Motorcycle hell

He was old and he was weary, He’d had his fill of years,
He’d ridden many million miles around this ‘Vale of Tears’,
And yet he still stood upright, a motorcyclist proud,
As slowly he ascended to a place above the clouds.

The Pearly Gates came into view, and one more step he took,
The man in charge of movements, was checking through his book;
‘We’ve a problem here’ Saint Peter said, ‘You’re to see the man in Stores.
Just take the cloudbank to your left, and go down several floors.’

Our hero took the proffered route, and came upon a hall,
With wings and harps and nightshirts, stacked high against the walls!
Once more there was confusion, his was a special case,
So down the aisles and out the back, to yet another place.

And there in all it’s glory, there stood a VELOCETTE,
With pristine paint and sparkling chrome, no miles upon it yet!
‘It’s yours’ said Peter’s helper, ‘We wish you happy miles!’
A first kick start, and down the road, his face all wreathed in smiles!

This bike it used no petrol, it’s oil it never dropped,
The tires they never lost their grip, or scuffed in any spot.
The motor never missed a beat, the chains they never wore!
This bike was so darned perfect, the rider never swore!

But in the end resentment began to fill our mate;
He longed for some adjustment, and tools about the floor,
some dust upon the paintwork!
He’d never been so BORED!!

So back to Peter’s helper, a query on his lips,
‘I’VE HAD THIS THING FOR AGES, AND NOTHING EVER SLIPS!,
I realise now, it’s not for me, this place seems rather strange,
and if you’ve no objection, I’d much prefer a change.’

The storeman chewed his pencil, and gave a little smile,
‘You can’t return the bike’ he said, ‘or change your domicile!
You’re here for all Eternity, now listen to me well!,
You’re stuck with it forever – IN MOTORCYCLIST’S HELL!’

Forget those Ks & pascals

Forget those ‘Ks’ and Pascals, and all that litre crap,
Just miles per hour, and wind on face, and all the old times back!
Insects filling eyes and lungs, tears streaming past your ears!
No hint of modern traffic, let’s just roll back the years.

No purrs or whines – just steady beats, with just a trace of clatter,
Cold and wet discomfort, that never seemed to matter!
No ULP or slicks, or fairings front and rear,
When I’m off and rolling, the years just disappear.

The day will come I know, when I’m stuck on full retard!
With locked up joints and seizures, that make just walking hard,
But hopefully I’ll still find joy, just watching from the side,
Those great machines of time gone by, and seeing others ride.

Murphy’s motorcycle

Now Murphy had a push bike, the frame was far from sound!
The chain was stiff, the seat long gone, the wheels were less than round;
He dreamed of faster travel, and soaring like a kite,
and so he saved ‘potatoes’, and bought another bike.

Now this one had an engine, a large and oily lump!
The lights worked by electrics, and threw a glow up front,
The petrol tank was ‘saddle’ and a reddish shade of green;
With pipes and taps and knee grips, a finer sight you’d never seen!

The gearbox was a terror, the clutch was simply vile!
The engine seized, a tire blew, before he’d gone a mile.
You could trace the front wheel’s progress, by it’s ring of flying sparks!
(this bike would now be Classic, worth many thousand bucks!)

The tires had seen a better day, the wheels were light on spokes;
But now he had some transport – unlike the other blokes!
The village gazed in wonder, as he rode it home from town,
The motor firing weakly, (the grades were mostly down!)

He steered the monster gently, towards the nearest pub,
it shook and smoked and rattled, but made it to his club.
His mates all gathered ’round, and gazed in silent awe,
at rusted chrome and oily parts, that dripped upon the floor;
But Murphy was exultant! – he’d had a taste of speed,
he figured that a bit of love, was all his bike would need.

The starting drill was easy – but not the quickest part!
The levers set, you gave a kick – it just refused to start!
Some said that it was petrol, it only needed choke,
Others said the sparkplug – or something must be broke.

A lot of kicking later and quite a bit of pain,
the trouble was located – a broken primary chain!
A couple of pints of Irish ale, brightened up the day,
His mates were quick to help him, and pushed him on his way.

Down the hill and round the bend to the local auto shop,
But then he found another fault – the thing refused to stop!
He missed the little hump-backed bridge, the women fled and screamed –
bike and rider parted then and ended in the stream.

