Reading Alex Wilson's thoroughly entertaining account of his relationship with his Kawasaki Z1 compelled me to forward my own motorcycling autobiography. The part I particularly related to was his commentary on U.K. driving licence regulations as they were years ago (late sixties/early seventies):
"It all started when I was just 17. Then, you could buy an old 250 for next to nothing, pass your test on it after a month, chuck it in the nearest canal and go buy the biggest, meanest chunk of high powered nastinesss you could persuade credulous parents to guarantee the finance on".
Though I aspired to owning a much bigger bike, I never actually got beyond a 250, my early motorcycling career being nipped in the bud... Back then, you could ride up to a 250 on a learner's licence at 16, and once you'd passed your test, then there was no limit on engine capacity.
Truth is, back then I was a complete knob as far as bikes were concerned, and should never have been allowed near them; if only my poor parents could have recognised that, they could have saved us all a lot of grief by doing everything they could to keep me away from them.
To be fair, my mum was dead against it, telling me that if I waited until I was 17 she would buy me a car - my dad, however, was a one-time motorcyclist himself, so it wasn't hard to lobby his support. So - a few weeks before my 16th, I pretty much bought the first thing I saw which I could afford with my fifty quid Building Society savings - a clapped-out Ariel Arrow, which I spruced up with a brush paint job in readiness for the big day.
Like I say, the Arrow was pretty sad when I got it, but my ownership did nothing to enhance its condition, and after only a few months, the breakdowns etc. prompted my dad to suggest I get a new bike on finance - by this time I was working as an apprentice, so I could afford the payments, and my dad was willing to be guarantor.
On a learner's licence, the thing to be seen on back then was either a Suzuki Hustler or the latest iteration of Yam's 250, the DS7. I chose the Yam - who needed six gears, anyhow? - it was the early one, with the gold and white tank, and I was on top of the world when I picked it up from the dealer, leaving them with my traded-in Arrow. Though I was in love with my new bike, our relationship was doomed...
To this day, I have no idea why, on an evening ride with my girlfriend on the pillion and riding sensibly, I dropped the thing on a gentle bend in dry conditions, and when I got up from the tarmac and looked for my bike, saw that it had bowled into an old lady who had been walking on the footpath.
She survived - after a touch and go period in intensive care - though I heard tell that ever after she had trouble with the leg which was broken. Of course, my main concern was getting back on the road, followed by the impact upon my driving licence and wallet - convicted and fined for driving without due care and attention, no L-plates, and carrying an unqualified passenger.
The bike was off the road for months - awaiting parts from Japan - and I was reduced to the status of "bus-stop greaser" - the guy at the bus stop, carrying a helmet, hoping that when he gets to the cafe hang-out, somebody will give him a ride... When I eventually got the bike back, it was only a matter of weeks before I dropped it again - this time a no-brainer - wet, greasy corner, Japanese tyres etc... damage to the bike was bent 'bars, smashed headlight and speedo glass, sustained through being stuffed under the side of a parked Triumph Herald.
My mates helped me fix the bike up, and my older brother, who was a mechanic, pulled in a favour from a mate who fixed up the Herald. Not long after this episode I took my test, and somehow must have taken a day off from being a knob, because I passed. It would have been maximum seven weeks later, that, again on an evening ride, a girlfriend on the back, taking a gentle left-hander, I was confronted by a Moggie Minor - to this day, I maintain that it was over the white line, though I'd have to admit that if I'd been tucked in closer to the left I would probably never have come to grief...
My avoiding action resulted in the bike sliding under the front of the car; my pillion escaped injury, but I copped it - fractured vertebra which left me lying in the road, unable to feel or move my legs - "oh, shit....", I remember thinking. Well, it could have turned out a lot worse - I didn't end up in a wheelchair, and made a fairly full recovery, though my leg muscles were never the same, so any aspirations towards Olympic athletics (joke) were out of the window.
I never rode the bike again - in fact I think I might have only briefly glimpsed it in the alleyway at home before the dealer, who settled the finance, came and took it away. Moreover, for the next 21 years I suffered from some kind of psychological damage - feelings of guilt about bikes generally, probably from the unspoken vibes from my mum that if I'd listened to her and not got involved with bikes, it would never have happened etc....
