Being six foot three inches tall, I was looking for a machine that matched my build - tall and athletic. I was 17, and my provisional licence had just come through the post. My parents had already made it quite clear that I was not allowed a bike under any circumstances, so I was left to my own devices.
A weekend of odd jobs, window cleaning and flogging some of my worldly goods generated around £60 in cash, and I ventured a very cautious visit to the infamous local breaker's yard to search the rows of old dogs for something cheap and serviceable, and to see how much more I might need to save.
Providence, however, was on my side, for there in a dark corner stood an old Honda C90. It was tatty but running, and had a few months’ tax and test left. The man in greasy overalls, clutching his can of Special Brew, said I could have it for sixty notes.
My then girlfriend's mum was summoned, did the honours with her cheque book before taking me to a friendly insurance broker where a monthly payment scheme was duly signed and sealed. By the evening I'd been equipped with an old helmet, was on the road at last. The only problem I could see ahead was breaking the news to my parents!
The little Honda lived at my girlfriend's house for some time. It was cleaned, fixed and serviced under the benevolent eye of my girlfriend's dad, a member of the old school before the Japanese invasion, when (so | am told) motorcycling was considered more of a gentleman's pastime than a mindless performance competition. I appreciated his stories of great biking moments and was kind of inspired by his responsible and mellow concept of defensive riding.
The Crunchy was nearly as old as I was but despite its new and demanding lifestyle it never failed to start with a few kicks. It came complete with indicators that flashed once about every 30 seconds, dimming the headlamp, and had a little hook on the white leg-shields where grandpa could hang his shopping bag.
The vibration from the criminally overworked motor became quite painful after a distance. The handling and braking, needless to say, could be quite dangerous, especially in the wet - as I was soon to discover. My first accident came one drizzly morning on my way into college. Just near the busy entrance was a tight hairpin. As I approached the fiendish corner I noticed a fellow student sitting on the kerb with a shamed look on his face, his Lambretta lying nearby in the just crashed position. He was watching my approach so I decided to go for a spectacular high speed fly past, incorporating my almost perfected centrestand touchdown manoeuvre before pulling up in front of the impressed masses.
The next thing I knew I was lying in the gutter, my bike having bounced up on to the pavement and smashed into someone's fence. An old Norfolk boy was leaning on his gate. He said, ‘I've been watching them come off since breakfast. There's oil all over the road.’ Cheers, I thought. We could only watch the next victim's final moments. An innocent cyclist was soon picking himself up off the slippery tarmac.
The Crunchy survived, of course, but in my quest for a larger and more befitting machine it was eventually sold. A modest sum secured a reasonable Honda CB100 - a real man's bike, as my girlfriend's dad put it. I had entered a new league, and will never forget the first time I got a heart-warming nod from one of the big boys who must have seen the headlight and mistaken me for something much bigger.
The bike test, in those days, was simply a case of riding around the block and performing some patronisingly simple manoeuvres for an examiner who looked on from a distant pavement. No sooner had I passed than I waved goodbye to the humiliation of L-plates and my girlfriend became a permanent fixture on the pillion. I was a happy man.
I immediately moved up to a twin cylinder Honda CD200 Benly with a full fairing, a splendid bike which served me faithfully, despite being one of the unfortunate objects of my adolescent frustrations. Although thrashed to the humble limits of its soggy handling, the bike still returned over 80mpg, and, like my previous Hondas, was annoyingly reliable - leaving me no room for tales of dramatic breakdowns and roadside bodges, nor indeed of heroic and death-defying feats to exaggerate to my mates down at the pub. It started first time every time, sounded and performed like a big Honda 90, which I suppose it was in some ways.
My girlfriend's garage soon became a hideout for a mate's 250 Superdream as he hadn't yet found the courage to inform his deranged mother of his new purchase and had failed his test about two days before his licence ran out. The deal was that he could keep the Superdream there safely as long as I could keep it warm for him, which I did for several months. The large size of the beast meant it suited me quite well, though the six speed gearbox seemed a lot of unnecessary hard work.
One afternoon after college I was pulling up at some temporary lights when I noticed a rather attractive girl from my class looking at me - and smiling - from the back seat of the car in front. Casually, I slipped the bike into neutral and leant back, arms folded. Whether the footpeg was a little wet, or whether my left foot was shaking from the cold, I don't know, but it slipped forward on to the gear lever, crunching the box violently into first. My instinct was to grab for the clutch but the bike lurched forward, stalling inches from the bumper of the car just as the lights went green. Humiliation!
One of the little foibles of the Superdream was that the front disc wouldn't release properly, required a gentle kick in order to free the wheel again! This was presumably caused by a corroded piston and I had meant to strip the caliper down but hadn't got around to it, tried whenever possible to avoid using the front brake.
