Despatches: Maggot Mania

The cager came over and actually helped me pick up the CX, which with fairing, panniers, top box and parcels must've weighed close on 600lbs. The front wheel, shod with an Avon slick, had just flown away over the greasy road surface at a Soho junction. A naturally top heavy bike, the CX had become very flighty when fully loaded up. I usually managed to get a motocross boot shod foot down. For some strange reason, rather than being chock-a-bloc with traffic there was a vacuum, a clear space for me to roll down the tarmac. God must like me after all.

Damage seemed minimal, mainly down to the fact that the CX looked as if it had already been dragged through a hedge backwards. I actually shook the car driver’s hand. It made a change from mad buggers who'd try to run over DR’s heads. A little later I realised that the radio had packed up and the bike had a strong yearning for veering to the right. Hunting for public telephones was no fun some were vandalized, others had Superglue or paint on the ear-piece but the dirty cards were quite interesting to read.

I soon adapted to the counter steering needed to keep the CX on a straight line. Home that night, severe shoulder ache inspired me to phone my brother and demand that he come round to hammer the forks straight - his eyesight hadn't been ruined by constant exposure to the CX’s vibes, age and neglect overcoming its clever design of crankshaft throw. He fixed it in half an hour and we went out to get drunk, my excuse being to numb the piercing pains.

I know London pretty well and the ancient Maggot even better. We were old friends (or enemies) and I could discern when some engine component was on the way out, having nursed the motor up to a splendid 172000 miles. Forks and shocks were off a modern CB750 four, although like most DRs consumables were regarded with disdain and only replaced when they threatened life and limb... and then with used items.

At least the CX had shaft drive, even if it only lasts for about 120000 miles before all the universal joints wear out, turning the naturally nasty gearbox completely impossible. CX boxes normally are useful for deterring thieves and can be mastered after about three months of practice on bikes with more than 50000 miles on the clock.

Saner readers will wonder why anyone would even ride around on such an old hack, let alone go despatching, but I've a real feel for the bike and like to go against all the loud mouthed pundits who reckon anything less than a one year old Paris Dakar replica is a complete waste of time. There are several other CXs still running, though most of them are a bit newer than my twin shock model, variants of the 650 being even more popular. I’ve even seen one GL500 Silver Wing scooting around town, which isn’t that bad an idea given its comfort, protection and carrying capacity. Yes, I know it's hard work to throw through the mad traffic but the relaxed riding position makes for a much saner stance than most bikes. Don't knock it until you've tried it!

With a huge top box and massive panniers, on my own CX (with the brackets welded to the Honda), the carrying capacity’s as good as anything else on the road, though the wide Rickman fairing has both sides scarred when I’ve thrust through too narrow gaps these car drivers never learn, when a biker flashes his headlight and sounds his horn, it means he’s coming through no matter what.

It’s particularly good at snapping off car mirrors which are designed to break with the sound of a gun going off - especially amusing in the days of terrorist paranoia. I did begin to fear being shot by armed cops with quick reactions and dumb brains. As | always wore leathers with body armour, under my refugee outfit, I figured I might survive such an incident. It certainly helped when I fell off or was run down by cars, taxis or buses.

I suppose the most life threatening accident I had was when some jerk caught me side on with the front of his taxi and tried to crush me against an iron railing. The engine bars held until the railing was uprooted and bike and I fell over. I was slung clear of the CX, ran after the taxi driver who was reversing, twirling around the cab and careering off up the road, half on the pavement and the tarmac. I was screaming like a madman, so in retrospect it wasn’t that surprising that a cop did a rugby tackle on me, slammed my head into the pavement to quiet me down and handcuffed me. Reluctantly, I was released and frog-marched back to the bike and accused of damaging valuable public property, re. the railing which normally surrounded a garden used by local drug dealers and other perverts. They would've been better off building an office block there.

I disentangled the railing from the bike, popped it back into the ground (spine dislocating) and filled in the holes in the terrain where it'd been torn outwith some earth. It wavered in the wind but seemed to satisfy the cop who had moved on to examining the CX and my documents. Luckily it sulked, refused to start, so hid the presence of the straight through exhaust that had probably sent the cabbie berserk in the first place. My docs were more or less valid, so the cop was most disappointed, only having my still bleeding nose to console him. This may seem far fetched, and I’ve come across some very nice police officers in London, but there are a couple of real hard bastards around.

The police do have periodic purges of DRs and the CX would be an easy target, save that it’s the usual cops and they've gotten used to me (I had modded the exhaust, had to for the last MOT) and know I’m usually nearly legal (the tyres are most likely to get me a ticket). Some guys literally have to abandon their old rats and do a runner - no insurance, tax and MOT, bald tyres, marginal brakes, lack of working lights, etc. etc.

Some bosses are pretty reluctant to give work to someone who looks like he’s a refugee from a Bosnian camp and has a bike that looks like it won't make it out of the street, but I just flash my past payment slips under their noses (usually more than five hundred notes a week, sometimes as much as £750 - I told you I knew London very well) to make them more interested. They try to hide my appearance under massive fluorescent bibs that I really hate to wear, not least because the company name in foot high letters allows people to trace me... “He was a giant on a great big white bike that just bore down on us and took the sides of our cars off,” etc., etc. Lies, lies, of course, but when that happened it always proved useful to look for a new company, at least for a few months.

Most DR company bosses are full of bullshit and quite happy to inform outraged citizens that I'd gone off to work in Rio for the next five years. A useful ploy with tax inspectors, as well. I do enjoy a month or two, in December or January, relaxing in my centrally heated home, doing hardly any biking except when I get bored and fettle the CX. I could build a second engine with all the bits I’ve acquired but I’ve never felt the need to go to the effort, given the way I have developed the aforementioned feel for the CX’s possible demise.

The main reason for keeping the CX, naturally, is cheapness. It still does 50mpg, doesn't consume too much of Halfords' cheapest oil and consumables cost sod all. The less I pay out the more money I have as profit, something these guys who pay two to four grand for a nearly new bike just don’t understand. I usually beat their delivery times, not by the use of excessive speed but by my knowledge of London and native cunning. I'll start looking for a new bike when the CX has done 250000 miles.

A. J.