It took some weeks to fix the bike, with missing parts that mattered;
Murphy took much longer; his confidence was shattered!
Then came a day he tried again, and everything went well,
He ventured far o’er hill and dale, until the twilight fell;
He turned for home with lights ablaze, his heart began to swell,
but then the Prince of Darkness struck, and Heaven turned to Hell!.

He stopped and did some tinkering, but nothing did he gain;
The fog came down, his matches spent – it then began to rain!
He pushed his treasure homewards, reflecting on his plight,
but Murphy was no quitter! He was going to tame his bike!

He took a correspondence course, on motorcycle themes,
he pulled the stubborn beast apart – and fixed it in his dreams
The light of day was harder – it had a thousand parts,
the valves were worked by rockers, it’s internals – pure Black Arts!

Perseverance was his watchword, and then there came a day,
a gentle prod, a burst of power, and he was on his way.
It’s said you hear him riding still, the motor beating well,
on darkest nights a gentle beam goes racing through the dell!

But then again there’s other tales of Irish Saints blasphemed,
as Murphy gamely soldiers on, with problems yet unseen,
it’s hoped he’ll find eternal peace, his spirit finally rest;
His Irish soul untroubled – his motorcycle blessed!

Bluddy!

I was born unfortunately with defective hearing and eyesight, and never drove a car or motorcycle, but though I am now well into my eighties I well recall the names of motorcycles that I encountered stationary with their riders at the roadside – Duggie, Vinny, Beama, Blownup, Pissoff, Arley, Injun, Vello (or was it Jello?), Henfield, Rough Exterior, Matchy, Fanny B, Beeza, Panter, Trumpy, Beam, Duke, Heapershit, Cally, Hairyyell, Herder
I often wondered why people talk to inanimate objects and always stopped and made conversation with these sometimes abrupt people! I do also recall that a lot of the names were often prefixed by the name Bluddy!

Your’s sincerely, Chatty Old B

Double happiness!

How could he complain! He had just traded his old Triumph single in on a lovely Speed Twin and sidecar, and he was dating the loveliest girl in the world, fun to be with, a great dancer and party goer, and wonderful to cuddle up to after an evening of fun. True! Her sparkling personality seemed to change a little from time to time, but never for the worse, and on the next date she would be back to her old self.

Her wishes were never ignored, one of the first had seen the sidecar removed from the Trumpy, the better to enjoy the weekend trips out into the countryside, carefree two-up riding, with her holding him close definitely had it’s advantages, and after a few months there were signs that she expected that their relationship should be put on a more permanent footing. He wasn’t all too sure about this step, but if he wished to continue the comfortable easy life that they had fallen into, he was running short of options. However, things continued as they were until, with the Easter break approaching, she suddenly suggested that they should take a cottage in the country for a few days and with this in mind, could he please put the sidecar back on the bike.

This seemed a reasonable request, as there would be luggage, and he had no objection to the change, but uppermost in his mind was the thought of a few days of relaxation, something that had been pretty hard to come by in the hectic months of their time together. She was not only beautiful, but also a very lusty physical person, and he was beginning to wonder if he was in fact, capable of maintaining their pace of life together.
So the Triumph was given a service, and the sidecar was dragged out and hitched on, and while she attended to the details of cottage hire, everything was soon ready to go. Time passed quickly and he was looking forward to picking her up on Thursday night before Easter.

As he eased the outfit into the kerb in front of her home, she emerged with her suitcase, and his pulse quickened as he took in the sight of her slim form and light Summer clothes. This was going to be the best weekend of his whole life!! A long kiss, and he busied himself with strapping the suitcase on to the sidecar’s parcel rack.

All secured, he stood up and for the first time, REALLY understood. Facing him were identical smiling twins!!

The little scooter that could

A TRUE STORY ABOUT BARB

It all started with this bloke who rode into my yard one day on a Triumph Speed Twin. He was a newcomer to our district and my reputation as a motorcycle ‘fixer’ had brought him to my door with a spring hub rear wheel that flopped about so horribly, that my sole comment was ‘Go and buy a new rigid wheel and throw that lot away!’ I can’t recall what happened about the wheel, but as a matter of course, I soon made a point of visiting the newcomer’s home – the most probable excuse that I used for doing so being that a mate had told me that he had a very attractive blonde sister! At that time my mode of transport was a scooter that I had constructed using a pre-war Ariel frame turned upside down and the front frame tube removed, the top frame tube (now the bottom) bent to give the headstock the correct angle, then the girder forks shortened and eight inch wheelbarrow wheels fitted. The new motive force was a 98cc German D.K.W. unit, the design of which was copied for the B.S.A. Bantam. The result was covered with a neat hand beaten body and this filled my need for a going to work vehicle.

