Hey ho, here we go! The One wheel blues. A function of a pseudo trailie pose and great stonking torque from a 558cc thumper. An ideal make up for despatching in Central London? Too true. The Gilera even came with a rack just large enough to take a massive combined top box and panniers. A one piece unit I'd knocked up myself in GRP. The surface was rough enough to take the skin off pedestrians who bounced against it.
The panniers didn't work with the upswept exhaust, so the twin down-pipes were cut and rewelded and a Bonnie silencer attached where you'd expect it to be. What a beautiful racket. The engine goes dead at 8500rpm but for a big thumper that was killing time so no great loss. Gilera claim 53hp at 7500rpm, which judging by the way the 310lb bike shifts is about right.
I also lost the naff sidepanels, dumped the front guard and disc covers for a proper mudguard and fitted a mud-flap on to the back guard. Boring, I know, but the major advantage was a bike and rider who weren't covered in shit every time it threatened to rain. If I could have done it I would've protected the high quality O-ring chain with a full enclosure. London's poor weather, DR abuse and intense thumper power pulses ain't kind to chains.
The seat height was bollock threatening for this short arsed git so I got my mate, who knows about these things being into racing frames and stuff, to take three inches out of the suspension and stiffen them up a touch. Unlike the mechanically similar NordWest, with its upside-down forks, the RC has conventional front forks with gaiters, praise be to the Lord. Even the rear shock is protected by a full bit of flexible plastic between swinging arm and bottom of the mudguard.
That mod put both my feet on the ground, got the mass down nearer the tarmac and looked a lot more sensible for road use. My marital tackle felt a lot more secure, although the seat covering extends up towards the bars atop the tank cowl. The lowered centre of gravity gave faster steering and better stability, whilst the lowered rider aided aerodynamic efficiency out in the badlands, or the rest of the UK to you.
The tiny screen inspired an excess of laughter from fellow DR's desperate to find some fault with a machine that kept leaving them standing in town. The Gilera's a rare old bus now the company's stopped production and I was lucky enough to buy a brand new (put that cross and stake away, boy) example for a mere £3500 in 1994. I've seen restricted 125s that cost more.
Even with the reduced travel, the suspension was well up to coping with deep pot-holes and the odd bit of pavement hopping. There's one narrow, blocked off, side street in Soho where DR's take a perverted delight in roaring up on to the paving stones and going hell for leather for the exit. The whores who loiter there scream abuse and one poor clod had a bucket of water thrown over him. By the way he stank it was probably piss, or worse! There are much better areas of London for whores, but it's fun to play with the old hags in Soho.
London's a brilliant place for motorcycling. In fact, it's the only way to get around fast and with a degree of style. The last time I went down into the underground (on feet, of course) I emerged 40 minutes later a paranoid psychopath. The buses are a wash out given the heavy traffic jams. Bicycles are a quick way of ending up in hospital (I've knocked off two idiots who strayed out of the gutter into my path). Walking's an invitation to a mugging or even arrest if you dress the way I do. That leaves the good old motorcycle as the sole means of good times in London.
Getting paid for riding around the city all day's a great recreation for someone like myself born and bred in London. I know my way around blindfold having spent half my youth skipping off school to explore the great city on foot and bicycle. You have to get into the right frame of mind for outrageous speeding, looking on drops and collections as rest stops between the serious, frantic experience of enjoying yourself.
It never ceases to amaze me just what the cagers think they are doing. They sit like enraged children without even the wit to realise that a small car would aid their progress. Bloody great pieces of automobile sculpture clog up the roads, all these mindless jerks thinking they are going to get somewhere fast when what takes me five minutes takes the poor old chumps thirty minutes or even an hour.
All these cars make for quite a fine obstacle course. You have to look on the stalled or slow moving ironware as a challenge to your reflexes and the abilities of your motorcycle. The Gilera isn't quite perfect, overheating (despite the watercooling) causes the engine to conk out at tickover speeds. It can then take a couple of minutes to start on the electric boot.
Oh, the car drivers love it! They go berserk on their horns to try to get their half yard of foiled progress back. The odd maniac noses right up to the bike and tries to nudge us forward or out of the way. Hand on horn to negate the laws of physics. The first couple of times I felt a real plonker and waved an apology. Rather than placating them this sign of obvious weakness really got their blood up. Heads stuck out of windows screaming abuse. After a white I cottoned on, did a Happy Henry to them - brandishing the biggest tyre iron in town usually quietened them down. One time, after the engine fired, I smashed the bonnet of one particularly persistent Ford loaded salesman. Just scream and make like you've just been let out of a psychiatric ward. It works!
It's quite sad to see burnt out DR's who end up on bicycles or in, er, psychiatric wards. They take the job and the controller's screaming fits far too seriously. When the latter goes mad with my performance I just do a passable impersonation of the late Kenneth Williams, which given the confused sexuality of most controllers usually has them looking worried.
Lost parcels are another inescapable routine which has got me the sack from two DR companies and such a bollicking from another one that I resigned by giving the controller a smack in the mouth. I'm not exactly a socialist, but I can't take these advertising agencies and other parasites very seriously. The fact that the sexy receptionists looked at me as if I was nothing more than an earthworm, had nothing whatsoever to do with my disaffection. Honest. Can't they comprehend that DR's can't go hopping around London in a three piece suit.
Luckily, there's still plenty of action in the London clubs. It's a fast paced life, alright. A nice wedge of cash for shooting around London, come wet, cold or sun. A fantastic bike to ride, with a strong feeling of being totally in control of things. Different streets and challenges each and every day, a kind of warfare where a moment's loss of concentration could equal a pair of shot kneecaps or a body run down by some pathetic four wheel vehicle. Taxi drivers go out of their way for such kicks. All this and I'm only nineteen!
F.G.D.