Mostly Motor Bikes

I now toyed with the idea of getting a motor bike of my own. I could still borrow the old Triumph, but as Charley could drive he was pretty well always using it himself, especially at weekends which didn't help me, as there was usually some girl or other I wanted to take out. Money was the problem of course. With this idea in mind, I cast around trying to make an extra pound or two, and eventually did so by doing the rather unusual job of painting up gravestones and re-lettering them in my spare time. It soon got around that I did this work, and it came along pretty regularly. The thought of a motor bike kept me going even when I was working away in the quiet churchyards on pleasant summer evenings, just about eaten alive by midges, while my pals were out enjoying themselves with the girls. However I stuck to it, and eventually saw an old two‑speed BSA up for sale at ten pounds. It was just about clapped out, and I really should have waited a bit until I could have got a better one, but the money was there burning a hole in my pocket, so I got it. It was always going wrong, but I got as much fun working on it to keep it going as I did from riding it. I was learning all the time. Every trouble overcome was another lesson learnt. In any case, there was no money for garage bills; it was either do it yourself, or no motor bike.

Shortly after this things financial began to look up, for Charley accepted me as a full‑blown tradesman and paid me the then tradesman's wage of two pounds eight shillings a week. So thoughts of a new motor bike grew as my savings accumulated. By this time eight of us village boys had motor bikes of various shapes and sizes, from an overhead camshaft Norton to my little BSA. One way or another, we must have been absolute pests to the villagers. Every evening we met at the quoit ground, had a game and then had races, tearing round the village in a cloud of dust and smoke. The noise must have been appalling as most of the bikes were minus baffle plates in the silencers, but no‑one seemed to bother much. Sometimes today, as I shudder when some of the lads go screaming by on their Hondas and Suzukis, I realise what a frightful lot we were all those years ago, with no thought for anyone except ourselves.

Meanwhile, I used to devour the 'Motor Cycle' magazine from cover to cover, gloating over the beautiful bikes now available and trying to decide which I would buy if I ever had enough cash. In those days it was usual for a lot of the motor cycle dealers to have a sort of sale each year about September, when the new year's models were due on the market. Anxious to unload the current year's models before the new stock came in, they would offer around ten pounds discount which was a lot when you consider the actual cost as being around forty pounds.

So the day arrived when I saw an advert from a Norwich firm offering brand new Nunelt two‑strokes for, believe it or not, twenty eight pounds. On Saturday I was off. I only got as far as Loddon when the poor old BSA broke down again, this time with a broken chain. I managed to repair this with the aid of some spare links I carried, but by the time I had finished my hands were filthy with oil and grime. Reaching Norwich, I stopped at the first public toilet, and with petrol from the tank and a good wash, got most of the mess off; then on to Wilmotts in Prince of Wales Road. After inspecting the new bikes I decided to have the Dunelt. There was no compulsory insurance in those days, and the formalities of getting a licence were soon completed. The tank was filled, and I was ready to go. The old BSA was left at Norwich for me to collect later with the aid of a pal.
Believe me, it was a marvellous feeling to be astride my first new bike, all spic and span in red and cream and twin nickel‑plated exhausts. It had acetylene lighting, as electric lighting was not yet very common. So I burbled home, happy as a sand boy. Sunday morning I was up at the corner in good time showing off to the rest of the boys.

Now that I had a reliable machine I waited for the opportunity of a good long ride. This wasn't long in coming, as my youngest sister was married and living down at Church Cobham in Surrey. After a letter or two, and arranging with Charley to have a week off I was ready. I had an AA route and really needed it, for I had never been more than about thirty miles from home before. I expect Mother had plenty of misgivings as she saw me off, for even in those early days motor cycle accidents were fairly common. But I had no qualms except for finding the way, as I had plenty of riding experience behind me.

Once I had settled on a system of stopping at intervals and memorising the next bit of route, I was all right. That was the only trouble with riding solo; there was no way of checking on the route unless you stopped. I felt something like Christopher Columbus when I crossed the Thames at Kew Bridge, with a hundred miles or so behind me. I found Cobham all right and the street where my sister lived. Then misfortune struck. I was burbling along, looking for her house number when I hit a brick some twerp had left on the road. There was an almighty bang, and my front tyre split halfway around. I pushed the bike the last hundred yards, thankful that I was almost at journey's end.

My worry was now what to do for spending money as the two pounds I had would just about buy a new tyre. But all's well that ends well, as my sister lent me a couple of quid until I got back home, so I had a good holiday after all. I spent a lot of time playing tennis at the big house where my brother‑in‑law was gardener. It was a beautiful house in delightful surroundings, with a full complement of staff, including a butler. I thought about all this luxury a few years after, when the owner lost every penny he possessed in the famous ‑ or rather infamous ‑ Hatry swindle. The house was sold, all the staff were sacked, and eventually my sister moved back to Norfolk.

