Oh goodie, I thought, a nice looking Yamaha DT125R for a mere 600 notes. I'll have some of that. The smarmy dealer led me to the gallows, er, phone over which the parents were persuaded that the only way to keep their 18 year old son in school was to come down that instant with the cash, persuaded them to sign a receipt which stated sold as seen and then put me on my way with a fluid ounce of petrol. The push to the petrol station was most face losing. I began to wonder if I should have consulted wiser, more mature counsel before buying the 1987, bright, shiny red example. Fools and horses, and all that...
I had to ask the nice petrol pump attendant if he knew which type of petrol the bike took. He reckoned unleaded was OK so in it went. He also advised that I buy a litre of two stroke oil and after a struggle I found where that went, too. Just as well, the level was already below the minimum mark.
The bike refused to start and soon reduced me to a wreck, although the kickstart didn't need much pressure. I began to wonder if that was how it should be. I then noticed that the engine run switch was in the off position. I was both chastised and overjoyed when she fired up first kick.
Giving her a bunch of revs as a reward I experienced my first wheelie... and my first crash. Very embarrassing. Especially as my crash landing had caused a car to swerve into the station’s kiosk, demolishing the structure in one swift movement. The attendant was as white faced and tearful as myself. No-one was very understanding of the fact that I'd just bought the bike so didn't have any insurance. Least of all my parents who had to fork out several thousand pounds to the petrol company.
What a way to start on the great motorcycling adventure! Still, we all have to learn, which was what I kept telling the few people who were still willing to pass the time of day with me! I had a good grasp of the basics of motorcycling from my days of riding an old C90 down the local lanes. The clutch thing proved a bit of an obstacle to master but, after a few weeks of stalls and mad wheelies, I got the hang of it. It still felt sudden and violent in action, to my mind, but I really had nothing with which to compare it.
Riding the bike through the school gates for the first time I felt like the master of the universe, the centre of attention of the whole damn school. The side stand took that exact moment, when a crowd had gathered to view the newest, most powerful motorcycle in the school; to snap off its mounting.
I didn't give a damn that the machine had landed on the headmaster’s car (it seemed only proper to park the bike next to the main entrance), only that my nice shiny petrol tank now had a deep scar in it and that my many former admirers were rolling about on the floor in hysterics.
That day the head went into a rant about the dangers of motorcycles, banishing all such fearful devices from beyond the school gates and threatening the lash for anyone caught on school property with a leather jacket or crash helmet. My popularity with the moped crowd plummeted, even more, when I knocked one off when he swerved into my path on the way home. Luckily, there was no damage to my machine, although his FS1E suffered broken forks and crushed tank. He was one of those sixteen year olds with gland troubles and was about twice the size and weight of a normal teenager, so I agreed to pay for the damage before he did me in.
My parents banned me from riding for a month after that and then sent me to some poxy training school. The DT was dead easy to roll around the stupid bollards and the instructor was quite impressed with my dexterity. He rode an ancient Beemer, so I put a bag of sugar in the tank when he was busy ogling the only girl. She was actually the school nympho - there's always one in every school - who would drop her knickers in a reflex action for anyone who hinted at sex.
At the next lesson he turned up on a ratty MZ with a locked petrol cap. You could see he was eyeing each of us with suspicion. Someone must’ve hinted that it was me because he kept me riding around in mindless circles for ages until I got so fed up, I gave the DT a bit of throttle and threw her up the road. I stepped off and the bike demolished every bollard in sight before coming to a halt. Damage was limited to a few bent bits. We never did find out the extent of the damage to the BMW but it never made a reappearance.
After that period of re-education I made damn sure my riding deteriorated rapidly. Not helped any by a mysterious misfire that cut the motor out or a front disc brake that decided it didn’t want to work any more. I dropped some hints to the parents who insisted that they would pay for repairs, so the dealer and I split the dosh after he had put in a new set of pads and claimed a long list of parts replaced. He also managed to trace the misfire to a malfunctioning side stand switch, so the wires were connected up as I hadn't bothered to replace the stand there was always some car handy against which to rest the Yam.
I took to the local woods on the bike. There were a group of hoodlums who would scream through the forest frightening the shit out of any silly ramblers or animals that were unlucky enough to get in their path. I had not yet gained full control of the Yamaha, so when I messed up a wheelie to get over a log, crashing to a stop in mud and causing a mass pile up of other bikes, I was again not the object of great popularity... their method of revenge was to tear all my clothes off and make me ride home naked! I'm well endowed, if I say so myself, so old grannies had the shock of their lives!
I was the laughing stock at the school the next day. I was more worried about the way the bent front wheel was causing the bike to wobble viciously every time I went over 30mph. I blamed Yamaha for using poxy spoked wheels rather than myself for hitting bloody great fallen trees.
The parents were dropping strong hints that they would only pay for University if I acquiesced to a nice little car but I told them I was only going on a GSXR1100, after I'd passed my test! Spoilt little rich brat, I know, but there you go. There was no way they were going to dole out yet more money on that bloody motorcycle, as they had affectionately come to describe the DT.
A DT with the DTs was more like it. An old codger was found who would straighten out the wheel for a packet of Woodbines and an introduction to the nympho, who the local wideboy had taken to running on death alley (the local, AIDS infested red light street). He kept the wheel for a week but it came back as straight as when issued from Japan. Handling felt well transformed, although the way the back shock bounced around, and a kick at the Mono-cross swinging arm, revealed enough slop to give an old hooker nightmares (we may as well stay on this theme).
That didn't bother me in the least. The bike could still be flung around like a nifty fifty. An acquaintance insisted I fit on this rusted aftermarket zorst. Jesus and Mary. Mother had phoned the police the moment I had started the bike up, fearing an earthquake or something. She was to dine out on the way the patio window had shattered into a trillion pieces for months to come. The police weren’t that interested when they realised that the offence had been committed on private property but I noted a Panda car loitering for days afterwards. I was wise enough to ride out across the garden, through the garden at the other end and out through the understanding neighbour’s drive, he having previously been a Triton rocker before getting the new religion (capitalism, silly).
Readers will have realised that I was then completely irresponsible, totally amoral and a general a pain in the ass. The more perceptive will also realise that I was on a hiding to nothing. My nemesis came in the form of a coach. The Yam was on this fast piece of dual carriageway doing about 70mph. It was bouncing about a bit and suddenly decided to bounce about a large bit. Into the side of the coach.
The DT was never that stable a motorcycle and the loss of composure was sufficient to throw me off the madly buckling machine. The Yam, I was later to learn, was crushed flat by no less than three cars. I was not so lucky! I lost half my skin to the tarmac (I blame the headmaster for going into a rage when I dared enter school in full leathers, banning them outright), broke both legs and only just avoided ending up a bloody spastic, by all accounts. Life in the vegetable farm at 18; doesn’t bear thinking about. I lay here writing this story in something approaching agony but I'm not going to let the bastards win. As soon as I can walk I'm going to get back on a bike*. And damn the consequences!
Mitch
*Barring fate, Mitch would be 43 now. If he did get another bike then I doubt he even saw 20 - 2019 Ed.