So, for those 21 years, apart from sneaking rides on mates' bikes along the way, which would give me this sick, guilty feeling in my stomach, I had nothing to do with them.
There is, I am pleased to say, a happy ending to my tale. I came to New Zealand in '85 and about eight years later was making a comfortable living from a business which I part-owned. My wife showed me an article in the newspaper about the growing popularity of Harleys among middle-aged people, mostly former motorcyclists returning to riding.
She suggested that I should buy one - "yeah, right..." was my reply. A few days later, we found ourselves in the local dealer's where they put me on a Sportster and sent me off for a ride. Well, I was hooked - and a few weeks later, took delivery of a new 883 Hugger - the Sportster with shorter fork legs, giving it a lower saddle height for women, short men, and generally nervous riders like myself.
The Hoglet was fun, but we decided we would like to tour the South Island of NZ and figured the bike wouldn't be ideal for such a trip. The new BMW Boxer had just appeared on the market, and I ended up buying one of those and selling the Harley.
The trip was excellent, though my wife was always a nervous pillion and though we had a couple of subsequent short trips away, she lost her bottle for it, so it didn't get much use for the next couple of years.
We subsequently separated and divorced (nothing to do with the bike!); I kept my bike, but ran out of cash, and figured I'd sell it, rather than it sit there idle. For two years, I've been without a bike; I have a new wife who is encouraging me to buy one again, though this time I'm definitely not in the market for a brand-new machine.
I saw an ad. in the local Trade & Exchange for a '72 Z1 that has been restored - hence my interest in Alex Wilson's tale. Whether it's a bike I'd buy - who knows? What I can say quite confidently, is that where bikes are concerned I am no longer a knob. I ride very sensibly , taking defensive driving to the max and did a safe riding course with the local motorcycle club. Most young motorcyclists would laugh at me, but these days I don't care - unlike when I was 16, I don't feel I have anything to prove. The feelings of guilt still vaguely remain... I wonder if anybody else has had a similar experience?
Dave Hopkinson
"It all started when I was just 17. Then, you could buy an old 250 for next to nothing, pass your test on it after a month, chuck it in the nearest canal and go buy the biggest, meanest chunk of high powered nastinesss you could persuade credulous parents to guarantee the finance on".
Though I aspired to owning a much bigger bike, I never actually got beyond a 250, my early motorcycling career being nipped in the bud... Back then, you could ride up to a 250 on a learner's licence at 16, and once you'd passed your test, then there was no limit on engine capacity.
Truth is, back then I was a complete knob as far as bikes were concerned, and should never have been allowed near them; if only my poor parents could have recognised that, they could have saved us all a lot of grief by doing everything they could to keep me away from them.
To be fair, my mum was dead against it, telling me that if I waited until I was 17 she would buy me a car - my dad, however, was a one-time motorcyclist himself, so it wasn't hard to lobby his support. So - a few weeks before my 16th, I pretty much bought the first thing I saw which I could afford with my fifty quid Building Society savings - a clapped-out Ariel Arrow, which I spruced up with a brush paint job in readiness for the big day.
Like I say, the Arrow was pretty sad when I got it, but my ownership did nothing to enhance its condition, and after only a few months, the breakdowns etc. prompted my dad to suggest I get a new bike on finance - by this time I was working as an apprentice, so I could afford the payments, and my dad was willing to be guarantor.
On a learner's licence, the thing to be seen on back then was either a Suzuki Hustler or the latest iteration of Yam's 250, the DS7. I chose the Yam - who needed six gears, anyhow? - it was the early one, with the gold and white tank, and I was on top of the world when I picked it up from the dealer, leaving them with my traded-in Arrow. Though I was in love with my new bike, our relationship was doomed...
To this day, I have no idea why, on an evening ride with my girlfriend on the pillion and riding sensibly, I dropped the thing on a gentle bend in dry conditions, and when I got up from the tarmac and looked for my bike, saw that it had bowled into an old lady who had been walking on the footpath.
