Ulysses Club - Clarence Valley Group
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Ulysses Club - Clarence Valley Group |
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5415 Orara Way, Braunstone NSW 2460. Ph: 026649 3389
MY MOTORCYCLING MEMOIRS
BY ERIC ECKERT As far back as I can remember I have always had a love of motorbikes. I have vague recollections of traveling in the sidecar of Dad's ancient Harley Davidson at about 6 years of age sitting on my Mother's knee with brother Keith on a wooden stool our Grandfather had made. Incidentally, Keith told me recently that his knees got burnt if they touched the metal body of the sidecar on a hot day. Dad sold the Harley just prior to World War 2 and updated to an old Essex sedan which was 'put on blocks' during the war due to petrol rationing and Dad's enlistment in the R.A.A.F. The next motorbike in my life was Keith's 1928 James 350 cc. Single that he and his friend Alan Foy bought as a basket case. They worked on it for months and eventually had it up and running and had it registered, which was no mean feat for a couple of High School lads with no previous mechanical experience other than push-bikes. This took place towards the end of my schooldays in 1947. I showed a keen interest in this old bike and longed to have one of my own, but for the present had to be content with my trusty treadly. I do however remember pestering Keith for a ride on it and in due course I had my first ride at age 15 around the old disused Army barracks at Sutherland just south of Sydney. The buildings had long gone but the network of roads still existed for years, and provided us with the ideal learning ground. I promptly fell off the James much to Keith and Alan's disgust and eventually managed to snap the foot peg which would have made it impossible to ride home had it not been for a garage and workshop at the end of the 'mad mile' close by and the generosity Mr. Marshall, the owner, who happened to be working there. He kindly offered the boys the use of his tools and supplied the appropriate materials to make a complete new set of foot pegs which they thankfully accepted and I might add did a very professional job into the bargain. We kept returning to that 'training ground' and garage for years to come and had many a family picnic in the bush nearby. The area for years now is occupied by a very good tram museum.
I left school in 1948 and started work the following year as a cadet
draughtsman, which mainly consisted of getting the lunches, but much to
my pleasure there were 3 other draughtsmen there who were keen
motorcyclists. It must be remembered that in those early days after the
war, petrol rationing was still enforced; cars were not plentiful, so
motorbikes were the answer to the transport problem. By September that
same year I had saved up 50 Quid (100 dollars) and desperately needed a
motorbike for transport as my pushbike was the only means of getting to
work other than 'shank's pony (walking). I bought the Sydney Morning Herald one memorable Saturday morning and scanned the second hand bike adverts and found the cheapest bike for sale was a 1940 Indian for 47 pound 10 shillings (95 dollars) in unroadworthy condition. Dad was enthusiastic for me and together we brought the old bike home in the back of the 1936 Ford V8 sedan that Dad had recently bought from Jack Ferris of Ferris Car Radio fame. The old Indian was a model believed to have been assembled for the American Army out of old model parts in stock and I am led to believe there was not many of this model made. I certainly have not seen another like it. Having ridden it later on you could understand why there were not many produced. It's biggest weakness was it's inadequate clutch which was always slipping (trams used to out accelerate me at times) it's crash gearbox which by the time I got to own it it had to be held in first gear otherwise it would slip into neutral. This made it most difficult when turning corners and at the same time giving hand signals which was customary in those days. Indian produced a much more robust model for the Army in 1942 but they were as scarce as hens teeth and beyond my means. Some months later my mechanics Keith and Alan had the old bike going having had the old rear wheel beaded edge rim replaced with a more modern one, but unfortunately it had been spoked to the hub off centre. This meant that the back wheel did not track with the front wheel which gave it a will of it's own on cornering. I remember one of the first times I rode it down the hill to start it, the kick starter spring having been broken, it gave a loud explosion as if the Japs had just landed and burst into flames through the carby. I had the presence of mind to turn the petrol off and tip the bike on its side to let it burn out which eventually happened. The only damage was a melted petrol pipe connection and a dried out cork float in the carby which had to be re varnished . I realized later the reason for this backfire was that the high-tension leads had been crossed and promptly marked them so it would not happen again. The boys rode it in to get registered for me without any problems and returned displaying a shiny new number plate No. LK14. I have always tried to display pride of ownership of any of my possessions so this meant it would have to be re painted. I selected a nice pale blue Duco and borrowed Mum's hand pump fly spray atomizer, which I used to spray paint it with not having access to any other spray equipment at that time. It came up a million dollars even if it did require a lot of cutting compound and elbow grease. Next came the task of learning to ride properly and getting my licence. About 3 learners permits and numerous spills later, mostly on bloody wet tramlines, for in those days Sydney was infested with them, I eventually obtained my riders licence. This in itself is a story, because in those days in Sydney the Dept. of Motor Transport testing station was