One afternoon I had just managed to ease past a steaming lorry who hadn't wanted to be overtaken, when I rounded a bend to find a line of stationary traffic. I stopped in time but my relief soon turned to panic when I remembered the lorry I had just overtaken. In my haste to do the decent thing and move a little further up the line of cars, I forgot I had squeezed hard on the front brake lever. It had locked, and the engine stalled. My heart nearly stopped as the lorry's wheels locked and it crossed on to the wide verge, ending up several cars in front of me on the grass. Someone was watching over me - for once!
The years passed until an unexpected sum of money allowed the purchase of a CX500. It was the first bike I really fitted, a true thoroughbred amongst motorcycles! I had mellowed, and despite the odd attempt to impress a pillion passenger with a 100mph dash along the dual carriageway, I was content to take the back roads and just listen to the sound of the lazy V-twin engine as I made my way between sunny Norfolk hedgerows. In the 1000s of miles I did it proved an extremely capable bike. Despite its high mileage and tattiness it was surprisingly solid and comfortable - I never became bored or considered buying anything bigger.
Late one night I was making my way home from a band rehearsal along twisty back roads when I noticed the lights of an approaching car. As I leant into a long left-hander I realised the careless cager was on my side of the road. Dazzled, with nowhere to go, I caught the verge and lost control of the bike. I rolled over the opposite verge and crashed through a hedge into a field whilst the CX continued up the road on its side. As I lay numb on the damp soil I could still hear the engine running and see the light pointing up at the night sky.
Shakily, I eventually managed to heave the bike back up on to its wheels and limp into the police station where I gave my sorry statement over a warm cup of tea. I was badly bruised but the CX was a real mess. I'd been going quite fast - the damage, added to the badly worn engine, meant the CX had to be scrapped. I was rather shaken by the experience and was back to using a car for some time.
A few years later I bought an immaculate, low mileage CX500. My fiancee had never been on a bike before, so first time out I planned to ride very carefully. Once up on to a dual carriageway we were overtaken by a couple on a BMW, who saluted as they breezed past. The next thing I knew I was roaring along behind them into Norwich, passing lines of cars at 85mph, when I suddenly remembered my passenger. I thought I had blown it as I gently eased off the throttle but as the wind noise died down I could hear her urging me to catch them! She was converted!
Many months of biking pleasure followed our wedding and countless mellow cruises on the CX. All was well until one night, in search of a pub down winding country roads, tiredness got the better of me and my concentration went. The next thing I knew the road ahead had turned into a large hedge. I braced myself, and just like a few years before, found myself tumbling over the grassy verge into another field; my new bride somewhere behind me. Fortunately, there wasn't any damage done and we were soon laughing about it.
The CX proved reliable with only minor problems. How sad I was when it was finally sold.
A weekend of odd jobs, window cleaning and flogging some of my worldly goods generated around £60 in cash, and I ventured a very cautious visit to the infamous local breaker's yard to search the rows of old dogs for something cheap and serviceable, and to see how much more I might need to save.
Providence, however, was on my side, for there in a dark corner stood an old Honda C90. It was tatty but running, and had a few months’ tax and test left. The man in greasy overalls, clutching his can of Special Brew, said I could have it for sixty notes.
My then girlfriend's mum was summoned, did the honours with her cheque book before taking me to a friendly insurance broker where a monthly payment scheme was duly signed and sealed. By the evening I'd been equipped with an old helmet, was on the road at last. The only problem I could see ahead was breaking the news to my parents!
The little Honda lived at my girlfriend's house for some time. It was cleaned, fixed and serviced under the benevolent eye of my girlfriend's dad, a member of the old school before the Japanese invasion, when (so | am told) motorcycling was considered more of a gentleman's pastime than a mindless performance competition. I appreciated his stories of great biking moments and was kind of inspired by his responsible and mellow concept of defensive riding.
The Crunchy was nearly as old as I was but despite its new and demanding lifestyle it never failed to start with a few kicks. It came complete with indicators that flashed once about every 30 seconds, dimming the headlamp, and had a little hook on the white leg-shields where grandpa could hang his shopping bag.
The vibration from the criminally overworked motor became quite painful after a distance. The handling and braking, needless to say, could be quite dangerous, especially in the wet - as I was soon to discover. My first accident came one drizzly morning on my way into college. Just near the busy entrance was a tight hairpin. As I approached the fiendish corner I noticed a fellow student sitting on the kerb with a shamed look on his face, his Lambretta lying nearby in the just crashed position. He was watching my approach so I decided to go for a spectacular high speed fly past, incorporating my almost perfected centrestand touchdown manoeuvre before pulling up in front of the impressed masses.
The next thing I knew I was lying in the gutter, my bike having bounced up on to the pavement and smashed into someone's fence. An old Norfolk boy was leaning on his gate. He said, ‘I've been watching them come off since breakfast. There's oil all over the road.’ Cheers, I thought. We could only watch the next victim's final moments. An innocent cyclist was soon picking himself up off the slippery tarmac.
