It was all my son’s fault! I had seen the transformation that ownership of a TZR125 had wrought on his young life coming home with an ill concealed grin, a vast increase in friendships and much more purpose in his life. When the time came to trade up to a new motorcycle I made him a better offer than the dealer for the 18 month, 21000 mile Yamaha.
He insisted I take some training before I took to the road! And saw me right about what clothing and helmet to buy. Being the eldest trainee did not do my ego much good. I had enough road sense for two, having driven my car for the last 30 years without a serious accident. This was the first time aboard a bike and it took a hell of a lot of practice before I could successfully coordinate clutch and throttle. The gearchange was well weird, too, but I did manage to change up to second in the abandoned school playground.
After several practice runs which involved knocking over all the cones in sight, I managed to pilot the machine around rather than through the cones! I was there for about seven hours and totally exhausted at the end of the course. It was then I realised I would have to ride home the 15 miles! At least there wasn’t much traffic about.
Up into third, or was it fourth, I gritted my teeth and made ponderous progress at about 30mph in a 50mph limit. I was not even sure where I should place the bike on the road - the gutter seemed safest but I did recall that motorcyclists tended to ride near the centre. Thoroughly befuddled and perplexed by the time I arrived home, I had serious doubts about what I had let myself in for and whether or not I could still be considered amongst the sane.
The next day my son insisted I accompany him and his gang of friends on a run. Safety in numbers, he assured me. It emerged later that day that my son had secretly and illegally had his engine de-restricted to 24hp... for the first time in my life I was actively breaking the law! I was tail end Charlie, not just on the slowest machine, although 70mph seemed damn fast to me out there in the elements, but also to study the lines the other riders took.
The TZR was a very light machine which was knocked about by the road bumps but not to the extent of doing anything too unexpected. It braked with ease and precision, which I found very reassuring. The only time I was caught out was when I forgot to change down, finding myself trying to pull from 25mph in top, the motor just going, WAAAAAAAAAAA!
Another traumatic occasion was when it ran out of fuel. One second we were running along nicely at 65mph then suddenly all forward motion ceased, the little devil stalling dead, or that's how it seemed to me, in the middle of the traffic. How a pile up was avoided I don’t know. I soon found out how vicious car drivers could be to bikers. The gang came back to my assistance and showed me how to turn on reserve... talk about feeling like a fool!
When we arrived at our destination, the Kent Show, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. The basics of riding were coming along quite nicely. The mass confusion, ear shattering music and frightening appearance of the Hell’s Angels soon removed any heady feelings I might have been harbouring.
Apart from some of the police I was the eldest there and whilst the youngsters head banged away, and god knows what else, I found an hamburger stall to loiter by. I got a number of dirty looks from some bikers and my son later confided that I looked a dead ringer for a police plant.
The ride home in the dark was another horror story. The TZR lights were pathetic after my car's, I was continually dazzled by oncoming traffic and kept losing sight of the others. It had also turned bloody cool, at least to my body used as it was to the comfort of the car. We pulled up at one highway cafe only to be refused entry! I became indignant at this discrimination and almost got into a fight with the Indian manager. The youths took it all in their stride, they were only too used to it. I always thought that kind of thing was illegal! We live and learn.
One thing that I found motorcycling does is clear the mind of all worries, except those brought up whilst on the road; by the time we arrived home I was ready for bed and was dead to the world the moment my head hit the pillow. My sleep was usually fitful, had been ever since I lost my wife six years ago. The way motorcycling concentrated the mind I found thoroughly invigorating.
The next day most of my muscles had stiffened up from the prolonged contortion on the TZR and the battering they had suffered from the poor road surface. I sort of staggered around the house muttering obscenities in a most unlikely manner for a normally mild mannered chap like myself. By the end of the day I was able to walk around OK.
The next week a period of sunshine encouraged me to use the bike for commuting the nine miles into work, a journey through traffic logged roads that normally takes over an hour in the car. I was amazed at myself - I got there in less than 15 minutes. The same on the journey home. Mind you, I did begin to appreciate all the negative comments on car drivers that appear in the UMG - some of their antics were really amazing.
One bored driver opened his door just as I was about to overtake him - his arm saved the front wheel from taking the door off. He was huge and had not the obvious pain in his arm stopped him using it I would have received a belting! I told myself to keep my crash hat on if the worst happened, but I managed to ride around him and clear off.
My arrival at work the first time caused a commotion - clad in a leather jacket and clomping down the corridor in heavyweight motorcycle boots - I would probably have been reprimanded were it not for the fact that I was the area manager for the insurance company and it was my place to do the reprimanding. I kept a couple of suits at work and changed in the gents. Interestingly, a short while afterwards a couple of junior executives started coming to work in leather jackets - it often happened that the lower orders sported the same kind of garb as the boss!