situated in the grounds of the Sydney Domain just behind the Sydney Hospital. It was in a quiet, narrow one-way traffic street and I was expected to perform a figure 8 without putting my feet down. This was quite impossible on that bike. Having failed on 2 occasions and renewing my learners permit once again, Keith suggested that I do my next test on his 1936 Mac Velocette which was a much easier bike to handle and I passed with flying colours or perhaps the testing officer was getting sick of the sight of me. The very first long trip I remember was a camping trip to the Wollondilly river just past Mittagong south of Sydney. There were two other bikes involved, Keith on his Vello and Peter Duffy riding pillion another mate Don Crawford on his 'Red hot Matcho,' a late model 5OOcc single Matchless, with Alan ' someone or other 'riding pillion .I had substantial canvas pannier bags on the Indian and was duly elected to carry all the tinned food supplies. We left Sydney early one Saturday morning in convoy and naturally, it was raining, and I managed to slip on the wet tramlines on a sweeping bend near Sydenham railway station. No damage was done except to my pride and we proceeded on in the drizzle uneventfully until, we reached the Wollondilly river early in the afternoon. The rain had stopped but the river was raging and unable for us to cross, although Don did try to negotiate it on his Matchless only to stall halfway across. We all stripped off to our undies, waded in and pushed the bike out, dried the spark plug and got it going again without too much trouble. We had the presence of mind to set up camp a good distance up from the high level water mark in case of flooding, for it looked very much as though more rain was on the way. Around the camp fire that night we all ate heartily, and told a lot of lies, and to liven things up, Peter threw a hand-full of live 22 cartridges in the fire. Most of them went off just like firecrackers but in hindsight it was a stupid thing to do and to be on the safe side Keith and I set up our tent with a huge tree between the fire and us just in case any more explosions occurred during the night. It rained on and off all through the night and the camp was a very dismal sight the next morning .Don had slept in his recently purchased ex American army tropical hammock which had it's own tent and mosquito net incorporated in it. Unfortunately for him he had neglected to place the flaps of the tent outside the hammock area and the rain overnight had resulted in him waking up in the morning in about 10 inches of water. We all thought it was hilarious, but he did not see the funny side as he was hobbling around like an old man with rheumatism, [much like I do now]. It was pretty obvious by now that the rain was not going to stop in the near future so we all voted to pack up and head for home before the gravel road became impassable. We started off quite well but each swollen creek crossing we came to the Indian splashed up water on to the distributor and conked out. Keith followed me up on his Vello, which took to the water like a duck, and with me holding a rain coat over him he patiently dried the distributor points out using the pages of a notebook, and we were able to start it again until we repeated the performance again at the next crossing. This went on all morning until we lost count of the number of times the bloody bike stopped and more tragically till we ran out of dry pages of the notebook. We had had enough by this time so while Don took the pillion passengers in to Mittagong in turn while Keith and I pushed the Indian up to an old barn and gained permission from the farmer to leave it there and come back to retrieve it the following week-end. Keith then took me in to Mittagong where we met up with our mates and virtually took over the local cafe and drank enormous quantities of coffee to warm up. I distinctly remember the waitress returning to our table to gather up the empty coffee pots to enable other customers to be served. We must have stayed in that cafe a couple of hours waiting for it to stop raining because there was a pool of water where we had been when we eventually left for home. I had no choice but to catch a train home and I had the pillion passengers for company having had enough of motorbikes for one weekend. To complete the little episode, Keith and I returned to the scene of the crime the following week end as promised, two-up on the Vello, armed with a fully charged battery, two new spark plugs, new condenser, coil and distributor points expecting the worst, but to our amazement the Indian started first kick having had all the week to dry out. It was then that my Indian was christened 'The Horrible Hindu'
Further camping trips eventuated with the same crew plus others for no
other excuse than to use up the canned food I had carried on that
notorious wet Mittagong trip. I recall on several occasions opening up
what looked like a tin of baked beans or meat and veggies only to
discover it to be jam or fruit. All that wet weather had washed the
labels off the tins so as a consequence
