Early days - the first 5 years
Ever since I was 17 at school, (I'm 51 now) I've owned and ridden motorcycles - there are currently two sitting outside my door as I type, as well as the cars which, it has to be said, for a family man are marginally more appropriate and useful ;o)
So how did I gravitate towards life on fewer wheels than typically grace a Reliant Robin?
It was lucky that I ever did get into motorcycles, as it happens. These were the days just before the helmet law was enforced. Mum, rest her soul, was a nurse and had seen so many young lads with their brains hanging out and jaws swinging loose that she forbade me to buy a bike.
Instead, in lieu of a holiday with the family and as some sort of compromise , I was bought a Lambretta J125 Starstream SCOOTER!
Now, anyone with an appreciation of bikes will recognise this as having been the next daftest decision to asking a Rottweiler to babysit for you during a heatwave. But there I was, putting around Sunderland on this thing, my mate Steve on his CB250 Honda, another, Pete, on his 250 Bultaco... Even Geoff's CB125 was a proper bike. Was I a laughing stock or WHAT??
Nevertheless I went everywhere on it, filling the tank with my meagre pocket money allowance and begging more when it ran out; Rothbury, Barnard Castle, Druridge Bay... well, not much further than 50 miles if we could help it really - it was so tedious with its maximum 60mph (and that was down hill). When negotiating a left turn the throttle cable often fell off. When turning right, the engine raced like mad!
But I stuck with it nearly a year and when I'd convinced my dear mum (by not having actually admitted to falling off it at all) that I was competent, she relented and grudgingly OK'd a proper bike.
I began the transition from Mod to Rocker (!) by helping a mate Quentin, (God bless him - he died of Leukaemia aged only 18) and another pal, Norman, get his Ariel Arrow 250 working.
I then acquired a BSA C15 250 and learnt for myself, how engines worked - or didn't - aided and abetted by same Norman. Trouble was I never had enough money to do a proper job on it so it spent most of the time in pieces on the garage floor.
When I was 18 I was in work and old enough to sign an HP agreement. That was it, straight down to Tommy Cowies where I picked out this 'huge', blue Suzuki GT250M Ram Air. I mean, after the scooter, it was immense.
Remember, I was only a gangly youth. Wobbling away from the showroom and down Hylton Road with 'L' plates affixed (things were better in those days - no CBT, 250 limit for learners, fewer cars, cheaper petrol, no Gatsos or traps... shall I stop?), I felt I'd at last arrived!
There was no stopping me - quite literally sometimes! I even got my 75 year oldgrandmother on it once! Yes, I went everywhere with it...
Until it got pinched, that was.
In Sunderland in the seventies there was a particular gang of lads whose prime aim in life was to take and ride other peoples' bikes. Everyone knew who they were but nobody could touch them. Not even the Law, whom they teased mercilessly.
So I eventually got the insurance money and bought another GT250. Exactly the same as the first. Joy unbounded....
Meanwhile I was doing shift work alongside a member one of Sunderland's minority clubs, let's say, and I inevitably made acquaintance with some of the other guys too.
Remember that old C15 from earlier? Well I still had it and decided it would be good chopped. Now I had a bit of money to 'invest' in my new interest, 'custom' bikes...!
In fact we resorted to the age old system of barter and one of the lads agreed to chop the Ceefer and put some extended forks on it in exchange for some gear I had. Unfortunately the bike wasn't exactly....straight when I got it back. In fact it was irretrievably rubbished, so I wrote it off there and then, putting it down to experience. After all I was only 18 and wanted to live a bit longer if possible...
Then the Suzuki got nicked again (and it's important at this point to point out that none of the aforementioned acquaintances were in any way involved - as I say, I pretty much know who it really was) though it was recovered a couple of days later, behind my old school, just in time for the Queen's Silver Jubilee.
Of course, I celebrated by throwing a party - well, who wouldn't. After all, I just got my bike back!
Anyway, it was the same weekend that I got my first speeding ticket racing a Bonneville down the Durham Road. Neither of us saw the jam sarnie pull up behind us but we were well aware of it by the time we got to the lights outside the Barnes Hotel. As was everyone else who turned to acknowledge the blues and twos...!
We took the rap and after Plod left, my 'co-criminal', Eric, whom I'd never met in my life before, and I had a laugh, shook hands and parted. I ran into him a couple of times after that as we had common friends (all of my friends were common ;o) and we still laughed about the event.
SP30 and £30 fine.