She survived - after a touch and go period in intensive care - though I heard tell that ever after she had trouble with the leg which was broken. Of course, my main concern was getting back on the road, followed by the impact upon my driving licence and wallet - convicted and fined for driving without due care and attention, no L-plates, and carrying an unqualified passenger.
The bike was off the road for months - awaiting parts from Japan - and I was reduced to the status of "bus-stop greaser" - the guy at the bus stop, carrying a helmet, hoping that when he gets to the cafe hang-out, somebody will give him a ride... When I eventually got the bike back, it was only a matter of weeks before I dropped it again - this time a no-brainer - wet, greasy corner, Japanese tyres etc... damage to the bike was bent 'bars, smashed headlight and speedo glass, sustained through being stuffed under the side of a parked Triumph Herald.
My mates helped me fix the bike up, and my older brother, who was a mechanic, pulled in a favour from a mate who fixed up the Herald. Not long after this episode I took my test, and somehow must have taken a day off from being a knob, because I passed. It would have been maximum seven weeks later, that, again on an evening ride, a girlfriend on the back, taking a gentle left-hander, I was confronted by a Moggie Minor - to this day, I maintain that it was over the white line, though I'd have to admit that if I'd been tucked in closer to the left I would probably never have come to grief...
My avoiding action resulted in the bike sliding under the front of the car; my pillion escaped injury, but I copped it - fractured vertebra which left me lying in the road, unable to feel or move my legs - "oh, shit....", I remember thinking. Well, it could have turned out a lot worse - I didn't end up in a wheelchair, and made a fairly full recovery, though my leg muscles were never the same, so any aspirations towards Olympic athletics (joke) were out of the window.
I never rode the bike again - in fact I think I might have only briefly glimpsed it in the alleyway at home before the dealer, who settled the finance, came and took it away. Moreover, for the next 21 years I suffered from some kind of psychological damage - feelings of guilt about bikes generally, probably from the unspoken vibes from my mum that if I'd listened to her and not got involved with bikes, it would never have happened etc....
So, for those 21 years, apart from sneaking rides on mates' bikes along the way, which would give me this sick, guilty feeling in my stomach, I had nothing to do with them.
There is, I am pleased to say, a happy ending to my tale. I came to New Zealand in '85 and about eight years later was making a comfortable living from a business which I part-owned. My wife showed me an article in the newspaper about the growing popularity of Harleys among middle-aged people, mostly former motorcyclists returning to riding.
She suggested that I should buy one - "yeah, right..." was my reply. A few days later, we found ourselves in the local dealer's where they put me on a Sportster and sent me off for a ride. Well, I was hooked - and a few weeks later, took delivery of a new 883 Hugger - the Sportster with shorter fork legs, giving it a lower saddle height for women, short men, and generally nervous riders like myself.
The Hoglet was fun, but we decided we would like to tour the South Island of NZ and figured the bike wouldn't be ideal for such a trip. The new BMW Boxer had just appeared on the market, and I ended up buying one of those and selling the Harley.
The trip was excellent, though my wife was always a nervous pillion and though we had a couple of subsequent short trips away, she lost her bottle for it, so it didn't get much use for the next couple of years.
We subsequently separated and divorced (nothing to do with the bike!); I kept my bike, but ran out of cash, and figured I'd sell it, rather than it sit there idle. For two years, I've been without a bike; I have a new wife who is encouraging me to buy one again, though this time I'm definitely not in the market for a brand-new machine.
I saw an ad. in the local Trade & Exchange for a '72 Z1 that has been restored - hence my interest in Alex Wilson's tale. Whether it's a bike I'd buy - who knows? What I can say quite confidently, is that where bikes are concerned I am no longer a knob. I ride very sensibly , taking defensive driving to the max and did a safe riding course with the local motorcycle club. Most young motorcyclists would laugh at me, but these days I don't care - unlike when I was 16, I don't feel I have anything to prove. The feelings of guilt still vaguely remain... I wonder if anybody else has had a similar experience?
Dave Hopkinson