we ate some very strange meals on those early camping trips.. I have some very fond memories of the Indian, being my first bike I imagine, and traveled a lot of miles on it with relatively few problems once I learnt to understand what made it tick and was able to handle it more confidently, however it was time to move on to my next machine. Keith had bought a very smart and pre-loved 1948 twin 500cc B.S.A. which in fact had been garaged in the owner's lounge room in a semi detached house in Coogee there being no garages when those houses were built. Rather than let his Velocette go to a stranger I took over the reins and kept it in the family. We had also shared a 1939 Square Four Ariel lOOOcc for a short period but this was a strange bike to ride and quite frightening at times due to its power . I was not ready for it yet. The Velocette was a nice light bike with exceptionally good acceleration for it's time but like the Indian it had done a lot of work over the years and was wearing out. It had developed the annoying habit of stripping the fibre timing gear. Keith was advised to have a steel timing gear made to replace the fibre one but this was not the answer as it also stripped its teeth causing even more damage. It was time for a complete re-bush of the timing case and a new fibre gear to rectify the problem. I recall on a pig shooting expedition to Warren in western N.S.W. just prior to this timing case re-build, the Vello did it again at Orange on the way home. Keith became quite expert at replacing the timing gear on the side of the road as by now he always carried a spare. Quite a few events come to mind on that particular trip as I write. It was my first introduction to Mixomotosis, the disease introduced to eradicate the rabbit plague in that era. It was sad to see the poor animals slowly dying but if it had not been introduced the whole country would have been overrun with rabbits causing massive soil erosion and all sorts of associated problems. I refer to the trip as a pig-shooting trip, but more precisely it developed into a snake-shooting trip. Let it be known that we did not set out with the intention of killing snakes, even though at that time they were not protected, but for our own safety we disposed of the ones that attacked, mainly brown snakes, whilst we were tip- toeing through the scrub in search of wild pigs. In actual fact I think I became so scared of the evil reptiles that I tramped through the bush to warn them of our approach, and probably in so doing scared the wild pigs away. We did not see any pigs on that trip, only where they had been. I don't know how many of you readers have encountered black soil plains on a motorcycle after rain. I can assure you that it is a pretty hectic experience. I fell off that bike countless times when the front wheel slipped out from under me on the greasy surface. Keith was laughing all the time this was happening [I sustained no injuries] as by this time in his motorcycling career he had graduated to three wheels in the form of a side -car on the B. S. A. Another problem with the black soil was the build up it developed in a very short space of time. It got to the stage that we were sick of scraping the mud out from between the front tire and the small sports mudguard on the Vello so we took the offending part off and proceeded once again, replacing it when we were back on the road.
In 1952 I was attending Sydney Technical College at Ultimo along with
many other young chaps
who rode motorbikes. For security reasons we always took the precaution
of chaining the front wheel around the frame to prevent theft as you
could imagine with all those bikes parked there for hours on end, it was
a potential smorgasbord to any thief. One night a mate with a new Norton took the precaution of chaining the front wheel to a power pole only to be confronted with a front wheel still attached to the pole but no motorbike whenTech finished. He never ever did get that bike back but was reimbursed by insurance, which incidentally was a lot more reasonable in those days. One night I gave a classmate a lift home to Mallabar on the pillion of the Vello and it impressed him to the extent that shortly after when he had raised the money I sold it to him. Keith had by this time bought his first car, a!938 Morris 8/40 tourer and the B.S.A.was up for grabs. It was still in very good condition and I desperately wanted it .1 forget the financial arrangements but I seem to remember paying it off to him. I had many a good camping trip and a lot of fun on that bike and my deepest regret to this day is that I had to sell it in 1956 when I needed 4 wheels and a roof over me. One experience I never wish to repeat is falling asleep while riding a motorcycle. This happened to me early one Monday morning returning to National Service R.A.A.F. camp at Richmond, west of Sydney. I had been on weekend leave and by this time had started to take an interest in girls. Together with other mates on bikes we had attended several dances over the weekend resulting in late nights and I was 'burning the candle at both ends' which accounted for my tiredness. As the B.S.A., solo of course as the sidecar came off at the drop of a hat, careered off the bitumen it hit the rough verge and bumped around thus waking me up. Fortunately I missed all the trees and guideposts and managed not to fall off. I was the talk of the camp that day after parade as four mates had been following me in a car and had witnessed the whole embarrassing performance. Had the lottery ticket I bought that day won a prize I might very well still have my B.S.A. The main reason for riding the B.S, A.without a sidecar during those R.A.A, F. days was that it was easier to park in a barn just opposite a conveniently placed hole in the camp perimeter fence thus making it more convenient to hop on the bike and go swimming or whatever without the need of a leave pass. On one occasion we were 4up[three mates and myself] on the bike very carefully negotiating the rough track down to the Nepean river late one day to our favorite swimming hole . There also happened to be a farm on the opposite side of the river with a big water melon patch. Now being good watermelon eating weather, we decided to swim over, select a nice melon just big enough to fit in the pannier bag, and take it back to camp for a midnight snack. A simple enough plan. I learnt that night that watermelons float, and it is most difficult to swim with one in front of you when a farmer is firing on you with buckshot. Fortunately we all escaped uninjured but on cutting the melon open later that night after grossly exaggerating our exploits, we were disappointed to find that the melon was not ripe enough to eat. Needless to say we did not repeat the performance ,nor did I ever tell my parents of this misadventure.
