Army Barmy

It all started sometime in 1987 when, whilst serving in the army in Germany, my OC (read boss) decided he could better utilise me during exercises if I was a despatch rider. It would involve a two week course at a nearby transport regiment during which I would complete the two part tests in a week, followed by a week’s introduction to despatch riding. It all sounded like good fun to me and at least it would be a break from the drudgery of barrack routine. The only slight problem was that I'd never so much as straddled a bike in my life.

Come the first week of a freezing January I found myself assembled on the aforementioned regimental square with another eleven students, each with standard issue Armstrong 500 machines, all looking remarkably similar. Being the army, we had special dispensation from the DVLC to take the test on the standard 500cc bikes rather than the more usual 125/12hp route that civilians were restricted to.

Snow lay all around us. However, this held no fear since I was clad in several layers of thermal vest/shirt/NATO jumper/DPM camouflage jacket/waxed cotton oversuit. I expect I looked not dissimilar to Michelin Man meets Sea Empress oil slick. Despite all of us looking the same, I felt as out of place as Michael Jackson at a Jarvis Cocker appreciation get together. Clearly, the other students were somewhat experienced, whereas I barely knew one end of the bike from the other.

By 9 o'clock (sorry, 0900 hours) the other students had warmed their bikes up and were eagerly awaiting the instructor. I, on the other hand, didn’t know how to start the bike and merely gazed perplexed at the multitude of knobs, switches, levers and other gubbins that appeared to have been placed on the bike somewhat haphazardly.

The instructor arrived, a cheerful cockney corporal, who quickly singled me out as being the course doom-brain. He told the other students to ride around for a bit whilst he gave me the quickest ever familiarisation dialogue on the Armstrong (this is the front, this is the back, these are the brakes, this is the choke...). He took me through the starting procedure, which I can only describe as being a tad complicated. He then told me to get it started and meet him on the far side of the square, preferably riding the thing over there. He then left me to contemplate what on earth I had let myself in for, as he went away to reassemble the other students.

I spent the next fifteen minutes or so trying to start the thing. This I seem to recall involved switching on the ignition (no problem, that), ensuring I got the green neutral light, doing something with the choke, then caressing the kickstart, which is on the left of the machine, as far as I can remember, until the piston was visibly at the top of its stroke through a tiny oil covered window. It was then necessary to give an almighty boot whilst simultaneously twisting the throttle and pulling in the decompression widget.

I was sure jumbo jet captains would be familiar with similar procedures. It was during this experience that I discovered that bikes have their own personality. This particular one appeared to be from the Margaret Thatcher school of motorcycling - stubborn, and didn’t suffer fools gladly. Indeed, my pathetic efforts were rewarded by the mother of all kickbacks. A broken leg only avoided by my post-Falklands high-leg combat boots.

I was deteriorating quickly. Sweat was pouring off me. The corporal, meantime, had assembled all the other students in a line (sorry, rank) ahead of me and to my right. The corporal was telling them how to strip down the engine in five minutes in a chemically contaminated hostile environment using a self-loading rifle combination tool, or something.

Noticing my plight, he called out to me to try switching on the fuel. A conversation followed regarding where this might be. Sure enough, there by the carb was a tap switched to off. Reversing this, another couple of kicks and the Armstrong burst into life. Relief! Looking towards the other students they were clearly finding the spectacle entertaining, but the best was yet to come.

Taking the bike off its stand, tricky in itself, I straddled the beast and found myself the centre of attention. They weren't disappointed. “Get over here,” I heard the corporal yell over the top of the engine noise. In my distressed and dishevelled state I began to recall the all too brief instructions given me some 20 minutes before. I dialled in the revs (about 20000), de-clutched and selected gear with an almighty clunk. On releasing the clutch I observed, as if from far away, with some alarm that although I was most certainly in motion I appeared to be taking off.

