Years ago friends of mine had a hobby, they stole motorcycles - Honda 50s and 90s, always raced and returned. Night after night, sitting studying to the noise of Led Zeppelin I could hear the sound of some poor bastard bike getting stuffed into S bends just across the road from the parental home. After a while I fancied I could tell a stolen bike by the look of the rider and sound of the machine (watching certain racing stars soon killed that idea).
I was herded off at the weekends down to the family caravan by the seaside, a place untouched by the troubles, but one area the IRA figured that a car bomb would actually improve, so even to this day it’s been left alone.
Despite the efforts of my parents I still managed to fall into unsavoury company people who drank beer and rode around on motorcycles. They adopted me and told me I was fearless, fearless. This was balls, to feel fear you need information and I didn’t know my arse from a hole in the ground in those days.
Come the day, they showed me a Honda 50, pointed out various interesting features, like how to make it go and stop, then pointed both of us up the long, hard packed beach. After an hour it became easy. The next thing I knew I was digging a trench and the bike was bouncing all over the very rocks I had sworn to avoid.
You never forget your first wreck. Thirteen years later, watched by my son who has never seen me work before, I can still taste that sand. I thought I was dead until the pounding of feet revealed that help was on the way. I was hauled to my feet and laughed at for being stupid. Still, I learnt how to ride a bike, which ranks pretty high in my things done list.
Got a job, got a car and vegetated as a trainee manager for a year or so. Dull, bored stiff and in serious danger of turning into a grey man. A friend offered me a run on his Honda 50. Ten minutes later I was being chased by the police, complete with full sound and lights, through the outskirts of Belfast. I know, I know, but this was 12 years ago and I was enjoying myself. When they caught me they delightedly went through the litany of disaster I was riding and the number of laws I had transgressed, finishing with tax and insurance.
Gulp. Off to the police station. From the back seat I enquired why they weren’t out catching terrorists, The car stopped, the driver turned, grabbed me by the throat and while shaking me all over the back of the car, er, explained: because, you little bastard, we spend valuable time chasing people like you on piles of shite like that.
Happier that my question had been fully answered I took to Plan B, which included snivelling, whimpering and asking if they knew who my uncle was. At the station I received a huge telling off complete with graphic and colourful threats and promises as to what would happen if I ever repeated the performance. I made arrangements to be picked up and while waiting a policeman stuck his head around the door for a look at the person who had been chased for five miles on a Honda 50 - he laughed. I left when my pilot shoved me on the back of a Suzi GT380 with L plates and FII expansion boxes. I didn’t buy that Honda.
The next Honda 50 on offer I drove straight into a wall.
The next was a Honda 90, 5 years old, red and rust. It had a new battery, so I bought that. Mum was pleased because it didn’t look like any of the posters on my bedroom wall. A friend arrived, painted everything with rust eater, covered that with Hammerite and pronounced it fit. I took a week off work and went touring.
The front brake didn’t but lots of dancing on the gear lever and jumping on the back brake compensated. It was mechanically bullet proof, but the electrics were something else and in the end the whole thing was rewired with a few yards of telephone wire, the ignition switch junked and a hidden switch fitted.
Until this was done the tyres were never a problem in the wet, because when the rain started the bike stopped. The rigours and horrors of the 15 minute run to work brightened my day and seriously spooked other road users. Every day had something new to offer, usually a laundry bill, but as I got used to the despicable behaviour of the thing, hacking my way through early morning traffic became a game. Entertaining was how a colleague described my progress through the other commuters who were not late.
The poor front brake actually saved my life on more than one occasion. Notably, a wet, wet morning stuffed into a racing line over a bridge when a car cut right across my nose. Hauling the front brake in panic, it slowed minisculely, just enough to allow me to get around his boot yet not enough to slide me into oncoming traffic. Thanking God and Honda while taking time to berate the driver. I was able to discuss it personally with him when I found out he worked for the same organisation - personnel became convinced that perhaps my future didn’t lay in management accounting.
Having cheerfully and contentedly resigned, I got into social work, where the bike was used as emergency transport and regularly maintained - change oil, check the chain. The only thing that was replaced except for the electrics was the exhaust (£4).
Fuel consumption was a joke. If it happened to run out all you did was stop another bike, liberate a milk bottle full of petrol and that did you until you remembered to go to the garage. In those days it was necessary to have the bike with you all the time. The security forces tended to take a dim view of youths carrying milk bottles full of petrol.
Maintenance was minimal and someone else did what little there was to do. This stopped after I picked up the bike and zapped off to brighten someone’s day. The handling was crazy, so bad I stopped, rang a friend and he took it up the street... and left it there. For some reason my friendly mechanic had removed the swinging arm nut and neglected to replace it.
One day there was no bike in the car park. Down to the police station to report it missing. You mean stolen, said the officer. No missing, no-one could start it let alone steal it. I gave him the details and he stopped writing - he started describing the bike, broken rear mudguard, bald back tyre... I nodded amazed at his mind reading powers. The bike had been rescued from a hedge.
That was a long time ago, nowadays running about on a ratty old nail draws Traffic Branch like flies and these boys have no sense of humour. As a form of transport and all round entertainment it was hard to beat. I wouldn’t buy another, promising to behave myself would be too much trouble.
Mac Yavelleh
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