This ‘odd bod’ construction came about purely because the Ariel cycle parts used were once a 16 H Norton powered work outfit, and some time previously the Norton engine and gearbox, and the Ariel rear wheel and mudguard, had become the basis of a ‘Three Wheeler’, and at this point in time, the completely worn out 16 H engine was being replaced by a BSA A7 twin unit. The conversion was being carried out as spare time permitted and it was while I was visiting the new neighbours one Sunday, that this sister demanded that she be allowed to go for a short ride on the scooter, and despite her brother’s loud warnings of disaster, I foolishly allowed her to depart up our local main road, with very clear instructions to go up to the next major road intersection and then return.

We watched her depart in the light Sunday traffic of 1950, and the minutes ticked by to the sounds of her brother’s loud ‘I told you so’s’. I was very much relieved when the scooter re-appeared – but from the opposite direction! The little blonde rider was a trifle ruffled and couldn’t conceal the odd bloodied scratches on her forearms – but there was an explanation forthcoming.

The little scooter had apparently wanted to go for a ‘good ride around the block’ but on the second corner where the roads were very second class in the manner of those far off post-war days, it decided to veer off the road, and go head first into a boxthorn bush hedge (very common in our district then). The scooter and rider finished up firmly jammed into this thorny prison. It was only with the assistance of a passing motorist that the whole plot was extricated and helped to get going again.

What happened to the little blonde? Well she’s a great grandmother now and still prone to ignoring good advice. And cheeky as she ever was and still blaming the scooter!! How do I know all this? Well I leave it to the readers to figure this out for themselves.

The dolly bird

I was sitting in my small workshop, an almost empty bottle of beer beside me, and my eyes half seeing a small frame and wheels and a collection of small engine parts on the floor in front of me. My thoughts wandered back.

It was about three weeks ago, and I had ridden down to the local newsagent to pick up my ‘Green Un’, and was sitting astride my Trumpy at the kerb, flipping through the pages to see what was of major interest, when I felt a touch on my arm, and raised my eyes to take in the sight of a gorgeous bird in high boots and a miniskirt. ‘I can see that you are a keen motorcyclist’ she trilled, ‘I was wondering if you would be interested in clearing out a shed full of old bikes, and cleaning them up so that I can sell them?’

Did she think I was stupid? But then again it wouldn’t hurt to look. So in moments the Triumph was ticking over and she was on the pillion seat giving me directions to her home. Soon the shed door was open and there were at least half a dozen bikes covered in oil and dust – most with flat tires. ‘Somewhere at the back there is a dismantled Velocette’ she murmured, ‘You can have it if you clean the bikes up, and maybe get them going.’
And so it was for the next two weeks; any spare time saw me toiling away with the kerosine brush and the garden hose, polishing and pumping up tires, and in most cases the bikes were running by the time would be buyers started turning up in answer to the ads that she had placed.

I had tried every ploy that I knew to get her to spend some fun time with me, but with no success. She plied me with endless cups of herbal tea, and even the shock of finding out that my Velocette was in fact nothing more than the remains of a Velo Solex was soon forgotten when she appeared in pink leather hot pants, with the usual cup of tea! In between times I had managed to ask as to her married status and she had dismissed the question easily saying ‘Yes I am married, but my husband has another passionate love, and there is little that I can do about it!’

So it was that the cleaned up bikes were wheeled and ridden out the gate by their new owners, at a price that I considered reasonable to say the least! Even my mate snapped up a nice Bonneville that would have been mine if I had the ‘Ready’! He left with his last whispered words still in my ear, ‘Who the hell would want a ‘Bonnie’ when you have that bird practically eating out of your hand?’