Looking to my right, I caught a glimpse of the other students neatly lined up as I completed my ride past review. They were delighted by the spectacle, though the corporal was clearly not impressed by my involuntary wheelie. Looking towards my front again I began to ponder my circumstances. Increasing.the revs didn’t help, nor did waggling the handlebars, all I could do was hang on. I was stuck in wheelie mode!

I then noticed, tilting my head to the right and looking beyond the front wheel, that I was heading towards a Nissen hut office. To be more precise, I was heading towards a window in this office. As the distance closed, events went into slow motion. I observed that behind the window sat a most po-faced, cosmetically challenged, German bring-back-Auschwitz secretary type. Her facial expression was famed as being set in stone - yet for one brief moment, as she caught sight of the out of control projectile/motorcycle heading towards her Messerschmitt typewriter, I clearly saw a look of absolute terror.

Just prior to impact, mercifully the bike struck a kerb sending it off to the left of the window. To use a modern computer term, I interfaced with the Nissen hut at a speed of about 30mph. The bike doing a complete about flip, right over the top of me, I was sent sprawling into the snow.

As I came to, badly bruised and very shocked, I noticed that the corporal had made his way over and sympathetically screamed, “What the fuck did I think I was doing?” He helped me up and between us we picked up the bike and began kicking bits back into their rightful place. Fortunately, unlike most Jap bikes they are designed to be squaddie proof and no permanent damage was done, despite my best efforts.
 
I was forced back on the bike straight away, to beat the fear that had now overwhelmed me and he spent several more minutes going over the controls once more. Eventually, I was able to move off, this time wobbly but controlled and make my way over to the other students, to receive rapturous applause. This was clearly going to be a fun course - for them.

As the morning progressed I began a steep learning curve. Soon I was able to start/stop/change gear/steer - sometimes all in the right sequence. By the afternoon we were doing such invaluable things as riding the machines as slowly as possible whilst standing on the saddle. Which, of course, has proved to be a most useful skill in the intervening years. After my initial experiences I developed the once bitten twice shy philosophy, and was by far the most cautious student on the course.

By day two we started the business with the cones. Inevitably this led to a few low speed spills, especially on the figure of eight. I can best compare the experience to learning to drive a Challenger tank. The Armstrongs were particularly cumbersome to manoeuvre and had very heavy handling. Despite all this, we all passed our Part One by lunchtime on day four. Then it was off out for our first experience on the road.

A memorable excursion around the locality. At about 3.30pm we found ourselves in the centre of Bunde and we pulled up in a convoy outside the local tech college. The students had just finished for the day, a large throng ready to cross the road in front of us. Being at the head of the convoy, I took the opportunity to do some posing - perhaps difficult when you look like a huge green blob of snot.

As I slowed down I hadn't realised the steep camber of the road, and being somewhat inside leg challenged on the rather tall Armstrong I lost it when I stopped. Realising there was no way I was going to stay upright, I merely hopped over to the right hoping the machine would tumble over on to the tarmac. Fine in theory, however my multi-buckled, waxed cotton trousers chose that exact moment to become inextricably linked to the rear brake pedal.

So over I went with the bike resting firmly on top of me. Since I was effectively in the seated position but horizontal I did contemplate just waiting there for a while to see if anyone had noticed this low speed, undramatic spill. However, this was not to be as I began to experience a burning sensation as the exhaust sought to interface with my thigh. Thankfully, several students saved the day by helping me and the bike uptight again. Once I'd pulled my leg out we were soon on our way once more, happier and wiser for the experience.

The remainder of the course passed by reasonably uneventfully. I passed the (pre-pursuit) Part Two test. The only mishap during week two was when my bike and I decided to emulate an unterwasserboot and came a cropper in a mud pool the size of Cheshire (helps if you deflate the tyres first).

As for the Armstrongs, they were tough, rugged beasts that withstood a tremendous amount of abuse and seemed just about soldier-proof; a testimony to their build quality. Unfortunately, I never got to ride one again since I was unexpectedly posted shortly after returning to my unit. However, I did begin a love affair with bikes that has lasted to this day.

Neil Tootell