I took my test shortly after that. Despite a 10 yard skid on the emergency stop and having to do it again, I guessed I could be in with a shout when the tester asked some motorway questions, then, "So what bike do you fancy?"
For some time Steve had been into Nortons and had upgraded his Dommie 600 for a 850 Commando. I wanted to 'pair' it up by getting a Triumph, so having thrown the red 'L' to the four winds, I scoured the classifieds for the requisite wheels.
A couple of weeks later I was riding back from Easington Colliery with a T150v Trident, having taken over the previous owner's HP agreement.
I had a job, a steady girlfriend who loved bikes, and a Triumph. What more could a young lad want?
Ever since I was 17 at school, (I'm 51 now) I've owned and ridden motorcycles - there are currently two sitting outside my door as I type, as well as the cars which, it has to be said, for a family man are marginally more appropriate and useful ;o)
So how did I gravitate towards life on fewer wheels than typically grace a Reliant Robin?
It was lucky that I ever did get into motorcycles, as it happens. These were the days just before the helmet law was enforced. Mum, rest her soul, was a nurse and had seen so many young lads with their brains hanging out and jaws swinging loose that she forbade me to buy a bike.
Instead, in lieu of a holiday with the family and as some sort of compromise , I was bought a Lambretta J125 Starstream SCOOTER!
Now, anyone with an appreciation of bikes will recognise this as having been the next daftest decision to asking a Rottweiler to babysit for you during a heatwave. But there I was, putting around Sunderland on this thing, my mate Steve on his CB250 Honda, another, Pete, on his 250 Bultaco... Even Geoff's CB125 was a proper bike. Was I a laughing stock or WHAT??Nevertheless I went everywhere on it, filling the tank with my meagre pocket money allowance and begging more when it ran out; Rothbury, Barnard Castle, Druridge Bay... well, not much further than 50 miles if we could help it really - it was so tedious with its maximum 60mph (and that was down hill). When negotiating a left turn the throttle cable often fell off. When turning right, the engine raced like mad!
But I stuck with it nearly a year and when I'd convinced my dear mum (by not having actually admitted to falling off it at all) that I was competent, she relented and grudgingly OK'd a proper bike.
I began the transition from Mod to Rocker (!) by helping a mate Quentin, (God bless him - he died of Leukaemia aged only 18) and another pal, Norman, get his Ariel Arrow 250 working.
I then acquired a BSA C15 250 and learnt for myself, how engines worked - or didn't - aided and abetted by same Norman. Trouble was I never had enough money to do a proper job on it so it spent most of the time in pieces on the garage floor.
When I was 18 I was in work and old enough to sign an HP agreement. That was it, straight down to Tommy Cowies where I picked out this 'huge', blue Suzuki GT250M Ram Air. I mean, after the scooter, it was immense.
Remember, I was only a gangly youth. Wobbling away from the showroom and down Hylton Road with 'L' plates affixed (things were better in those days - no CBT, 250 limit for learners, fewer cars, cheaper petrol, no Gatsos or traps... shall I stop?), I felt I'd at last arrived!
There was no stopping me - quite literally sometimes! I even got my 75 year oldgrandmother on it once! Yes, I went everywhere with it...
Until it got pinched, that was.
In Sunderland in the seventies there was a particular gang of lads whose prime aim in life was to take and ride other peoples' bikes. Everyone knew who they were but nobody could touch them. Not even the Law, whom they teased mercilessly.
So I eventually got the insurance money and bought another GT250. Exactly the same as the first. Joy unbounded....
Meanwhile I was doing shift work alongside a member one of Sunderland's minority clubs, let's say, and I inevitably made acquaintance with some of the other guys too.
Remember that old C15 from earlier? Well I still had it and decided it would be good chopped. Now I had a bit of money to 'invest' in my new interest, 'custom' bikes...!
In fact we resorted to the age old system of barter and one of the lads agreed to chop the Ceefer and put some extended forks on it in exchange for some gear I had. Unfortunately the bike wasn't exactly....straight when I got it back. In fact it was irretrievably rubbished, so I wrote it off there and then, putting it down to experience. After all I was only 18 and wanted to live a bit longer if possible...
Then the Suzuki got nicked again (and it's important at this point to point out that none of the aforementioned acquaintances were in any way involved - as I say, I pretty much know who it really was) though it was recovered a couple of days later, behind my old school, just in time for the Queen's Silver Jubilee.
Of course, I celebrated by throwing a party - well, who wouldn't. After all, I just got my bike back!