On returning home from R.A.A.F. camp after being discharged [honorably
of course] I had my
fist encounter with the law. The national Servicemen's section of the
camp had been quarantined
for three weeks due to a chicken pox outbreak, which meant no weekend
leave, and therefore no opportunity to take home accumulated possessions
gradually. This meant that we were drastically overloaded. My mate Bill
Ellis rode pillion with both our kit bags over his shoulders, and as
well as having the pannier bags crammed full, I had my sleeping bag
zipped up about 18 inches resting on the petrol tank and full of surplus
clothing and assorted belongings. The local police sergent took
objection to this and pulled us over and gave us a good lecture on
safety.
After displaying my licence and giving him a lengthy explanation of our predicament he relented and let us go on our way on the understanding that if it became too difficult to handle we would promise to make it in two trips. Once again luck was on our side and we had an uneventful journey home. So much for my R.A.A.F. experiences, although I must say that I never regret my National Service training which taught me how to live with my fellow man and show respect for my elders, even if I did get up to a little mischief. As I write this account of my motorcycling career at age69,1 can honestly say that I have only been hospitalized on one occasion due to a motorcycle accident. It happened on a Saturday afternoon in 1952 when I was riding the B.S.A. in Dowling St. Kensington . I was in a bit of a hurry on a mercy dash taking Dad's tension wrench to a mate at Strathfield when a Ford sedan propped in front of me. I hit the anchors and came to rest only when'the crash bars on the bike become imbedded in the back mudguard of the Ford .This caused me to stop rather abruptly and I momentarily lost balance and tipped over tapping my head on the road. In those days no one wore safety helmets, for they hadn't been developed, except for the "pudding basin" tin helmets the dispatch riders used to wear during the war. The leather cap that I mostly wore did not offer enough protection and I bled profusely from the skull and the kind motorist whose car I had collided with took me to St. Vincent's Hospital where I received four stitches and an anti tetanus injection. He told me on the way there that the reason he propped was that a horse and cart ran out of a side street on his left and he had no choice in the matter. He waited till I was all bandaged up and then drove me home to Kensington and explained the incident to my parents. The poor fellow had been taking his car to a sale yard to sell and now had to have his mudguard repaired. On hearing of the accident the same afternoon Keith accompanied Dad in the car to the service station [we called them garages in those days] where I had left the bike, rode it home and straightened out the crash bars .1 am grateful the bike had crash bars fitted to it otherwise I may have sustained more injuries. Keith made me get on the bike and ride the next day .His theory was that just like riding a horse, if you don't get back on when you fall off you may not wish to ride again. It must have worked, otherwise I would not be writing these memoirs. I rode the bike to work the following day with my head all bandaged up and I have never forgotten the advice that an old Pommy motorcyclist workmate Clive Jackson gave me that day. 'Always watch the car in front of the car in front of you' and if you can't see it, slow down. The B.S.A. took me on many a trip to Bathurst at Easter time to watch the bike races at Mt. Panorama circuit. In 1953 my mate Geoff Foy, who was the brother of Keith's mate Alan, rode his fairly new 1952 A.J.S. 500 single, which incidentally was the first bike I ever rode with rear suspension. We arrived at Bathurst mid morning and watched the bikes practice racing in the afternoon and camped overnight just out of town and returned on Saturday morning to watch them compete in the actual racing. In those days most of the bikes were British with the Norton's unmistakably the fastest. The cars practised on Sunday and raced on Easter Monday but not being so interested in car racing at that stage we decided to leave Bathurst on Sunday morning and return to Sydney via Cowra joining the Hume Highway at Yass, camping somewhere along the way overnight. As I recall we broke camp fairly early and got under way. About 20 Km. Out of Boorawa, a small town between Cowra and Yass, Geoff was forced off the road by an oncoming car that had passed me earlier in a hurry., I was riding ahead of Geoff being on an older bike because that was our unwritten rale in those days so when I lost sight of him in my rear vision mirror I stopped and waited. He did not appear in about 10 minutes so I became concerned for his safety I returned to look for him and found him walking around in a dazed condition with his bike lying down on the wrong side of the road in a ditch. It had started to rain, which didn't add to the situation .1 parked my bike, up righted Geoff s and we walked up to a farmhouse to shelter from the rain. The people were very concerned and after giving us a cup of tea we all agreed that we would leave Geoff s bike there and I was to take him into town to seek medical attention. At that stage I had not witnessed any one with concussion and was extremely concerned At the way Geoff was suffering from short-term memory loss. I must have explained four times on the ride into town with Geoff on the pillion what had happened and where I was taking him. As luck would have it there was a hospital in Boorawa and Geoff was admitted with concussion immediately on our arrival. I booked in at the local pub and spent a worried night concerned about Geoff s welfare. The following morning it had stopped raining and things were looking a bit brighter so I hitchhiked out to the farm and rode his bike back into town. I visited Geoff in the afternoon and was pleased to find him sitting up in bed flirting with the