last moment I realised that the sentry wasn't going to move out of my way. I clapped on the anchors and promptly 'bought it' on the slippery road, finishing up in an untidy heap on my back. The first thing I saw was the business end of a rifle about a yard from my nose, looking as big as a cannon.
There was an ominous click as he levered a round into the breech. "Your pass, mate, and be quick about it." As I slowly pulled myself up he stared at me and said "Why, I do believe you're that new Imperial rider - what the hell are you doing on that BSA?" I only then realised it was my first morning with my new bike, and it was this that had caused all the hoo-ha. The sentry and his mates had been identifying me in the dark by the sound - hence the usual wave-on - but this morning they knew a strange bike was approaching. You can bet I stopped regardless after that.
Doing the job so regularly, I knew the road like the back of my hand. Even fog had no particular problems. One really bad foggy morning, with my headlight directed straight down onto the kerb, I was chugging slowly along when I overtook a long line of stationary army vehicles. I was stopped by a waving light at the head of the queue, wielded by a young officer. He explained that his despatch rider had broken down a mile or so back, and he had crawled along in just about nil visibility until he had lost himself and the convoy. Please could I tell him where he was, and was I going his way?
His way also proved to be my way, and his destination only just off the main road. In answer to his question I told him I would be happy to act as guide, so off we went. We arrived safely and he came up full of thanks, and could I find a home for 'this'. 'This' was a whacking great tin of bully beef, about a month's ration for me and the missus. Sitting in front of the fire that night 'pigging' it with a large plate of bully and fried spuds, I thought that indeed life had its compensations.
Quite the funniest thing that happened on my journeys was on a dark, wet, windy night when I got a puncture. I stopped and wondered what on earth I could do in the dark, when I saw a house across the road. I stumbled around and eventually found a door. In answer to my knock a lady appeared. I explained my predicament, and asked if there was a shed with a light where I could mend the puncture. She was extremely nice and took me to her garage, put the light on, made sure the blackout screens were in place and left me to it. I soon mended the puncture but alas, with the very first stroke of my pump, the connection burst. After a fruitless search for another pump I went back to the house to see if the lady could help again.
She said she was sure her husband, who turned out to be the village rector, had a car pump somewhere. She then explained that he was taking a midweek service in the adjoining church, and if I went there she was certain he would help. I groped my way down the dark, tree-lined path to the church and found the door. I unlatched it, gave a gentle push, but it wouldn't budge. I then gave it a hefty shove with shoulder, whereupon it flew open, hit the back of a pew with a resounding crash, and I half-staggered, half-fell into church. An old lady in the back pew took one terrified look at me clad in a wet and shiny stormguard coat, black waders, helmet and goggles, raised her hands to heaven and screamed "Help! Help! The Germans are here", and sank to her knees.
You can just imagine the commotion! There was the rector advancing down the aisle towards me with a wooden offertory box held on high. Whether he meant to clout me with it, or try and bribe me I shall never know. Profuse apologies followed from me. It then transpired that during the afternoon a German bomber crew had baled out of their crippled plane, and it wasn't yet known if they had all been apprehended. The local Civil Defence had been notified, hence the panic at my appearance. The rector decided enough was enough and closed the service. He then took me back to the Rectory where he not only produced a suitable pump, but a steaming hot cuppa as well, and I went on my way rejoicing.
One of the difficulties of keeping a motor bike on the road in wartime was the lack of spare parts. It was very much a case of make and mend. I often had to seek the help of more knowledgeable friends, and I soon found out who to approach in case of difficulty. For instance, a spring broke in the foot gear-mechanism on my bike. An intensive search round local dealers brought me no joy. So one of my pals, an engineer by trade, came over one Sunday to see if he could help. We had a good look round my farmer father-in-law's junkyard and found a throttle spring on an old tractor which looked promising. My friend de-tempered this, bent it into the right shape using a blowlamp, re-tempered it, fitted it, and it worked perfectly for years afterwards.
The boot was on the other foot when late one dark night I answered a knock on my door to find a young chap with a motor bike. He explained that he had broken down in the town and someone had directed him to me, explaining that I knew a bit about motor bikes. We heaved his machine into my workshed and I found that the key which held the clutch to its shaft had sheared off. A hunt through my junk box unearthed an old tyre lever about the right thickness. Half an hour with hacksaw and file produced a near enough replica of the broken key. I fitted this, and he was soon on his way, full of thanks. I suppose it was the fact that we were at war which made everyone ready and willing to help when help was needed.