Anyway, it was the same weekend that I got my first speeding ticket racing a Bonneville down the Durham Road. Neither of us saw the jam sarnie pull up behind us but we were well aware of it by the time we got to the lights outside the Barnes Hotel. As was everyone else who turned to acknowledge the blues and twos...!
We took the rap and after Plod left, my 'co-criminal', Eric, whom I'd never met in my life before, and I had a laugh, shook hands and parted. I ran into him a couple of times after that as we had common friends (all of my friends were common ;o) and we still laughed about the event.
SP30 and £30 fine.
I took my test shortly after that. Despite a 10 yard skid on the emergency stop and having to do it again, I guessed I could be in with a shout when the tester asked some motorway questions, then, "So what bike do you fancy?"
For some time Steve had been into Nortons and had upgraded his Dommie 600 for a 850 Commando. I wanted to 'pair' it up by getting a Triumph, so having thrown the red 'L' to the four winds, I scoured the classifieds for the requisite wheels.
A couple of weeks later I was riding back from Easington Colliery with a T150v Trident, having taken over the previous owner's HP agreement.
I had a job, a steady girlfriend who loved bikes, and a Triumph. What more could a young lad want?
The Trident handled like a dream. It got me into and back out of spots I couldn't have managed on many bikes then or since. OK, it rattled, dripped oil and burnt a plug out on the way back from Redcar.
It also burnt a piston out on the way from Durham and left me looking like one of the Red Arrows display team, streaming white smoke behind me.
After I eventually sold it on, having been enticed into buying a brand new CB750 F2 Honda by Steve who'd just bought one himself, it threw a con-rod through the crankcase in Wales. Mind, I have it on authority that the guy was used to pushing it a bit... Old Triumphs should be cossetted, not thrashed.
Shame, because that bike had character! I still have one of the pistons I took out of it, as a reminder.
The F2 was another animal completely.
Smooth, quiet, quick but handled like a pig on rollerskates with the original Bridgestones! There should have been a law against that... Avon Road Runners went on within 200 miles and things never looked back!
My circle of biking buddies was changing now, especially since Steve had joined Northumbria Police then got engaged.
Kevin and his Z1000 Kawasaki were also on the Force and my other half had gone to Hull Uni. Never mind, Mike had bought Steve's old Norton and there were John, Colin, Martin, Brian and another Steve, on a collection of big Kawasakis, Hondas and Yamahas.
One evening we all decided to pop out for a pint. "Nothing unusual about that", you might say. Except we went down to Richmond in North Yorkshire for the first half, then across to the top of the Pennines to the Tan Hill Inn, for the second. All told, over 100 miles just for a pint.Could you think of a more bleak spot for a pub? No, you couldn't - it's the highest one in England and the rain comes down horizontally!
Irresponsible, potentially dangerous and stupid really, considering all the loose sheep up on the moors. But we were kids and we got away with it, for which I'm very grateful.
One weekend jaunt did have a particularly special moment, though....
The morning after a Saturday camp-night before, it was decided we'd ride up to Stanhope and meet at the petrified tree. (If you know Stanhope, you'll know where I mean). Anyway, this entailed crossing the river at a ford. Of course, being crazy showoffs, we thought it would be great sport to go through at some lick with the intent of splashing all and sundry around.
Being Sunday and summer (we had nice summers back in the old days...), there were lots of families picnicking and generally having a gentile time on the riverbank. All I can say is that thankfully we hadn't actually had rain for some time because with my feet up on the crash bars in a futile attempt to keep my trainers dry, I flipped the bike over in the middle of the river and slid off the ford, sideways, with a helmet full of the river Wear. (Or was it the Tees - I'm never sure!) That did make everyone laugh.... After they recovered from the shock, that is!
Needless to say it took me best part of the afternoon to dry off, clothes strung out on bungees between the other bikes. No real harm done though.
I found out some years later that the guy who is probably my best mate now, Theodore, used to proddy race his F2 in Greece. I never had the balls to race solo's , nor ever had the inclination if I'm honest.
I'd travel down to Scarborough for the Cock'O'The North races on Oliver's Mount, or Cadwell,, or Brands but racing wasn't really what bikes were about for me. One of the other guys I worked with, Greg, raced a TZ350 Yamaha and seemed to spend more time falling off than finishing on it! But I digress...
So what on earth prompted me to buy a Honda GoldWing, then?
