The first time I ever rode a powered two wheel device, the thing scampered down my friend’s garden path at a terrifying pace until the only tree for miles around stepped out into our route. I didn’t have the time to do much else but scream at the frightening spectacle - the first time at the controls everything blurred past at a really tremendous rate.
Crashing an ancient Lambretta scooter should by any sane account have turned me off motorcycling but it didn’t, although I’ve since avoided scooters with the same determination that I elude the attentions of certain hard-core Oriental women (much as extended exposure to ancient British bikes turns one really rigid with rage do Thai women ruin the whole epicurean experience).
Of course, this was in the days when real men just laughed at the concept of wearing crash helmets and the typhoon rush of air as the machine bobbed up to 15mph was, in the way of these things to a fourteen year old kid, quite intoxicating. Rather than dimming my lust for motorcycles the need was intensified. The whole mythology of motorcycling was already infused in my veins and it would take more than a few bruised and bloodied limbs to turn me off.
Further adventures followed on a weary step-thru owned by a friend of a friend. This ran for about ten minutes before partially seizing up and needing to be left for half an hour to free up. A party of like-minded youths used to push the Honda for about half an hour, to a stretch of partially constructed motorway that was yet to be opened to any serious traffic, probably on the assumption that on such a piece of startlingly wide, straight, empty road (without a tree in sight for miles) the likelihood of falling off was radically reduced. The legality of under-aged youths riding on a closed road was sufficiently murky to encourage such antics.
Speed was limited, the clutchless gearbox unable to get out of first but running along on a powered two wheeler was nevertheless loads of fun for any youth with more blood than lead in his veins. We could, of course, have fallen off at any time, cracked open one of our skulls and become yet more ammunition in the drive against motorcyclists that was back then beginning to gather a furious momentum.
Accidents were more down to the lack of working brakes and sudden engine seizures than any particular inability to open or close the throttle - the art of balance long since mastered on a series of dubiously modified pushbikes that were hurtled through the local woods in a thoroughly delinquent manner that gave the animal population heart attacks and left the odd rambler gasping. In retrospect we'd invented the mountain bike without realising it; but motorcycling became such a total interest that any commercial possibilities were missed. Damn!
Even armed with the knowledge and experience that age brings, I can't say that I would go back and change things, though doubtless, these days, an army of social workers, and the like, would descend upon any group of kids who tried to emulate such motorcycling antics - they would much prefer to raise millions to build a purpose built circuit and supply proper machinery and clothing, which I can't but think would take a lot of the fun out of the whole deal.
As it was going to harm no-one other than ourselves I can't really see why anyone should do anything other than smile indulgently. It seems a lot better than going around stealing cars to go ram raiding, mugging people for the fun of it or doing hard drugs just for the kicks.
I must admit to having turned many a civilian off motorcycling by taking them pillion. It may just be my riding style as even a hard-core motorcycle riding friend got off the back looking a bit shaken up although I’m still here after 22 years of motorcycling, so it can’t be that bad, can it?
One poor wretch climbed off the back and promptly threw up, something to do with charging down the pot-holed back lanes at 50mph on a CD175 with the pillion pegs on the swinging arm mounts and leaving the braking to the last possible moment, almost amusing with quick fade SLS drum brakes. The CD quailed at this lack of thought, taking on more than a passing resemblance to a rocking horse and the wretch was later heard muttering about the doubtfulness of my making it to my eighteenth birthday.
The only way I survive on the pillion perch is by giving the rider the benefit of the doubt, assuming that his life isn’t so terrible that he wants to end it all in a blur of screaming metal and rushing air. This rather optimistic view is probably misplaced in some cases but as there’s absolutely nothing I can do, other than jump off at the first opportunity, there seems no point in going into all out heart attack mode. Anyway, I’ve always found that when you take a real risk, over-coming something that would normally leave you quaking in fear and loathing, whole new avenues of life open up...
Another friend managed to break his leg on his first outing (I blame the BSA myself, although he reckoned it was a foot deep pot-hole) and his arm on the second (and, yes, the plaster on the leg had been taken off). The coven of hospital staff spent more time lecturing him on his stupidity and the dangers of motorcycling than tending to his care but that didn’t stop him riding a newly purchased Yamaha 125 into the distance once his arm had recovered. Had he not pursued his passion for motorcycles, he would never have met his wife, formed a business with her and gotten so rich than he won't talk to me any more, though he does still ride.
Another motorcycle virgin was given a go on my own steed. After explaining what the controls were for he roared off up the road, froze up completely with the throttle fully open. Just before the engine was going to explode at what sounded like 15000 revs to my concerned ears, and just before he was going to roar into the middle of a main road, he suddenly snapped out of it, closed the throttle and hit every lever in sight.
He actually stopped OK but forgot to put his feet down as the bike came to a halt. The almost liquefied engine extracted its revenge in the form of a third degree burn on his leg, which fortunately for him protected my machine from any serious damage. He never went anywhere near a ‘bloody motorcycle’ again. Another chap, got further into the game on a GT185 until after two months he hit the side of a bus, with more damage to the machine and bus than himself. I was only surprised that he’d survived so long as he obviously belonged in a mental institution, demonstrating a terrifying disregard for traffic, speed and riding under the influence of various substances as intoxicating as they were illegal.
I saw him about ten years later when he'd settled down into the staid straitjacket of middle-class life, although he couldn't hide the nervous twitch when I reminded him of his mad days on the Suzuki. I can't help but feel that he would've been a much more interesting character if he’d carried on with his motorcycling adventures - or maybe just dead!
You to have admire the really old guys who turn up after a hard day’s ride with eyes as bright as a heroin addict in the passing moment of a high and the confident grin of a survivor who has beaten all the odds set against him. I think it’s something to look forward to in thirty years time.
For some strange reason, despite falling off, hitting other vehicles and occasionally frightening myself so much that the bike wobbled for miles afterwards, I've never seriously thought about giving up motorcycling. I have escaped its clutches for a couple of months, usually when abroad in such desperate traffic conditions that it'd be safer playing Russian Roulette than riding a bike, but the outrageous thrills and sheer buzz of the experience always lure me back.
Bill Fowler
Welcome to our little corner of the WWW! We offer real motorcycling stories rescued from Interweb oblivion for your enjoyment, edification and reading pleasure, with horrible layout and questionable grammar as standard since 2010 ;)
"Russian warship... go fuck yourself"