Ashton-u-Lyne had, for many years, been the place to push your bike to the limit, be it a 50cc Itom or a road going 500cc Manx Norton. Many arguments were settled on this one and a half mile, up hill, down hill straight. This is the story of one such that started in 1968 and ended 20 years later.
In any town, from '58 to '69, there was always one cafe which was a haven for rockers and anyone with a fringe association with bikers. The Cave was one such place situated on the main street of Ashton-u-Lyne. Its main plus points, as I recall, were a picture of Twinkle on the juke box and plenty of cheap espresso coffee.
One evening in late August '68 Geoff and myself had been out for our usual blast around town, usually a five mile stint. This was about our limit with clip-ons down on the bottom yoke and stock footrests. If your back didn't give in your wrists surely did. Geoff's bike was a pretty Tricati, 500cc Triumph motor in Ducati 250 Mk3 frame. Geoff was working in a local stove enamelling firm so everything we had became stoved, gloss or hammer finish. My BSA C15 had even acquired silver stoved wheel rims.
We pulled around the back of the Cave to see the bikes already there. The one that caught my eye, as it always did, was Phil's Rocket Gold Star leant against the wall - it was pure menace. High level pipes swept down each side into short Daytona megas that the local Plod had rattled his truncheon inside two nights previously, shouting something about baffles. A studded hump back seat completed the bad boy image.
Phil was only two years older than us, but he was light years ahead on style. He was a sort of cross between Billy Fury and Heinz (some of you will remember him), with dyed blond hair in a ducktail at the back. Standing over six feet the women loved him, and he surely loved them at least the once.
We entered The Cave to see Phil sat alone, turning a packet of Senior Service over and over on the yellow fablon covered table. Geoff sat down next to him while I ordered three coffees. As I carried them over to the table, the differences between Phil and Geoff were extremely obvious to the eye. Phil's chest filled his jacket as should a well worn leather, with Skyways and Ten Ten badges on the arm, a homemade Triumph tank badge belt holding up his jeans. Geoff's plastic imitation leather could have stood up on its own, and he sat there practically rigid - those jackets did nothing for free movement.
As I sat down Geoff and Phil's eyes were drawn above my head, and next I felt a hand running through the back of my hair. Turning around and spilling the coffees, I saw Janet and Freda. We'd met them two weeks earlier on Hyde fairground. I know that your memory fades and plays tricks on you after 20 years, but at the time these bleached blonds with thigh high skirts were the Barbarellas and Bridget Bardots of the moment.
These two girls were total speed freaks and the talk soon turned to fast bikes. My owning a C15 rather left me out of the conversation. Janet asked Phil if his RGS would beat Geoff's Tricati along Lees Road. Geoff's eyes lit up at the thought of racing Phil and exaggerated claims of 125mph from the Tricati flowed from his lips. Phil had been there before and he just let Geoff talk. After five minutes of utter bull, Phil got up and walked to the Cave door. Geoff was quickly silenced by his abrupt departure, but was gratified when Phil turned and stated, 'Nine o'clock Sunday morning, okay?'
The Cave echoed as Phil's BSA pulled round the front of the cafe, around the corner and accelerated away. After what seemed like an eternity we heard the bike change into second gear. Fitted with an RRT2 close ratio gear box - not that quick off the mark but good for 70mph in first. Geoff's face had turned as white as the sugar bowl at the thought of his David and Goliath act to come.
Sunday was a long time coming, made even longer by Geoff's constant tuning. But to his credit he got the bike running really sweet. Geoff was usually a total show off on his bike, but he never told a soul about this race.
We were both up at 7am on the Sunday as we had to pick the girls up from Hattersley. They had been designated their roles the previous evening. Janet was to start the bikes, I was to sit at the cross road junction to stop any traffic crossing the main road and Freda was to be at the finish. We arrived early at 8.45am. Conditions were perfect - dry, calm and probably the nearest we would ever get to the Bonneville Salt Flats.
20 minutes passed and then Phil appeared, roaring towards us, looking for all the world like someone had built the bike around him. The unmistakable smell of Castrol R hung in the air, I never found out if he mixed it in the tank or ran the engine on it. Traffic was light at that early hour, the odd car and little chance of any police interest.
My C15 fired into life at the second prod and Freda straddled the seat, pulling her red PVC mini-skirt even higher than usual. The mile and a half from start to finish seemed to take forever as my mind raced over what was to come. Freda was duly positioned at her allocated spot and I turned back for the midway position at the junction. Janet dropped her glove and the bikes were off.