I got a bit bored with the F2 after a couple of years and chopped it in for a used mammoth of a bike. Maybe it wasn't just getting bored with the bike - I had recently split with my girlfriend of several years and looking back, it probably harboured too many memories. Certainly I wasn't thinking straight! I was 21 and has degenerated from fast road bikes to .... a tourer! Actually, it didn't have all the fairings, wing-back seats and grandfather-clock-type accessories that you see on a Wing these days, but it sure was big and heavy. It had a certain presence and I liked that. And it had space to hide a little Midland CB radio if I wanted... inside the dummy petrol tank. CB was my new love. (Now you know, where it was, WPC Harrop. Ha ha!).
Whereas the Trident got me in and out of potentially dodgy situations, the Wing got me places where, but for my guardian angel, I should never have escaped in one piece, such was the appalling handling and hopeless braking.
It was around that time that I was involved with the Sunderland CB club. In fact, I was treasurer for some time. These were the days before it was entirely erm... legal to install and operate such equipment. Nevertheless there we were, cruising around the NE, chatting, reporting wrongdoers (slight hypocrisy there, possibly...) and raising a bit of cash for charity. (Hurrah!)
Mind, it wasn't all sunshine and Good Buddies. Sunderland CB Club (as was) must have been responsible for one of the biggest pileups ever on the Wearmouth Bridge back in those halcyon days. It was more than a bit embarrassing and no small fault of the local law enforcement agents, in my opinion.
Try to picture it... We had organised a rally one Sunday afternoon, through the town centre. It was all legitimate - about 25 cars all told, with big aerials. You know.
Half of the convoy (I hate using that word but that's what it was, by definition!) were allowed round the agreed route, TopCat with his Martini XS1100 Yamaha leading. As per plan.
The other half, for some reason, were directed across the bridge, northbound. With me as tail-end Charlie.
It's not really clear what happened next but the result was 5 cars cannoning into each other halfway across said bridge. Whilst I was trying to see where on earth the main part of the procession had gone, I parked my bike into the back of a Ford Popular. The Wing was literally standing up, wedged under the back of the car. I went over the bars and ended up spreadeagled on its rear window.
The occupants of the car had to kick the doors open to get out... I couldn't find a rock big enough to crawl under.
After all the names and addresses were exchanged and much scratching of heads had been done by members of the constabulary trying to understand the course of events leading to this fiasco, TopCat towed me back home. At frighteningly inappropriate speeds, it has to be said. Thanks, mate.
The damage report later that afternoon, revealed bent forks, bent handlebars (where I had braced and bent them forward on impact) a slashed front tyre, (which I hadn't spotted prior to the tow home!) smashed headlamp, punctured radiator and a mudguard that looked like a concertina bellows.
Over the next few days, aided by Pat in the Polytechnic (because that's what they were called in those days, not Universities...) who straightened the stanchions, Paul who was pretty much my best mate (who rode a Suzuki GS550 and thought CBers were a joke), and a copious supply of McEwans beer (we used the cans, cut into strips and concertina'd and sprayed black to fix the radiator fins!), we had it all fixed well enough to go on a camping holiday in Shropshire within a fortnight. Lipu would have been proud.
As with all things, I soon got bored with Goldie. A geezer offered me some cash plus a Z750 Kawasaki for her and I shook on it.
It had a red frame and Ford Mercury red tank and panels. Oh, and VW Beetle baffles welded into the original silencers. It even sounded like a Beetle!
Hell's bells, I seemed to be progressing backwards .....
In fact I nearly was when, next evening, one of the rear suspension units dismantled itself as I was passing the General Hospital. Kawasakis weren't the best of handlers anyway back in those days but now things had deteriorated beyond a joke... Mind you, it was probably one of the first single-suspension bikes around at the time! A visit to Graham Little sorted me out a pair of replacements and it was business as usual again...
One weekend jaunt did have a particularly special moment, though....
The morning after a Saturday camp-night before, it was decided we'd ride up to Stanhope and meet at the petrified tree. (If you know Stanhope, you'll know where I mean). Anyway, this entailed crossing the river at a ford. Of course, being crazy showoffs, we thought it would be great sport to go through at some lick with the intent of splashing all and sundry around.
Being Sunday and summer (we had nice summers back in the old days...), there were lots of families picnicking and generally having a gentile time on the riverbank. All I can say is that thankfully we hadn't actually had rain for some time because with my feet up on the crash bars in a futile attempt to keep my trainers dry, I flipped the bike over in the middle of the river and slid off the ford, sideways, with a helmet full of the river Wear. (Or was it the Tees - I'm never sure!) That did make everyone laugh.... After they recovered from the shock, that is!