Before that happened I did the journey several times. On one occasion a footballing friend of mine came down with me. The journey was a real stinker. It was pouring with rain when we left Cobham, and the foul weather kept with us all the way to Bury St Edmunds where the sun broke through. We were well and truly soaked from our heads to our heels. We didn't think much of the idea of arriving home like a couple of drowned rats, so we stopped at some public toilets, took our haversacks with us, and changed into the only dry clothes we had which happened to be our pyjamas. We packed up our soaking underwear and trousers and finished the journey looking something like a couple of minstrels, with just our coats over our nightwear.

The last time I went down I took Baden, my brother‑in‑law who had been on holiday with us, on the pillion, leaving my sister to come back the next day by coach. Baden was a merry soul and enjoyed the trip. When we arrived at the empty house, there was no food so Baden went out a got a couple of pairs of kippers, the only food he could get. Then he cut a bowl of old potatoes, and we feasted royally on kippers and chips, a mixture I had never heard of before. Believe me, to two starving mortals it was delicious!

After my first holiday I had a pleasant surprise awaiting me. I had given up all hope of selling the old BSA, but wonders never cease, as during my absence a chap had called to see if it was still on the market. He had an identical machine and wanted to cannibalise the two to make one good one. He gave me four pounds, so I sent my sister the money I owed her, and had a couple of pounds left over which was welcome enough.

So things ticked over pleasantly enough, and by this time the old Triumph had 'had it', and Charley decided to invest in a new machine. As the Dunelt was also past its best we decided to go to Cambridge where one of the big agents had over‑year models going cheaply. We took the sidecar off, and both rode down solo. Charley had made up his mind to get a new Triumph, but I had an open mind. As soon as I saw the 350 OHV Cotton, I was hooked. It was a real eye‑catcher, with its huge chrome tank and twin upswept exhausts. I was thinking more about the looks than anything else, and of the sensation I should cause when the 'boys' saw it. The firm took our old machines in part‑exchange, and we were soon on our way back. I turned my back on the old Dunelt without a qualm, forgetful of the thousands of happy miles we had travelled together. It turned out to be a happy choice for me, as my wife admits it was the smart bike that attracted her rather than, as I happily imagined, my own sex appeal!

We ate, drank, and dreamed motor bikes, and every Saturday afternoon we would be off to a grass track meeting somewhere or other. There were always eight or nine of us, all anxious to see how the local entries fared. One of my friends, whose father kept a small coach hire business, got bitten badly by the racing bug. He scraped together all the cash he could find and bought a new grass track Douglas, a beautiful machine. It's easy to be wise after the event but Ambro, as we called him, should have had some practice on his new machine first but he couldn't wait.

He entered in the next meeting at Oulton Broad, and we all went along with high hopes of seeing him win. It had been raining and the track was bumpy and slippery. The Douglas was works‑tuned and very fast, but Ambro took it easy for a couple of laps. He then found himself last, decided he must do something about it and opened out. He screamed down the straight, passing other riders as if they were standing still. Alas, at the next bend he hit a bad bump, promptly parted company with the Douglas which hurtled off the track and wrapped itself round a tree, looking more like a hairpin than a motor bike. It was a complete write‑off, and that was Ambro's first and last effort at racing.

As far as accidents went, I had fallen off plenty of times in the winter on the icy roads but had never actually hit anything. That is, until one summer evening when I had been out playing quoits at Aldeby. I had a pal named Percy on the pillion, and we were on our way home. The road at this point was very narrow, with a high bank one side and a thick hedge on the other. Suddenly a rabbit jumped off the bank on to the road, followed closely by a whacking great black Labrador. He hit the road right under my front wheel with disastrous results. I got up, first to my knees and then to my feet, gingerly trying to find out if I had broken anything. The bike lay on the road with the dog beside it, to all appearances as dead as a doornail. Then I suddenly thought "Where the devil is Percy?"

The sound of frightful swearing led me to the hedge. I could only see his boots, the rest of him being embedded in the brambles. I hauled him out, scratched and bleeding but otherwise still in one piece. Then he saw the dog lying there and before I could stop him, he planted a hefty kick in the animal's ribs and shouted "Take that, you bloody old sod!" To our amazement the dog yelped, did a sort of Harrier‑like vertical take‑off, hit the road and amidst a shower of stones and gravel disappeared in the distance at an incredible speed.

As his yowls died in the distance, we hauled the bike upright. The forks were bent, and the front wheel buckled but we managed to make our slow, painful way home. The next evening I was off up to Ambro's, and after several hours patient work with a blowlamp and hammer got the forks into shape. We then rebuilt the wheel, and with a lick of paint it was as good as new. If it hadn't been for do‑it‑yourself engineering and Ambro's know‑how, half of us would never have been able to keep our bikes on the road. Mind you, the bikes of that era were relatively simple, not like the highly sophisticated machines of today. It was all good fun at that, with a lot of satisfaction in doing what looked like impossible jobs.