When the dear parents, in their own inimitable way, told me, at the difficult age of 16, that my chances of reaching seventeen would be greatly enhanced by not riding a moped, I did what any awkward teenager would do- told them to 'ped' off. After a series of push-bikes, even passing a stubby leg over something uninspiring, unbelievably slow (to the point of distraction) but not, unfortunately, unrestricted, was going to contain an element of fun! I knew that from the times I hung off the back of a mate's RD50, at the tender age of 15.
My first venture into motorcycling saw me investing a small fortune- a £50 drinking voucher for the right to own a very poorly, scabby Yamaha RD50. A non-runner because of terminally ill big-ends and main bearings, down to, I deduced, oil starvation. Once I'd safely ensconced my new plaything into its new comfortable playpen (standing outside the back door), I worked with meaningful purpose to transform the Yamaha from a flaccid, impotent, lifeless creature into a powerful, uncompromising, throbbing monster.
It wasn't long before I'd acquired a complete engine from a local breaker for the costly sum of £20. The subsequent organ swap surgery was an unparalleled success even for an incompetent dead-head of a mechanic, like myself, and it was with a large bowl of relish and just a little pickle, that I rode the Yamaha for the first time. That was it by God, I really was one of boys, now...Sad bastard.
Including myself, there were five sad boys who formed the nucleus of the local ped gang, but this would swell into double figures, and on such occasions we must have assumed a somewhat dubious, slightly menacing appearance. Also, when the herd was in motion, a cacophonous, discordant racket could be heard for miles around. Such antisocial behaviour seemed necessary at the time and although we probably did upset and unnerve some of the locals, it was never with malice, more playful exuberance. Living in a reasonably isolated area of the Staffordshire Moorlands, there weren't too many people to annoy.
Throughout our tenure on the overgrown hairdryers it was an ongoing competition to discover who possessed the fastest (sorry, less slow) machine. By far the most popular brand of bike was the black Yamaha RD50, followed by the invariably green Kawasaki AR50, a couple of unbelievably slow (even by moped standards) Honda MB50's and a token FS1E. Without exception, the whole sorry bunch of lads were all totally ignorant as to the finer, more subtle, points of stroker tuning and the detrimental nature of such procedures if performed by unqualified, artless sixteen year olds.
Filing out any likely looking ports in the cylinder was the usual starting point, followed by some crude leverage on the reed stops and finishing off by tampering with the carb- great joy gained by simultaneously adjusting the air/mixture screw, needle height and main jet size. Quite often, the performance actually improved but we were never quite sure why.
Such improvements were often temporary. It was a long time (three holed pistons) before I personally realised the true significance of that seemingly unimportant air/mixture screw, but it just goes to show that even the thickest person can learn eventually. The barrel on my ped had been rebored to such an extent that it was literally toilet paper thin, caused its own problems from overheating and thus seizure. My whole, sorry, unreliable mess of a bike was finished off with an ubiquitous K and N filter and Micron exhaust.
Often, on Friday nights, after the usual perfunctory discussion on what our movements should be, we would invariably end up thrashing the peds down to the big city (well it was a small town, in reality, but it had a nightclub so it seemed like the big city to us) for some serious drinking. Ho, ho! Did we look cool, dressed as were in tight bleached jeans, white baseball boots and donkey jackets? I think not. Sad bastards. And the police had been given instructions to clamp down on piss-pilots. Due to more luck than judgement we escaped serious injury and punishment.
My own little Yamaha was not only used for pleasure but was employed as a workhorse for commuting. The eight mile trot took me to a pottery where I was employed as a kiln loader. I can vividly recall the morning, as I screamed towards work, the policeman who intimated that I should pull over and his subsequent shock at the general condition of my shabby mount. I could fully appreciate his disturbed disposition as it was in a bloody awful state of disrepair. After nothing more than a cursory glance over the bike (with me holding it- the stand had broken a long time ago) he recommended in no uncertain terms that I should either scrap it or remove it from the public highway to sort it pronto. And that was before he spotted the grips...
''Son, do you realised there are a pair of molegrips hanging off this bike?'' Said he, a little unsure of himself.
''Beg yer pardon, officer?'' I countered, feigning ignorance.
''Here,'' he said, pointing down at the gearchange shaft ''A bloody pair of molegrips...''
''Oh them, erm yeah...well, er, my gear lever is kind of worn out and well, it was all that I could think of at the time...only temporary, mind.''
''My god, I don't believe it- get that thing fixed.''
And that was that, off he ambled back to the police car, shaking his head slowly as I screamed off to work, shaking mine with a smile on my face. My god, indeed! Charitable coppers were a rare commodity. For a bike with a slick back tyre, no back brake, shot chain and sprockets, no kickstart, illegally noisy exhaust and general all round offensive, rat appearance, I considered myself a very lucky pumpkin.
But as we all know, one good copper isn't worth a bean; there was another local cop who was an unreserved and absolute twat. Age had not mellowed him, taking a delight in humiliating the people he came into contact with.
On one occasion, when he had the moped gang pulled over, and he had finished his familiar discourse on young, stupid riders (we were required to remove our lids whilst his lecture proceeded) he asked one of the lads to start his machine. He didn't have a kickstart so had to bum it; two strides later he was severely berated for not having a crash helmet on!
Anyway, the year of the moped passed with bucket loads of fun and many colourful experiences to reflect upon. It's still a period of my, and my friends, life that often forms the topic of our conversation when we get together. I say the year was a lot of laughs and up until one week before I became a seventeen year old, it was. At that time I had the opportunity to trade in my nail and £100, for a tidy GP100 from a friend who dabbled in the secondhand game...
I had asked myself the question what could possibly happen in the intervening week before I was legally entitled to use the Suzuki on the road? Quite a lot was the answer. Whilst riding like a fool to work, I inadvertently crashed into the side of a Ford Cortina, which was turning right off a main road and over a bridge. Although I was only brusied from the fall, my poor machine fared considerably worse. I was rather bemused when I returned to my feet, only to discover the bike had disappeared over a low wall, falling fifteen feet down the other side. It lay on the river bank below, a mangled, twisted wreck...
CAB