Tomos moped

There used to be a time when I could go out on a frosty morning, slide behind the wheel of the car, turn on the heater, wind up the volume on the stereo and blast off into the distance to do battle with all the other early morning commuters. Ah, what memories! But then we moved house and my wife started to complain about being stuck at home with a toddler and no transport, so I very reasonably agreed that she could have the car, if only she would stop hitting me. The solution, as I saw it, was simple. I would buy one of those cheap moped things...

Well, you can't have a much more humble start than a Tomos moped, bought from a mail order catalogue; it's a bit like owning a Skoda, you very soon develop a thick skin. The bike duly arrived, covered in cardboard and plastic, complete with an instruction book which seemed to have lost something in translation. 

Having read the section which dealt with advanced riding techniques (starting and stopping), I felt ready for my first excursion. The journey down the garden path seemed very rapid, to say the least, and it would have been quite exhilarating if the house hadn’t suddenly leapt out in front of me. I grabbed all the levers I could find and managed to stop just short of the French doors. It was a pity about the flower bed, but I had just learnt something important... it's very tricky shutting off the throttle and using the brake lever at the same time, especially when you've never done it before. This bike was obviously a monster. All that raw, untamed power at my disposal!

The number of really basic errors I made was colossal. Everything from buying my helmet at a car boot sale (a bargain at £2, pity about the hairline crack; still, it didn’t show once I had spray painted it) to riding with the indicators on for five or six miles at a time. l wobbled and weaved about, terrorised other road users, pedestrians and dogs, only slowly coming to terms with life on two wheels.

I had also discovered a few other truths about motorcycling. All those James Dean films, showing casually dressed young men shooting about at speed were simply not true. Riding a bike was freezing! I couldn't venture out without at least two jumpers under my top coat, an extra pair of trousers and about three metres of woolly scarf wound around my face! And this was in August. I wouldn't have minded but it only took me ten minutes to do the journey to work and half an hour at each end to get the clothes on and off. As a teacher I have to look reasonably respectable at work.
 
That's not easy when the rain has been dribbling down the back of your neck and the wind’s been whistling up your trousers. People were beginning to talk. l could hear the sniggers behind me whenever I walked in, but on turning round there was never anyone there.

Meanwhile, I was gaining confidence: I could potter round roundabouts, leaning aggressively. I would contemptuously burn off milk floats and I once overtook a young girl on a Honda Vision. What a red letter day that was. On the other hand, I had to take a few setbacks. The most demeaning was having pizza delivery lads screaming past on Honda 90s, leaving me in a cloud of dust. I also ran out of petrol once. A seemingly impossible thing to do. The bike was so economical that topping up the tank was a monthly chore, if I remembered to do it at all. Spiders would build their webs across the filler neck.

However, all good things must come to an end and on one particular day my patience snapped. The wind was blowing a gale and seemed to be in my face whichever direction I travelled in. The roads also seemed to have shifted somehow, as they were all uphill. By winding the throttle wide open and adopting the classic racing posture, l was able to make headway with an indicated speed of 19mph. The engine was screaming, nuts and bolts were spraying all over hedgerows, the chain was flapping in the breeze (I never could get the hang of those snail cam adjusters).
 
By the time we got home I knew. It was time for the Tomos and I to part company, and the very next day l started a tour round all the local bike shops, looking for a good deal. Having had several non conversations with neanderthal shop assistants, my footsteps turned to the local Honda dealer. There I found a salesman who was pleasant, helpful and knowledgeable. Admittedly, he did take only one look at my greying temples before directing me to the C90 Cubs, but I soon put a stop to that. The bitter memory of those pizza bikes would make it impossible for me to contemplate riding such a machine.
 
Having explained my needs (commuter bike) and difficulties (no licence) the dealer showed me an H100S II. l was impressed, it actually looked like a motorcycle. I was even more impressed when he tried to talk me out of having a more expensive machine by explaining that, for what I wanted, it was a waste of money and that they were having a lot of trouble with them anyway. How could I resist? I even bought a new helmet.

Part of the deal was free training. I would be taught the mysteries of changing gear. The class consisted of two 17 year olds and a female 16 year old moped rider. The instructor came over for a chat and passed the time of day amicably, but kept looking around all the time. After a while, I guessed that he was waiting for my son or daughter to appear, for he started visibly when he realised it was actually me taking the course. There was also a certain amount of sniggering from the others when I had to state my age on the forms.

The quality of the instruction turned out quite good and after stalling only six times I was mobile. Four hours and several mangled cones later, I was clutching my Bronze Award certificate and trying to hold back the tears of emotion. Actually, the tears were probably due to me having a totally numb backside and rigor mortis in the legs after all that time in the cold. However, undaunted, I was ready for the perils of the open road.

I had dreamed about the moment when I would roar away from the training centre, a free independent spirit, born to be wild and all that romantic rubbish. The reality was a little disappointing, as I couldn't actually restart the bike. My kickstart performance kept everyone entertained for quite a while until the instructor wandered over and turned on the fuel tap. Funny really, I didn't remember turning it off. Perhaps it’s a trick they play to remind you how little you really know.
 
Having mumbled my thanks, I eventually started up and trickled gingerly away. As soon as I got around the first comer I had to stop to wipe the fog from the inside of my visor. All that frantic dancing up and down, trying to start the bike. had made me extremely warm. The inside of my biking gear had taken on the atmosphere of a cross between a Swedish massage parlour and a docker’s armpit - the steam was seeping out around my neck, severely restricting visibility.

Having started off again, I began to feel more comfortable, but soon realised that riding round and round a school playground could only prepare you to a very limited extent. The main problem was the stupid gears... it's all very well for you hardened bikers to sneer, but to a civilised car driver like me the whole thing seemed totally illogical. Press down for first I could cope with, but having to push up or press down for any other gear, depending on which way I was going through the box, was a bit much, especially as l was still Iearning to juggle the clutch (which had been the rear brake on my moped), the throttle and foot brake (which I kept forgetting was there).  

And as for only being able to get into neutral between first and second, well... In the playground I had only got as high as third gear twice, and had panicked on both occasions. Now I was getting into fourth and fifth gear, changing down too late when I approached a junction, forgetting which gear I was in, pulling up in third and unable to find neutral again. Result, l stalled at just about every junction on the way home. I remember thinking how much easier it was in the car, as a huge lorry screeched to a halt behind me. Whilst trying to restart again, I turned to the driver and pointed at my L plate by way of explanation. He was very understanding and made a sign back as if to say that he knew two other people who had experienced the some difficulty. At least I think that's what it meant. Well, the bike and I got home in one piece, and after a week and 32 stalls I mastered the gearbox.
 
I felt that the time was now right for me to start commuting in earnest and display my dazzling riding skills to my colleagues at work. I couldn’t wait to see the look on their faces, as this fine piece of gleaming machinery pulled into the staff car park. My public awaited me. The great day came and I whisked deftly through the school gates as envisaged, banking impressively round the headmaster's Morris Minor. There were no crowds and for a moment I considered riding out again, so that I could come back when there were more people about. But, just at that moment, a group of people appeared at the main entrance, so I swung the bike over towards them and drew up smoothly to a halt. Only one person stopped to pass comment. She looked the bike up and down a few times, sniffed and said, ”Oh, I see you've got rid of the clockwork one then.”

John Lee