Needless to say it took me best part of the afternoon to dry off, clothes strung out on bungees between the other bikes. No real harm done though.
I found out some years later that the guy who is probably my best mate now, Theodore, used to proddy race his F2 in Greece. I never had the balls to race solo's , nor ever had the inclination if I'm honest.
I'd travel down to Scarborough for the Cock'O'The North races on Oliver's Mount, or Cadwell,, or Brands but racing wasn't really what bikes were about for me. One of the other guys I worked with, Greg, raced a TZ350 Yamaha and seemed to spend more time falling off than finishing on it! But I digress...
So what on earth prompted me to buy a Honda GoldWing, then?
I got a bit bored with the F2 after a couple of years and chopped it in for a used mammoth of a bike. Maybe it wasn't just getting bored with the bike - I had recently split with my girlfriend of several years and looking back, it probably harboured too many memories. Certainly I wasn't thinking straight! I was 21 and has degenerated from fast road bikes to .... a tourer! Actually, it didn't have all the fairings, wing-back seats and grandfather-clock-type accessories that you see on a Wing these days, but it sure was big and heavy. It had a certain presence and I liked that. And it had space to hide a little Midland CB radio if I wanted... inside the dummy petrol tank. CB was my new love. (Now you know, where it was, WPC Harrop. Ha ha!).Whereas the Trident got me in and out of potentially dodgy situations, the Wing got me places where, but for my guardian angel, I should never have escaped in one piece, such was the appalling handling and hopeless braking.
It was around that time that I was involved with the Sunderland CB club. In fact, I was treasurer for some time. These were the days before it was entirely erm... legal to install and operate such equipment. Nevertheless there we were, cruising around the NE, chatting, reporting wrongdoers (slight hypocrisy there, possibly...) and raising a bit of cash for charity. (Hurrah!)
Mind, it wasn't all sunshine and Good Buddies. Sunderland CB Club (as was) must have been responsible for one of the biggest pileups ever on the Wearmouth Bridge back in those halcyon days. It was more than a bit embarrassing and no small fault of the local law enforcement agents, in my opinion.
Try to picture it... We had organised a rally one Sunday afternoon, through the town centre. It was all legitimate - about 25 cars all told, with big aerials. You know.Half of the convoy (I hate using that word but that's what it was, by definition!) were allowed round the agreed route, TopCat with his Martini XS1100 Yamaha leading. As per plan.
The other half, for some reason, were directed across the bridge, northbound. With me as tail-end Charlie.
It's not really clear what happened next but the result was 5 cars cannoning into each other halfway across said bridge. Whilst I was trying to see where on earth the main part of the procession had gone, I parked my bike into the back of a Ford Popular. The Wing was literally standing up, wedged under the back of the car. I went over the bars and ended up spreadeagled on its rear window.
The occupants of the car had to kick the doors open to get out... I couldn't find a rock big enough to crawl under.
After all the names and addresses were exchanged and much scratching of heads had been done by members of the constabulary trying to understand the course of events leading to this fiasco, TopCat towed me back home. At frighteningly inappropriate speeds, it has to be said. Thanks, mate.
The damage report later that afternoon, revealed bent forks, bent handlebars (where I had braced and bent them forward on impact) a slashed front tyre, (which I hadn't spotted prior to the tow home!) smashed headlamp, punctured radiator and a mudguard that looked like a concertina bellows.
Over the next few days, aided by Pat in the Polytechnic (because that's what they were called in those days, not Universities...) who straightened the stanchions, Paul who was pretty much my best mate (who rode a Suzuki GS550 and thought CBers were a joke), and a copious supply of McEwans beer (we used the cans, cut into strips and concertina'd and sprayed black to fix the radiator fins!), we had it all fixed well enough to go on a camping holiday in Shropshire within a fortnight. Lipu would have been proud.
As with all things, I soon got bored with Goldie. A geezer offered me some cash plus a Z750 Kawasaki for her and I shook on it.
It had a red frame and Ford Mercury red tank and panels. Oh, and VW Beetle baffles welded into the original silencers. It even sounded like a Beetle!
Hell's bells, I seemed to be progressing backwards .....
In fact I nearly was when, next evening, one of the rear suspension units dismantled itself as I was passing the General Hospital. Kawasakis weren't the best of handlers anyway back in those days but now things had deteriorated beyond a joke... Mind you, it was probably one of the first single-suspension bikes around at the time! A visit to Graham Little sorted me out a pair of replacements and it was business as usual again...
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