Being of a somewhat simple turn of mind - ex policeman and all that, and having settled in a wee village shop with post round, I thought to myself what better way of earning a few bob than by getting involved in motorcycle despatching and being paid to see the countryside. Images of self astride a pulsing machine trolling along in the sunshine flickered momentarily through my feeble mind.
"Right," said the man in the office. "Since you only have a small machine we'll give you the local runs to Taunton, Barnstaple, Tiverton, etc." Day one, I sat there on the bike, fires lit, engine revving... nothing. Not to worry, probably the phone out of order - have it checked out.
Day two, thoughts of speeding away into the countryside... nothing. Day three... nothing. Come four o'clock with the wind howling outside, rain bucketing down and hail and snow competing for domination, I was beginning to feel glad that I had been overlooked and the thought of a quiet evening in front of the TV took on a new attractiveness. This sentiment was reinforced when Radio Two advised of impossible driving conditions throughout London and Cambridgeshire with driving sleet and snow making for huge tailbacks and frozen fog creating additional problems for the road user.
15 minutes later the phone rang. A pick-up locally and delivery to Lola Racing Cars in Huntingdon. A 672 mile round trip; I was to phone them when I'd made the drop. Hail, rain, sleet, snow and fog; wave after wave of it in non-ending succession. I was soaked to the skin before I had covered the mere 80 miles to Bristol. My son’s helmet, hastily borrowed in a moment of growing panic, had proved exceedingly difficult to get on and was now beginning to be a right pain, in every sense... the thought of trying to get it off at some future date did not bear thinking about. My head ached, my ears ached, my back ached; l ached.
On into the night and the gathering storm. The traffic, for a country bum, was not inspiring. There was no way I could put the frighteners on lumbering artics in blizzard conditions. I was permanently enveloped in a cloud of filthy spray and diesel oil. On the M4 the visor on this bloody helmet started to ice up. Off it came. Ever tried peering through the weather at 85mph in the outside lane? Fun, eh??
Onwards, ever onwards, but what's this? Wet getting to the electrics and me stranded in the middle lane bouncing from truck to truck. I was just beginning to wonder whether or not I could do anything about this when the main tank ran dry. Gosh, this is really exciting. It is usually about this time that one begins to realise that the M25 and M11, for all their splendour, are not exactly over-endowed with services. and having to drive off and seek a refill added somewhat to the feeling of being loved and cherished.
I made Huntingdon at 9.45pm, teeth chattering uncontrollably, frozen to the core and soaked beyond help. Phoned the office, but no return pick-ups and they told me to have a nice trip home. I will not presume to bore hardened riders with the details, but suffice it to say that at ten past three that morning just outside Taunton the locknut parted company with the front sprocket in the pouring rain. The thread was completely worn off the spindle.
I made it home just before four that morning, red of eye and sore of arse, with the solid conviction that things could only get better. I crept into bed at 4.15am feeling sorry for myself and indulging in a tiny glow of satisfaction at having unloaded my first job.
At six I was up sorting out the daily papers in the village shop, at seven I was out delivering the mail around the village and at 9.15 I was just settling down to breakfast when the phone rang. A pick up in Barnstaple and two drops in London, leave immediately. Now I don't know my way around London and, in fact, have only been there once before and on that occasion I travelled between Euston and Victoria stations on the tube. I got lost, hopelessly lost and felt rather hurt that a city of some six million people could contrive to make life difficult for a country boy.
I eventually rode out of town with the setting sun well gone and the torrential rain ensuring that no dust was kicked up by my wheels. I made it home at 11.15 that night and staggered off to bed triumphant and knackered.
The machine that carried me on these outings was a Suzuki GSX250. l have owned and ridden it for seven years and would recommend it to anyone seeking a reliable and friendly if modest machine for happy biking. It has thrived on neglect, not so much through lack of love as through ignorance.
During its 23000 miles I have lavished upon it one set of tyres, one chain and an oil change every two years. Everything else, including brake pads, are original. It has always been a delight to ride if not exactly state of the art biking. but always friendly and forgiving. lt shines and glows beautifully and is presently sitting in the garage awaiting its next adventure.
Road Runner
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I had been despatching on an old Honda CG125 for a month or so, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. The bike went along well until I had important deliveries which had to be there yesterday, then it would play up, the throttle sticking, the brakes jamming on, refusing to start; always something. Then one day I had an exceptionally important package to deliver and it seized up for good. A fellow courier mentioned that he had just bought a new machine and wanted to get rid of his old hack, a GSX250 for £150.
My first impression was that it was one of those bloody sewing machines. It started up straight away and sounded good even though it had 40000 miles on the clock. It had obviously been well cared for. I spent the next few months speeding around the West End, and actually enjoyed work for a change.
In this time I replaced the tyres, chain, sprockets, clutch (which was very easy to do) and also sprayed the whole thing matt black to try to hide the fact that it was Jap crap and to increase the pose value.
It was a cold and miserable January, so the girlfriend and I decided to head for the sun on the bike. The GSX was so loaded it could hardly pull 60mph and the brakes had trouble slowing it down, never mind actually stopping. Low speed manoeuvring was very hairy as my homemade tank bag slid from one side to the other. We eventually arrived at Portsmouth, bitterly cold and hungry, bought our tickets then took over a couple of radiators to thaw out over. As soon as we were on board we found a suitable place and climbed into our sleeping bags.
We were first off the ferry next day, and after customs went through a cold, frosty ghost town called Le Havre (well it was at six in the morning). We travelled an hour on the bike, then two hours warming up, all day, and found that strapping newspapers and magazines to exposed parts keeps you much warmer much longer, though it does look strange. At dusk we turned off the main road and found a nice secluded spot by a river to camp. It felt good being out of England and we celebrated with a bottle of fortified wine.
We awoke with half an inch of ground frost over the tent and bike, spent the rest of the morning jumping up and down trying to get our circulation going. The sun struggled through and we made good progress that afternoon. At Toulouse there was a traffic jam caused by a Golf GTi that had its length reduced to about a foot. We pushed on that evening and finally reached the Med, the weather was noticeably warmer so we stayed for a couple of weeks sampling wine and touring locally.
We went on into Spain, following the coast, the people were very friendly and we had camping sites, swimming pools and bars to ourselves at low prices. As we travelled inland to Granada, I noticed the engine become noisier, the sewing machine sound turned into a healthy burble and then a terrible din. The exhaust balance chamber had rotted through - I took off the exhaust and hammered flat what was left of the balance chamber into each side of the exhaust so that I had a normal 2-2. This worked well except for a mild mid-range flat spot. We pushed on to Seville then Portugal. The Portugese love bikers, people stopped what they were doing to wave.
Whenever we stopped a crowd gathered - it was funny watching them trying to recognise the bike under the luggage. You don't see much Japanese machinery over there, lots of small Brits and BMWs. We stayed for a few weeks until our funds ran out then started home.
Back in Spain it rained all the 600 miles to France, we camped at Biarritz to dry out. Half the electrics had burnt out, so l replaced them and found a puncture on the test ride. Then the electric starter gave up. Rain, rain and more rain for the next two days of the trip homewards. We arrived at the ferry port in the middle of a strike and there were lots of bickering tourists shoving to the front of various queues. We sat to one side to wait. A woman who worked for the ferry came out and said she could fit us on board, so on we went much to the annoyance of the car drivers.
All in all, we had a great time, the bike coped well considering we covered 4000 miles in three months, and it had only cost £350 each. I now have a ratty XJ550 and as soon as we have the money we will be off again, l fancy North Africa this time.
D Dykes