Phil was on the inside of Geoff and lagging slightly behind due to the first gear. At about 100 yards from me the sound of the two British bikes was sheer music, both on full bore it could have been Hailwood and Agostini dicing at Oulton Park - the tension was intense. Just as Phil was about to take the Tricati, Geoff swerved into the kerb, although he still denies it to this day. The road then had a grass verge a yard wide, then a small pavement bordered by a drystone wall. Phil had nowhere to go but up on the grass.
Now, a BSA 650 with clip-ons is no machine for motocross. I could not see much as the dust from the dry grass rose like a rooster tail as the buckling machine powered on like a runaway train right down the grass. The rear of the bike was thrown out and then back again. Phil held the first swing but lost the fight on its return. The bike went down on to the road, hitting its right footrest which flipped the machine over again. It came to rest facing the wrong way laying in a pool of oil and petrol.
Geoff was first to get to Phil as I was running - when I got there Phil was up on his feet. His well worn leather had the elbow ripped out and his arm was badly grazed, but he was certainly in one piece if uncannily quiet. Geoff was denying swerving in, and both riders were in a state of shock. We went down to the fallen bike to check out the damage - the left clip-on had hit the lovely red and gold tank badge and carried on to dent the tank. The high level megas had flattened out and popped the cone out of the end. Apart from this, it had very little damage. Phil climbed on the machine and departed without any drama, the BSA disappearing from view but surprisingly going the other way from Phil's home.
We were just going to set off home when Geoff heard the sound of a bike in the distance, and a moment later Phil came over the brow flat on the tank, megas blaring as he passed by at well over the ton. He wasn't out to prove anything but I think he needed to resurrect his nerve after such a close, near fatal encounter.
We didn't see that much of Phil after the race - he stopped coming in The Cave and his bike stood forlorn all the following winter, leant on its clip-ons outside his terrace house.
Things changed as time rolled on - Fonda threw his watch to the ground and at that moment he signalled an end to the cafe racer. We all went from speed to style overnight. Extended teles were at a premium, central oil tanks and swinging arms went in the bin. Reality bit hard - moulded tanks cracked after a couple of miles and Whaley Bridge to Buxton over the Tops just wasn't LA.
Geoff and Phil never got into chops, but Geoff kept the Tricati in the back of his shop, gathering dust. Phil's RGS disappeared from the front of his house and was not seen or heard of again until 19 years later. Janet got married in 1971 and Freda just disappeared. Geoff and I kept in touch but slowly drifted apart until last winter when he phoned me out of the blue.
He was rebuilding the Tricati and wanted to know about having wheels rebuilt. My interest was aroused and I went to see the completed bike. No hammer finish this time, but a beautiful gloss black frame holding a blue-printed Daytona engine and sat on Roadrunners. Geoff allowed me to take the machine out for a spin, the handling was still superb but the performance seemed tame after my years on big Japs.
A few weeks later while out on Lees Road on my CBX I saw a BSA at the roadside with the rider crouched at its side. Curiosity and natural comradeship compelled me to turn around. I put my bike on its stand and walked over to the BSA rider. "Need any help?" I asked the rider, a tall guy about 40 with a receding hairline but vaguely familiar. "No, just changing the main jet, she's running weak," he said. I looked over the bike, a concours RGS but fitted with Taylor Dow top yoke and an alloy tank. I went to the rear and grinned, my mind flashed back 20 years. There it was, the small studded humpback seat.
"It's Phil, isn't it?" I said. The rider nodded still not recognising me. "I'd know that seat anywhere," I continued and he smiled and I knew that he remembered me. Phil had started a construction business in the mid sixties which had really taken off in a big way. He told me that he'd taken the BSA to his father's house where it had stayed until last year when his father died. He made the decision to have it professionally restored.
The guy who did the job sure knew his trade, no extra chrome or allen screws to be seen. Phil said that when he got the bike back he knew he could never be happy with the dual seat, so he rang the restorer to inquire of the old seat. Luckily, he had hung it on the wall like a trophy from times past and it was soon reunited with the bike, much to the restorer's disgust.
Our talk turned to bikes and times past - I told him Geoff had rebuilt the Tricati and then I caught a glint in his eye. I knew we were both thinking the same thought. "You want to go for it again," I said, and I knew the answer before he spoke. "Arrange it for Sunday, you know the time," Phil said. I rode straight to Geoff's, knowing the answer before I arrived. Geoff still had a wild streak that probably never will be tamed.
Things were different that Sunday - no Janet or Freda, both riders wearing helmets. I rode my CBX up to the junction to stop any traffic as before, 20 years ago. I flashed my headlight to start them off. Both machines grew larger - Phil was on the outside pulling strong as they passed me, then I noticed he had no helmet on, his hair blowing in the wind. At the finish Phil had a 100 yards on Geoff. He just carried on as Geoff came to a halt and that was the last we saw of him.
Barry V. Lesterd