nurses. We pieced the incident together and came to the conclusion that a mechanical fault in the front forks on the A.J.S. had made the bike difficult to handle on the corrugated gravel road and Geoff had in fact veered into the path of the oncoming car, an old Bugatti racing car, quite distinctive by it's radiator shape, and had been forced off the road into a ditch and lost control of the bike. After ringing home to tell my brother Keith of the incident and notifying him I would be home a day later than expected he reminded me that I had to notify the police within 24 hours of an accident involving more than one vehicle. T had completely forgotten this important rule, so tongue in cheek; I had my second encounter with the constabulary. I related the story to the police sergeant at 4P.M. [about 30 hours after the event] but he was a kindly old chap and was quite sympathetic towards me and helped me fill in the accident report. No further action was taken as far as I know, Geoff certainly wasn't charged with neg. driving and it wouldn't surprise me if the police knew the owner of the Bugatti. I returned home on Monday in the cold and wet and it was probably the most unpleasant motorbike ride I have had. The following weekend Geoff s brother Alan and I drove down to Boorawa in his M.G. T D. to retrieve Geoff... and I rode his bike back very slowly as by this time there was very little movement in the front forks. In the July of 1954 another mate of mine Jack Cassimatis and I rode the B.S.A. and sidecar to Rockhampton in Queensland. We camped on the way and also spent a pleasant couple of nights on the way with relatives of his in Armidale. The trip to Rocky was quite eventfull. We lost a pannier bag off the" Beeza"between Eidsvold and Banana and ran out of petrol retracing our steps looking for it. In those days it was a lonely gravel road and we must have pushed that outfit 4 Km.. We struggled uphill and jumped on it to coast downhill. Eventually we came upon a farmhouse and in typical Queensland manner the people fed us and gave us enough petrol to get to Banana refusing to take a penny for their trouble .We eventually arrived at Rocky and were treated like royalty by Milroy's who were friends of the family. They showed us all around Rocky ,Emu Park and Yepoon, which in those days was just a small fishing village. We mentioned to Mrs.M.that we had lost the pannier bag and she suggested we write to the police station at Banana and report it in the hope that someone might find it and hand it in to them. We took her advice and sure enough, weeks after we arrived home the pannier bag was sent down to us with all the clothing intact and even the fruit we had packed in between the clothing to stop it from getting bruised. Obviously the fruit had soiled some of the clothing but we were pleased to receive it since there were pullovers in it that my Mum had hand knitted just prior to us setting off on the trip. The journey home from Rocky was just as exciting as the trip up, as we took the wrong road somewhere or other due to lack of road signs. I was told much later that a lot of Queensland road signs had been deliberatly removed during World War 2 to confuse the enemy in case of invasion. I believe that some of them had not been replaced after the war. We were careering along a gravel road on one occasion, let's face it, in those days in Queensland 90% of the roads were gravel, when we rounded a bend only to be confronted with a road grader heading towards us. I was able to jump the outfit over the mound of dirt the grader had created and avoid a collision without causing any damage to the bike. Fortunately we had enough clean clothes left to change our underwear that night. We continued on our way considering ourselves lucky only to round another bend in the road much too fast and slide off the road and through an open gate to safety. I think the gate may have been permanently left open to avoid repairing it as I could tell by the skid marks we weren't the first ones to leave the road in a hurry. Jack did not have a riders licence but had taken out a learners permit before leaving on the holiday. Now I don't remember if it was quite legal for him to carry me as a passenger whilst only holding a learners permit but it occurred to us that this would be a good opportunity for me to teach him to ride. Big mistake. Coming into Toowoomba early one morning when the traffic was light, there was a bakers panel van parked not quite off the edge of the road and unfortunately the sidecar mudguard crashed into the back of the van. The baker was most irate and quite abusive but we assured him we would pay for the damages and in Jack's defence I explained that Jack was only learning and if he had parked his bloody van correctly the accident would not have happened. We agreed to settle the unfortunate incident without involving the police and Jack sent him money after we returned and received a quote on the damages to the van. One problem remained, however, the prang had bent the chassis on the outfit and even after adjusting the tilt of the frame as much as we could, we still wore a tyre out on the return journey, which we concluded quite uneventfully and pleasantly with the sidecar mudguard tied to the top of the load. By 1955 after numerous trips and many miles on the faithful B.S.A., I became even more interested in girls and although I had obtained a drivers licence, I did not have a car of my own to take a girl out in wet weather .1 did not like taking the family sedan out any more than absolutely necessary for fear of damaging it, and after a spell of very wet weather I reluctantly decided that if my love-life was to prosper I must sell the bike to scrape up enough cash to buy a car of my own. This decision was made after riding the bike through a downpour between Kensington and Hurstville one Saturday night to take a girl to the movies. I was completely drenched in the process and the girl's uncle who she was boarding with, loaned me dry clothes shoes and