The Crunchy survived, of course, but in my quest for a larger and more befitting machine it was eventually sold. A modest sum secured a reasonable Honda CB100 - a real man's bike, as my girlfriend's dad put it. I had entered a new league, and will never forget the first time I got a heart-warming nod from one of the big boys who must have seen the headlight and mistaken me for something much bigger.
The bike test, in those days, was simply a case of riding around the block and performing some patronisingly simple manoeuvres for an examiner who looked on from a distant pavement. No sooner had I passed than I waved goodbye to the humiliation of L-plates and my girlfriend became a permanent fixture on the pillion. I was a happy man.
I immediately moved up to a twin cylinder Honda CD200 Benly with a full fairing, a splendid bike which served me faithfully, despite being one of the unfortunate objects of my adolescent frustrations. Although thrashed to the humble limits of its soggy handling, the bike still returned over 80mpg, and, like my previous Hondas, was annoyingly reliable - leaving me no room for tales of dramatic breakdowns and roadside bodges, nor indeed of heroic and death-defying feats to exaggerate to my mates down at the pub. It started first time every time, sounded and performed like a big Honda 90, which I suppose it was in some ways.
My girlfriend's garage soon became a hideout for a mate's 250 Superdream as he hadn't yet found the courage to inform his deranged mother of his new purchase and had failed his test about two days before his licence ran out. The deal was that he could keep the Superdream there safely as long as I could keep it warm for him, which I did for several months. The large size of the beast meant it suited me quite well, though the six speed gearbox seemed a lot of unnecessary hard work.
One afternoon after college I was pulling up at some temporary lights when I noticed a rather attractive girl from my class looking at me - and smiling - from the back seat of the car in front. Casually, I slipped the bike into neutral and leant back, arms folded. Whether the footpeg was a little wet, or whether my left foot was shaking from the cold, I don't know, but it slipped forward on to the gear lever, crunching the box violently into first. My instinct was to grab for the clutch but the bike lurched forward, stalling inches from the bumper of the car just as the lights went green. Humiliation!
One of the little foibles of the Superdream was that the front disc wouldn't release properly, required a gentle kick in order to free the wheel again! This was presumably caused by a corroded piston and I had meant to strip the caliper down but hadn't got around to it, tried whenever possible to avoid using the front brake.
One afternoon I had just managed to ease past a steaming lorry who hadn't wanted to be overtaken, when I rounded a bend to find a line of stationary traffic. I stopped in time but my relief soon turned to panic when I remembered the lorry I had just overtaken. In my haste to do the decent thing and move a little further up the line of cars, I forgot I had squeezed hard on the front brake lever. It had locked, and the engine stalled. My heart nearly stopped as the lorry's wheels locked and it crossed on to the wide verge, ending up several cars in front of me on the grass. Someone was watching over me - for once!
The years passed until an unexpected sum of money allowed the purchase of a CX500. It was the first bike I really fitted, a true thoroughbred amongst motorcycles! I had mellowed, and despite the odd attempt to impress a pillion passenger with a 100mph dash along the dual carriageway, I was content to take the back roads and just listen to the sound of the lazy V-twin engine as I made my way between sunny Norfolk hedgerows. In the 1000s of miles I did it proved an extremely capable bike. Despite its high mileage and tattiness it was surprisingly solid and comfortable - I never became bored or considered buying anything bigger.
Late one night I was making my way home from a band rehearsal along twisty back roads when I noticed the lights of an approaching car. As I leant into a long left-hander I realised the careless cager was on my side of the road. Dazzled, with nowhere to go, I caught the verge and lost control of the bike. I rolled over the opposite verge and crashed through a hedge into a field whilst the CX continued up the road on its side. As I lay numb on the damp soil I could still hear the engine running and see the light pointing up at the night sky.
Shakily, I eventually managed to heave the bike back up on to its wheels and limp into the police station where I gave my sorry statement over a warm cup of tea. I was badly bruised but the CX was a real mess. I'd been going quite fast - the damage, added to the badly worn engine, meant the CX had to be scrapped. I was rather shaken by the experience and was back to using a car for some time.
A few years later I bought an immaculate, low mileage CX500. My fiancee had never been on a bike before, so first time out I planned to ride very carefully. Once up on to a dual carriageway we were overtaken by a couple on a BMW, who saluted as they breezed past. The next thing I knew I was roaring along behind them into Norwich, passing lines of cars at 85mph, when I suddenly remembered my passenger. I thought I had blown it as I gently eased off the throttle but as the wind noise died down I could hear her urging me to catch them! She was converted!
Many months of biking pleasure followed our wedding and countless mellow cruises on the CX. All was well until one night, in search of a pub down winding country roads, tiredness got the better of me and my concentration went. The next thing I knew the road ahead had turned into a large hedge. I braced myself, and just like a few years before, found myself tumbling over the grassy verge into another field; my new bride somewhere behind me. Fortunately, there wasn't any damage done and we were soon laughing about it.
The CX proved reliable with only minor problems. How sad I was when it was finally sold.
Matt Nash