After the first month I was hooked on the TZR and motorcycling in general. I read all the literature - there were always piles of the stuff cluttering up our home which had become a sort of open house amongst bikers in the area. I used to sympathize with the neighbours who complained about nocturnal visits by leather clad juveniles, but not any more!
After becoming used to the basics, the next hurdle was the test. By this time it was the one where the tester followed the rider, using a radio to direct his movements. When I turned up it was pouring down a torrent and this disgruntled old geezer (I mean, he was ten years older than me!) followed me round.
With the rain, the poor quality of the radio and slight deafness on my part, I couldn’t hear a thing so just guessed which way he wanted to go. After about ten minutes he roared past and indicated I should pull over under a bridge. He told me he thought I had got the hang of it, fired through some elementary Highway Code questions and issued the test certificate. Brilliant. The loss of face if I'd failed would’ve been terrible.
I had by this time clocked up about 6000 miles without a serious accident. If anything I was becoming over-confident about my clean record. My son’s friends seemed to be dropping like flies, but they were riding the 150mph plastic missiles, so I suppose it should have been expected. Even my son had come off his FZR600, though not seriously, just getting trapped between a couple of mad car drivers.
Autumn was fading and winter taking over. Everyone assumed that I would get back into the comfort of the car. No chance! Just to make sure I wouldn’t backtrack I sold it at the end of October. In the past seven months I had only put 34 miles on its clock! This raised a large lump of cash, so it was farewell to the trustworthy Yamaha and hello a new Kawasaki 550 Zephyr.
I was not affected by the retro craze, not really knowing what it was. I just though the Kawasaki a thoroughly sensible motorcycle which looked quite pretty. I wanted something that was light in weight and easy on the mind, the 550 fitted the bill. My son had a ride and thought so as well... he was suffering from chronic back pains and was starting to walk funny after the racing crouch of the FZR. I had to be careful to hide the keys in case he abandon the FZR and disappear for the day on my shiny Zephyr. A second on the FZR's seat was enough to convince me to keep well away.
If anything, the 550 was even easier to ride than the TZR. I did not have to worry about the engine bogging down in the higher gears, and it managed to absorb a lot more of the road bumps than the bouncing Yamaha could ever conceive of doing. It did need a bit more effort in town and through very tight corners but I soon grew used to that.
The winter took some getting used to. I could cope with the greasy roads, the 550 had tyres that stuck like treacle and its power delivery was mild. I had a full suit of waterproofs so rarely became wet. It was the cold that kept getting to me, down to my aged circulation. Long Johns and several layers of clothes helped a lot, but cold hands caused severe problems in darkest January, but I persevered. It was hard going, but with the spring came a great sense of achievement. I had proved all the doubters wrong and silenced the critical mutterings that were in evidence at work.
Fuel consumption was disappointing, down from 75 to 48mpg - I never did go over the ton, as it's known in my son's circles, so even the extra speed was no compensation. However, the Zephyr was immensely comfortable to ride long distances in the 70-85mph range, which was more than enough for me. I started venturing off on long weekends by myself, a wonderful sense of freedom feeding my veins after five days of office work - my attitude there had gone from a compulsive worrier to couldn’t give a damn. I'm putting in for early retirement as soon as I get the chance!
I didn’t go camping or anything masochistic like that. I was armed with various bits of plastic and a small luggage bag. Even with the cards showing I was an upright citizen, many hotels were reluctant to give me a room, this at a time when hoteliers were screaming about empty rooms - I'm not surprised if that is their attitude. I took to wearing a large anorak over the jacket and hiding the helmet in my bag until I was booked in and could unveil my true identity to gasps of incredulity and horror.
My age must have made me approachable. Often when parking up in some small town a crowd gathered, gasping at the distance travelled to arrive there and stories emerging from old boys who remembered their days on Doughies, Vinnies and Bonnies, whatever they were. A lot of their stories passed right over my head, but almost invariably I was directed to interesting sights, told where the best places were to stay or eat and, on occasions, invited into some people’s homes for dinner and tea! In the car I'd be extremely lucky and fortunate to get the time of day!
With nearly. two years on motorcycles, nine months on the Kawasaki, I feel I've never had it so good. Everyone I bump into I regale with tales of the open road, of the sheer fun of it, even of the danger... they grumpily respond about the weather or the accidents, but every now and again I get my point home and persuade some other ancient to try out a set of two wheels. I've got our number up to three, so far, increasing fast!
HJK