There was an ominous click as he levered a round into the breech. "Your pass, mate, and be quick about it." As I slowly pulled myself up he stared at me and said "Why, I do believe you're that new Imperial rider - what the hell are you doing on that BSA?" I only then realised it was my first morning with my new bike, and it was this that had caused all the hoo-ha. The sentry and his mates had been identifying me in the dark by the sound - hence the usual wave-on - but this morning they knew a strange bike was approaching. You can bet I stopped regardless after that.
Doing the job so regularly, I knew the road like the back of my hand. Even fog had no particular problems. One really bad foggy morning, with my headlight directed straight down onto the kerb, I was chugging slowly along when I overtook a long line of stationary army vehicles. I was stopped by a waving light at the head of the queue, wielded by a young officer. He explained that his despatch rider had broken down a mile or so back, and he had crawled along in just about nil visibility until he had lost himself and the convoy. Please could I tell him where he was, and was I going his way?
His way also proved to be my way, and his destination only just off the main road. In answer to his question I told him I would be happy to act as guide, so off we went. We arrived safely and he came up full of thanks, and could I find a home for 'this'. 'This' was a whacking great tin of bully beef, about a month's ration for me and the missus. Sitting in front of the fire that night 'pigging' it with a large plate of bully and fried spuds, I thought that indeed life had its compensations.
Quite the funniest thing that happened on my journeys was on a dark, wet, windy night when I got a puncture. I stopped and wondered what on earth I could do in the dark, when I saw a house across the road. I stumbled around and eventually found a door. In answer to my knock a lady appeared. I explained my predicament, and asked if there was a shed with a light where I could mend the puncture. She was extremely nice and took me to her garage, put the light on, made sure the blackout screens were in place and left me to it. I soon mended the puncture but alas, with the very first stroke of my pump, the connection burst. After a fruitless search for another pump I went back to the house to see if the lady could help again.
She said she was sure her husband, who turned out to be the village rector, had a car pump somewhere. She then explained that he was taking a midweek service in the adjoining church, and if I went there she was certain he would help. I groped my way down the dark, tree-lined path to the church and found the door. I unlatched it, gave a gentle push, but it wouldn't budge. I then gave it a hefty shove with shoulder, whereupon it flew open, hit the back of a pew with a resounding crash, and I half-staggered, half-fell into church. An old lady in the back pew took one terrified look at me clad in a wet and shiny stormguard coat, black waders, helmet and goggles, raised her hands to heaven and screamed "Help! Help! The Germans are here", and sank to her knees.
You can just imagine the commotion! There was the rector advancing down the aisle towards me with a wooden offertory box held on high. Whether he meant to clout me with it, or try and bribe me I shall never know. Profuse apologies followed from me. It then transpired that during the afternoon a German bomber crew had baled out of their crippled plane, and it wasn't yet known if they had all been apprehended. The local Civil Defence had been notified, hence the panic at my appearance. The rector decided enough was enough and closed the service. He then took me back to the Rectory where he not only produced a suitable pump, but a steaming hot cuppa as well, and I went on my way rejoicing.
One of the difficulties of keeping a motor bike on the road in wartime was the lack of spare parts. It was very much a case of make and mend. I often had to seek the help of more knowledgeable friends, and I soon found out who to approach in case of difficulty. For instance, a spring broke in the foot gear-mechanism on my bike. An intensive search round local dealers brought me no joy. So one of my pals, an engineer by trade, came over one Sunday to see if he could help. We had a good look round my farmer father-in-law's junkyard and found a throttle spring on an old tractor which looked promising. My friend de-tempered this, bent it into the right shape using a blowlamp, re-tempered it, fitted it, and it worked perfectly for years afterwards.
The boot was on the other foot when late one dark night I answered a knock on my door to find a young chap with a motor bike. He explained that he had broken down in the town and someone had directed him to me, explaining that I knew a bit about motor bikes. We heaved his machine into my workshed and I found that the key which held the clutch to its shaft had sheared off. A hunt through my junk box unearthed an old tyre lever about the right thickness. Half an hour with hacksaw and file produced a near enough replica of the broken key. I fitted this, and he was soon on his way, full of thanks. I suppose it was the fact that we were at war which made everyone ready and willing to help when help was needed.
posted by curlybonce | 2:25 pm
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