his car to entertain his favorite niece. What a great chap he was. It was not so great however changing back into wet clothes and riding most of the way home again in the rain. Shortly after this my first car was purchased. It was a 1948 Morris8/40 tourer and with the hood down in appropriate weather it was almost the next best thing to a motorbike. I repeat, ALMOST. This was not the end of my motorcycling days, however, as Geoff still had his A.J.S. which I rode on occasions. At Geoff’s birthday party in 1955 he introduced me to a happy young nurse named Robin Rooke who was a colleague of Dawn Baker, his girlfriend he had recently met when he was hospitalized with appendicitis. Robin and I hit it off right from the word go as did Geoff and Dawn and I have many fond memories of the good times we all shared. Together. Robin also liked motorbikes and on occasions I would borrow Geoff s A.J.S. and take Robin for a spin or back to hospital where she boarded, if my car was out of action. At a party one night at Geoff s place again, I took Robin in Keith's Morris since I had blown the diff up in mine the weekend before. We had a great time as we always did at Geoff s, his mother being a great cook and very fond of entertaining, and very late in the night when I was taking Robin back to hospital I managed to drop the tail-shaft on Keith's car. We were within walking distance of the party so abandoned the Morris and returned to the party on foot. Alan was kind enough to lend me his M.G. to take Robin back to hospital which I achieved without any further mishap, then promptly returned the M.G. and borrowed Geoff s Bike to ride home. After this disturbing sequence of events, i.e. having put 2 cars out of action in the space of one week, I was aptly christened 'Ecka the wrecker'. To complete the story, I was fitting the diff. Assembly back into the Morris the following Saturday afternoon and was in a bit of a hurry to get wheels again to take Robin out that night. In my haste with other things on my mind I inadvertently put the bloody thing in upside down and was now the proud owner of a car with 1 forward and 4 reverse gears. As luck would have it Alan and Keith witnessed this embarrassing moment and I was the laughing stock of our group for weeks to come. Soon after this Robin and I announced our engagement and the following year when her nursing training was completed we married and settled down happily, still with the little Morris, when our daughter Jennifer came into our lives. I never lost my love of motorbikes although family commitments and finances prevented me from owning another bike for many a year. Whilst visiting Geoff and Dawn, for they also married, on their property at Barellen near Griffith in the early 70's 1 had a ride on another old A.J.S. that Geoff managed to get hold of. That same bike years later, when Geoff had sadly passed away, was being restored by their son David out of respect for Geoff s love of motorbikes I imagine, some of which has no doubt rubbed off onto David.
Somewhere around the same time I had a ride on my young nephew Gary's
Japanese trail bike. I forget what make it was and must confess that at
that stage I was not very interested in Japanese bikes since the foot
controls were arse-up to the British bikes and therefore unfamiliar to
me .1
remember riding downhill on their nature strip too fast and jumping on
the gear lever instead of
the foot brake loosing balance and falling onto the grass. As I picked
myself up and dusted
myself down we all had a good laugh. On a couple of other occasions I rode yet another old A.J.S. on Robins parent's property at Chambigne west of Grafton whilst holidaying. Robin's brother David rode the bike to round up the horse and had intended restoring it when time permitted. This did not eventuate however as soon after the bike was stolen from the barn where it was garaged, never to be seen again. Imagine my delight when I recently stumbled upon a small photograph of myself riding the old bike with daughter Jenny about 10 years, riding pillion and all smiles. This lad Gus Duvokabitch,who I spoke of from my Sydney Tech. College days who had his Norton stolen was a pretty wild boy to say the least. I wouldn't call him a mate, merely an acquaintance. The only thing we had in common was the fitting and machining course we both attended and that we both rode a British motorbike. In those days the British Motorbikes were imported with a blank number-plate fitted along the top of the front mudguard. Apparently this plate was intended to have the registration No. Painted on it if registered in the U.K. The plate was painted black and visible from both sides and made an ideal place to display the pet name for the bike. My B.S.A. was called 'Supermouse' and had a painting of a mouse in superman's clothing painted on it. I still have that nameplate hanging up in my garage today. Now Gus wasn't quite as imaginative and as I said earlier was a wild one. Grog and women, not girls, were his hobby. He had painted on his nameplate 'N.N.N.R.H.' His Norton was also very loud having had the baffle plates removed from the muffler and as a result of this the Police pulled him up one night. After poking a rod up his muffler and booking him for not having baffles in it they casually asked him what 'N.N.N.R.H.'stood for. He was quick thinking and replied 'no noisy Norton's round here' this amused the Police somewhat as they knew full well it actually meant 'no naughty no ride home'. Alcohol and petrol don't mix. We all know that. In those days there was no random breath testing and it was accepted to be able to drink and drive provided you did not overdo it and cause an accident in which case the police would make you ' walk the line' to see what effect the alcohol had. If you stepped either side of the line, [sometimes a chalk line on the road or a painted line on the floor back at the police station] you were booked for drunken driving. I am pleased to say that none of my friends or myself were ever booked.
