You must have seen him, propping up the bar and nonchalantly discussing that Z1 he bought for fifty quid in a tea-chest in an autojumble, rebuilt in the kitchen and sold to a solicitor as a Sunday toy for two grand. He is the Restoration Man of biking folklore. He rarely puts a foot wrong. Never buys FT500s or GS850s or loses his shirt. He buys, restores and flogs on with nerves of steel, plenty of connections, knowledge of the market, works well with spanners and has absolutely no qualms about selling to the reborn. This is the story of one such man - the Wannabe A Resto Man.
Like many of my good ideas this one was born of bragging, beer and an overwhelming desire for sexual gratification. The sex object in question was intellectual, artistic, possessed of great reserves of cool and possibly the most desirable woman on the planet. The exchange of information went something like this:
'Is that big, ugly bike yours,' the vision asked, indicating a trusty former cop BMW complete with fairy liquid handguards and a dicky sidestand.
'Why yes,' I stuttered, trying desperately to wrench my gaze from those pert nipples.
Yes, she liked big bikes, but only Jap ones - they really know how to design a complete machine, she said. Hastily I invented a mythical background as a special's builder. Trawling up everything from Nortons to chopped Yams ridden by midgets with an attitude. It failed. Her dad used to build Bantam racers, so her frame knowledge was to the left of Harris and a good way in front of Triumph.
I admitted defeat gracefully. At which point she picked me up off the floor and said the immortal lines: 'I want to learn to ride. Will you sort something out for me?'
A miracle. My libido was saved. Like Yossa, I could do that! I could be her Resto Man.
The next few months were spent dragging my Doc Martins round a depressing selection of 100s and 125s, of such a dog-like nature that despair set in at the bikes available for £300. After two weeks I called the Samaritans, they were unable to help but reminded me of the need to use personal karma when faced with the possibility of being denied true sexual gratification - I needed help.
I girded my loins, ate humble pie and sought out The Resto Man. He was as slippery as an MP in a massage parlour. However, we met and I told him my problems. He advised Pretty Peaches, a cold shower, rubber underpants and a GP100. The Resto Man, who has a most unusual job that I can't reveal (almost illegal and involving motorcycles, alcohol, cameras and voluptuous women), had given me the address of a dead cert. A real gem - a corker. It was at the back of the inevitable shed, covered with the necessary rags and rust. The GP100 had a logbook, no panels, was shagged and needed a full restoration. £50 changed hands and the nightmare began.
I dragged the rusty hulk (well, not quite a hulk more of a mountain bike with a motor) back to the amazingly well equipped garage of the Man. He gave me several cardboard boxes, plastic sacks and a shopping list that included paraffin, detergent, rubber gloves and a porn mag (hence the rubber gloves). With my mind entirely focused upon the nipples of the pert one, I set to work with a vengeance, ripping the little bike apart, bunging everything into the boxes and bags supplied. At this stage it's a most therapeutic exercise - the panic sets in later, as will be revealed. Eventually, I got down to the basic components of frame, suspension, engine block, etc.
The enormity of the task that lay ahead of me began to dawn. I, a mechanical cretin who could not even count the range of colours in a wiring loom let alone figure out what they actually did, suffered terminal loss of bladder control. The GP100 is a simple bike, possibly designed for simple people; there is however a good deal of difference in changing the tyres or putting the oil in to a total restoration job.
I sought out the Man again. He was tinkering with a Suzuki GT750 that looked like it had a central heating boiler mounted in front of the motor. Apparently, it was a two stroke triple - you learn a little every day. I was smacked sharply about the lips and told to make a list of everything that needed replacing, repairing or just cleaning. I did. The replacement list was very long, the repair list quite short and everything else was on the cleaning list. In essence, the right little corker I'd bought needed a frame, engine, tyres, most of the electrics, seat, sidepanels and a few other cosmetics.
I pondered the iniquities of life, flogged a particularly attractive gold filling and set about the first of many trips to that valhallah of biking - the breakers. The results were another story. Suffice to say, I covered most of West Yorkshire, met many happy people only too pleased to help and got everything I asked for - like wrong bits, violence, derision and completely false information. A further £120 changed hands, from mine to theirs.
The frame was shot-blasted and painted a rather fetching Dulux red. All the grubby bits zinc coated - only £3 by a guy in the back streets of Halifax, and everything else cleaned and polished. It looked like a little red fire engine - I felt rather like its father, which is really rather odd.
The Man advised an MOT from a deaf but greedy vampire that Arthur Daley would've crossed the street to avoid. It cost me the usual fee plus a new throttle cable, rear lens and a winker unit. Apparently, it was flashing too fast, unheard of on a bike with a tiny battery. Never mind, it was done - I could cruise back to base secure in the knowledge that the Little Red One was now road legal. Well, sort of.
I waved a cheery farewell to Dracula and set off back to see the Man about the next stage. Curiously, the bike seemed not to rev very well. In fact, it felt like it would like a quiet lay down with a good book. Man applies obvious lessons he has learnt to date - stop bike, take off helmet and panic. No obvious problems, therefore it can only be a really serious one.
Halifax, apart from its connection with World War Two bombers, has some jolly steep hills. I know because I had to push the bike for a mile looking for a telephone box. In desperation, and looking a total prick in full leathers pushing a bike that Mr Blobby would be proud to ride, I rang the Man. Sadly, he was out but Deadeye Dick, his elusive brother on holiday (as in AWOL) from the army offered to tow me back. I sat next to the dead bike, replaying the conversation I had just had in my mind and pausing each time at the way DD had sniggered at my tale.
Realisation dawned when Deadeye appeared like Mr Turpin on Black Bess or rather his GS thou on the brow of the hill.....he was going to tow me with his bike. I gibbered and protested but DD said it was illegal to tow a bike with a car but not with a bike. Exhaustion had set in. I was defeated by his eloquence and his criminal record for armed assault.
Sit on a rocking horse, tie its neck to a bit of string and fasten it to the back of a GS1000 ridden by an army trained despatch rider. Corners flash by. Cars were overtaken by two bikes trying to mate at high speed. Children stop throwing stones and scream as the Bol D'Or took place in their street. There wasn't time for nausea or panic, only to wonder how long I'd stay on. Will She love a man whose balls are permanently welded to her petrol tank? We stopped eventually. I nonchalantly thanked the grinning squaddie and then threw up behind a hedge.
The bike needed a new oil pump. Luckily, I had got off in time to save the major components from grinding themselves into porridge. A spare pump was procured, fitted and tested up various hills. It kept going and so did I. After several months of promises the immaculate little red one was delivered on the birthday of the owner of the pert nipples, who was more than a little impressed as I lied about the ease and cheapness of restoration. It had cost me just less than £300, complete with tax, ticket and insurance. Everything on it, from frame to footpegs had been cleaned, repaired and painted - it looked brilliant. I rode it to the Part One site where she learnt the whole course in one day and passed without any problems, ready for a few months practice before Part Two.
Aside from a loose chainguard that I forgot to tighten, the bike has run brilliantly for the last six months - or so I understand - due to a simple misunderstanding as to whose knickers were in my Krausers, I am now sadder, poorer and certainly no wiser.
A.D.