So there I stood, a newly fledged Roughy Toughy Scruffy. I looked the part but what machine did they give me for the first ride on the Police Basic Motorcycle Course? A bloody Honda 125 complete with L plates front and rear.
Wobbling out of the yard I came across my first challenge, a Co-Op milk float - I soon made short work of that only to have my newly inflated ego smashed by a kid on his BMX cycle. As he sped off into the distance I comforted myself with the thought that it was illegal to race on the highway and that I could have burnt him off if I wanted to.
Our first run didn’t last long, just as far as a large car park, where we set out dozens of cones in a most complex pattern to practice for our Part One. Those who'd ridden bikes before wobbled around, trying unsuccessfully to avoid the cones and each other. The complete novices were taken to the far side of the car park with several instructors.
Becoming fed up with our mass suicide attempt, I stopped to watch the strange spectacle that was taking place in the corner of the car park. I saw, to my complete amazement, an utter novice astride a bike with two sweating leather clad instructors running along on either side attempting to hold him up. Once the rider realised that by turning the throttle the bike went faster, he took a great handful and raced off.
The panting instructors ran in his wake, shouting, in language far too foul to repeat here (and too disgusting to accomplish on a mere motorcycle and if attempted would have upset the RSPCA), that he was told not to twist that and that it’s the right-hand pedal and lever. Just as the car park was about to run out, the rider jammed on both brakes - he, the bike and the two galloping instructors became one untidy heap in the car park. My envy of these instructors, who dressed in black leather from top to toe, rode BMW R80s and Norton Interpols, turned to pity when I saw three other novices awaiting their turn.
After about an hour, which was probably all the instructors could take, we headed back to the riding school. We formed a convoy, the learner riders in the centre, the instructors with the advanced course, who had by this time joined us, formed a cordon on the outside. I am still not sure whether this was to protect us from the motoring public or them from us. From a distance, we must have looked like the local gang of Hells Angels.
We had a slight problem at the first set of traffic lights, which were showing red. The lad who'd had trouble in the car park had forgotten where the brakes were and was only saved by two instructors charging forward on their Nortons, lights flashing and sirens blaring to clear the junction. Naturally, I can’t repeat their comments here. We managed to arrive safely back, I saw one of the instructors standing in the corner of the yard, shaking his head and muttering, why me, why me...
Bright and early the next day we emerged hoping for a full days riding only to be informed that the day was going to be spent in the classroom. Expecting to spend the time going over the highway code, I soon found that the teacher was a bit of a nutter who insisted on shoving a big packet of pictures of motorcycle accidents under our noses. It was with horror that I realised that these were accidents involving participants in previous motorcycle courses.
So you want to learn to ride a motorcycle, he asked, well, let me show you what you prats have done in the past. He passed the pictures around and then produced the camera with which they had been taken - apparently, as soon as someone fell off he rushed to the scene, not to give first aid, but to take pictures. All the unfortunates appeared to be loved it, warts and all - like the Scott it made a glorious noise and the torque of that V-twin engine was unbelievable. But eventually enough was enough and it had to go.
I went back to bikes, buying a year old Triumph Tiger 100, which after the 350 was rough and vibratory. I soon parted with it to buy a new BSA A7 with a matching BSA sidecar. In 1951 everyone wanted a Triumph, but I was happy with the A7, it was nippy, reliable and satisfying. I liked sidecars because it was so impossible to carry large loads on a solo. I still have memories of trying to bring a loaf of bread home balanced on the tank of a Triumph...
After a period with a Fiat 500 car, I bought my last combo, an Ariel Red Hunter twin with a big sidecar, a bad buy as it rattled and seemed grossly over-geared. Then a long period when I had a succession of cars with only the wife’s Vespa as a reminder of my two wheel days - we both fell off it but it did last for ten years.
When I retired the 125 learner laws meant 250s were very cheap, so I bought a three year old 250 Honda Superdream. Apart from replacing the lethal Japanese rear tyre and a battery it’s made few demands, although I only ride in fair weather and my mileage is not great. I’ve added another bike, a 200 Suzuki X5, completely different from the Honda. It too is an eager bundle of revs, but unlike the Honda it will go as fast as my courage will hold out...
It’s been a long road, I’ve enjoyed all my bikes and no matter how cold I become on my current ones, my blood warms when a fellow biker flashes his light in a friendly greeting - no car driver ever does that.
J.P. Ireland