The very first party I was invited to not long after I had bought my
first bike, the Indian, was a
21st.birthday party of a work colleague Greg, Morris, whose
father happened to be a professional
fisherman. The party was held at Greg's home at Enfield and I was living
at Kensington so I rode
the bike there, not being easily accessible by public transport. Greg's
mother had cleared a room
of furniture and floor coverings spread newspapers out on the floor and
placed heaps of prawns, buttered bread, and bottles of beer in neat
rows. The party goers, mostly boys, sat on the floor and ate and drank
to their hearts content .1 entered into the spirit of things and
probably ate too much and most certainly drank too much. I remember
riding home that night with the cool breeze on my face and with the
feeling that I was floating 3 feet off the ground. Luckily I completed
the journey without any mishaps and it was a relief to get home .1
definitely should not have been riding that night. I used to garage the
bike in a shed out the back, which meant riding down a narrow path
between the house and the fence, which was out of the question on this
occasion so I parked out the front of the house. This taught me a good
lesson and I watched my alcohol intake more closely in the future when
riding or driving.
Another thing that does not mix too well with motorbikes is dogs. I was riding my B.S.A.merrily down a suburban street one fine day when all of a sudden a small dog ran out in front of me to retrieve a ball some children had been playing with on the footpath. I had no hope of stopping in time to avoid hitting the tiny creature but I managed to slow down and swerve and caught the little dog with my footrest which caused it to spin like a top in the middle of the road. By the time I had parked the bike and run back the dog had just stopped spinning, the kids were bawling and I was shaking. All of a sudden the little dog jumped up, wagged his tail and staggered around like a drunken person. We all examined him for damages and he appeared to be O.K. so after giving the kids a lecture on playing ball on the footpath I continued on my way. Another dog story comes to mind. I was visiting my old mate Geoff one Saturday afternoon when he informed me that he was pleased to see me and that he had a job for me. He handed me a house brick and had me ride pillion on his Army B.S.A. [the bike he had before his 1952 A.J.S.] Apparently there was a dog that always ran out at him on a corner at the bottom of the hill he lived on. He had tried on many occasions to kick at the dog to persuade it to break the habit but it still insisted with attacking and Geoff was concerned that it may cause an accident. Drastic times call for drastic measures. Now I like dogs as much as the next person but this brute had to be taught a lesson. As the bike approached the corner the dog ran out as expected and I strategically dropped the brick on him and he ran away yelping. Geoff had no further problem with the dog that survived the incident, and in the future the dog sat on the footpath and barked whenever the bike passed. In my early motorcycling days six or so of us would ride to Mt. Druitt west of Sydney were a friend of a friend had purchased or inherited land which contained a disused emergency landing strip for aircraft during the war years. It was a long bituminous road surface in good condition and made an excellent venue to test our bikes out and conduct time trials. We did not race as such but merely experimented with different exhaust systems carby jets and spark plugs to achieve maximum speed out of our bikes. Geoff s army B.S.A. [a SOOcc. Side valve single] and my old Indian [a 500cc. V twin] were just about equal in performance once they were wound right out. There was one big difference, however between the two bikes, the B.S.A. had better brakes than the Indian .On one occasion I could not pull up in time and ran right off the bitumen into the paddock but managed to stay upright, crash into a lower gear and eventually stop. Next time F started to stop' earlier. Geoff s brother Alan had bought a new 1948 model Mac.Velocette [a 350 single O.H.V.] and at the same time my brother Keith had the 1936 Mac Velocette {eng No. MAC988} also a 350 single O.H.V.. Those two bikes in spite of the 12 years age difference were fairly even in performance, but Alan's had telescopic forks and Keith's had girder forks so the comfort was no comparison. Alan offered me a ride on his bike when it was quite new and I had a few nervous runs up and down the Air strip, As I pulled into the 'pits', for want of a better word, we noticed the nut holding the footrest on was missing. Lady luck was looking down on me once again. Imagine what would have happened if the footrest had fallen off with me traveling at speeds of about 75 M.P.H. [125 K.] Interestingly enough that very same airstrip was to become the main straight in what was later developed into an official racing circuit. The Greater Public Schools "Head Of The River" rowing regatta was an annual event held on the Nepean river at Penrith ,west of Sydney. After watching the races one year we all decided to continue up the mountain to Katoomba for our evening meal. Geoff and Alan were in their family sedan with their parents, Keith was on his B.S.A., and I was on my Indian. We all enjoyed a good meal and it was soon time to head home. I was enjoying the ride when all of a sudden a vertical twin motorbike which I thought to be a Police Triumph Thunderbird, came roaring out of a hiding place in hot pursuit I instantly slowed down only to be confronted with Keith catching up with me, turning his lights on and overtaking me. He really got me that time. This was in the good old days before radar traps were in use and you only had to keep an eye out for