So at the end of the day I collected my Velo Solex, and went home to consider my next move with a girl who was not only beautiful but was now ‘flush’ with the proceeds of the bikes – and my labours! So while I showered and shaved I considered a plan of action that I was sure would advance our relationship a bit further.
I rode back and parked the bike out front and was immediately aware of some pretty impressive motorcycle sounds coming from around the back of the house. It proved to be a Black Shadow being fettled by a big bloke squatting beside it, while ‘my’ bird stood alongside with a look of complete satisfaction on her face! ‘Oh Hello’ she said sweetly, ‘This is my husband, he has been rebuilding the Vincent around at his mate’s place for weeks, only coming home to sleep! We are booked on the boat with the bike in a few days. We are going over to the Isle of Man and then doing the tour of the continental circuits – we may even stay over there if we can get work permits.’

So, thinking back, I should have seen it coming. But her legs, and smiles, and those miniskirts!! I’m sticking with me mates from now on for a while!

The old A.J.S.

’DAAD!’ The two brothers had been whispering together as their elder sister and mother cleared away the dishes of the midday meal, while their father ran his eye over the Sunday Mail. Dad lowered the newspaper and knew immediately that the boys had something serious on their ten year old minds. ‘Yes?’ ‘It’s that old motorbike in the garden shed, could we pull it out and get it going?’

‘Well, you had better ask your mother about that’ said Dad, as he and his wife of fifteen years exchanged glances. This stumped the boys a bit, they were used to having requests referred to Mum, but on the subject of an old bike, a bit strange! Dad went on ‘It’s really your Mum’s bike – it’s a long story.’

‘You see, back in the depression before the war, I was working up on the Murray with a mate. We both owned pretty beat up old bikes, mine a Norton, his a Triumph, we were cutting wood at the time, and ‘batching’ in a shed on the property owned by a widow woman with a young sheila that we took to be her daughter.
The bike in our shed, was at that time sitting in the shed where we slept, with one tire missing, and a homemade sidecar chassis topped with a shallow box attached, and it was on a Sunday such as this, that this sheila walked down from the farmhouse and found us checking out the old A.J.S. For that’s what is, and in the course of conversation she said, ‘I’ll bet you boys could get that bike going, and teach me to ride!’
Such a challenge was soon acted upon, and with the widow’s permission (it wasn’t her mother) the side car was detached and it’s good tire went on the bare rim of the bike and we soon had it running around the paddock, with the girl showing that she would soon ride as well as we did!

A couple of weeks passed, and after paying the widow 2 pounds 10 shillings for the outfit. We had spent some time fitting the ‘sidebox’ to my 16 H Norton, and it was time to head back to Adelaide. I guess you could say that we had become pretty chummy with the sheila and it came as no surprise when she said that she was heading home to Adelaide also. She pointed out that she could ride the A.J.S. which I intended to partly dismantle and take home in the ‘box’.

So it was that soon after we all headed off at daybreak and had a good run until we were almost to my home town of Crafers in the Adelaide hills, at which point the back tire on the Norton went flat. While the mate and I sat on the side of the road and repaired the puncture, we sent the sheila on with instructions to call in to the house with the white picket fence on the edge of town and inform my family of our impending arrival.
We made it home and I was surprised to find that the sheila and the A.J.S. were gone! ‘She just gave us the message and rode off on her bike’ said Mum. ‘Her bloody bike!’ I exploded. ‘It’s mine!’ seeing my thoughts of a ‘prettied up’ bike putting a few quid in my pocket disappear. However a couple of beers at the pub with some old mates had everyone laughing at how we had been taken by a bit of fluff! Then for the first time I had a strange feeling that my loss wasn’t all to do with the A.J.S.

I busied myself doing a bit of part time work in the local market gardens and was surprised to come home one afternoon and see the old A.J.S. leaning on the front fence, and inside this sheila happily chatting to Mum and Dad over a cup of tea!

I stood there like a stunned mullet as she got up from the table, and gave me a big hug and immediately the tears and words began to fall out. ‘I stopped as you asked and gave your Mum the message but I was all mixed up inside. You never took any notice of me you sod – all you and your mate thought about was the bikes! Somehow I couldn’t face you again and, anyhow, the AJ was really sort of mine! I guess I intended to return it as soon as I sorted myself out, and so – here’s your bike back. I’ve looked after it.
So boys – that’s the story – and yes, you really will have to ask your Mother about this one!’