Police vehicles tailing you to check your speed and did not have to look ahead for Police radar traps or speed cameras. Miraculously I was never booked for speeding until many years later, but that's another story. By 1979 our daughter Jenny had married and settled down in Grafton with husband Steve Wilson, living in the old house at Chambigne west of Grafton where Robin was raised. We visited whenever we had the opportunity and Steve always had a trail bike of some description or a Honda "postie "bike to ride around the paddocks on. Years ago he had owned a Ducatti and like myself has always had a love of motorbikes. It wasn't till Easter 1981 when we were visiting them in their new house at Waterview Heights, west of Grafton, that I saw his latest bike, a 1978 Honda CB400T in excellent condition. He had fitted it with touring handle bars and just sitting on it reminded me of my old B.S.A..He had bought it for transport to and from work on the north side of Grafton as Jenny drove their car to her work, each starting work at different hours. Over a few beers in the Pub on Saturday morning we discussed the bike and it transpired that he had hit a few kangaroos on the cold early mornings on his way to work and was getting a bit concerned for his safety. It was quite obvious that a car was the answer to his problem. A few beers later we came to a gentleman's agreement that I would take the bike in exchange for an old 1965 Cortina I had in Sydney plus a set of kitchen cupboards I would build for their new house without any money changing hands. So, I now was the owner of a motorcycle once again after 30 years without one. To the reader this may not mean much, but I was over the moon. We transported the Honda back to Sydney in my box trailer and later sent the Cortina to Grafton by road transport. The kitchen cupboards I then made and delivered on our next trip to Grafton later on in the same year to complete the deal. A very satisfactory arrangement. Robin was pleased that I had a bike again but just a little upset that she was not consulted prior to the negotiations, however she soon showed as much interest in the Honda as I did and was busting to get on it and go for a pillion ride. Unfortunately I had let my riders licence elapse so after renewing it I was not able to carry a pillion passenger for 12 months, although I did not have to display a P plate during that time. I then had the task of getting acquainted with the unfamiliar gear change and foot brake. As I mentioned earlier this had concerned me for some time i.e. Being arse about to the B.S.A.. I obtained a permit and started riding. Each Sunday morning, weather permitting, for 2 months I would wear my old fur lined motorcycle boots I had bought from "Omedies" in George St. Sydney in 1951 incidentally I still wear them. Strangely enough my old leather jacket no longer fitted me [it must have shrunk] a pair of jeans and a warm jacket and a bash hat completed the ensemble. Being suitably garbed I would ride from Miranda to Cronulla and Port Hacking ,a scenic route and one with which I was quite familiar, and then back to Miranda. I soon mastered the controls and really enjoyed those early morning rides. I had quite forgotten how exhilarating motorcycling is. As I gained experience on those Sunday morning rides I soon advanced to riding in the traffic on my short journey to work at Taren Point. At first it was quite frightening to have traffic overtaking me in the left lane because I found that having to wear a helmet meant that I could not hear traffic approaching me until it was on top of me. It was not long however before I became accustomed to this and the cars cutting in front of me after overtaking. I managed to pass my riding test first time without any problems and thankfully did not have to perform any figure eights as I was expected to do all those years ago on the Indian. At least one advantage of riding in 1981 and now is that in most cities one does not have to hastle with wet tram lines any more. I soon got into the swing of things and rode to work regularly parking right outside my office window. Some of the boys reckoned that at 49 years old I should give it away, but a few of them who had ridden bikes in recent years were quite encouraging if not a little jealous of my change in life style I remember on one occasion after work one Friday night we were celebrating the birth of one of my workmates first born child the celebrations started early in the afternoon and continued well into the night with the boss sending out for more beer and his wife bringing food to keep us on our feet. It was obvious that I was slightly inebriated and therefore had to leave the bike at work. Not wanting to leave it outside, I turned the rearview mirrors around and rode it into my office and parked it there for the night and had the boss drive me home. On returning to work the next morning to ride the bike home I could not help remembering my first ride home from a party on my Indian (of which I described earlier} and felt quite pleased that after all those years I had remembered not to drink and ride. The 12 months soon passed and once a month in the building trade, in which I was employed we had a 'rostered day off (R.D.O.) which presented the ideal opportunity to hop on the bike and with Robin riding pillion take a picnic lunch and a rug and slowly, carefully ride and so explore the many roads and tracks in the Royal National Park close by. Those days hold some of my fondest memories, and being a weekday we practically had the park t o ourselves. At that stage the thought of joining a motorcycle club never entered my head. None of my friends had bikes and we were content to ride alone and on some occasions strike up a conversation with other riders when we " stopped to smell the roses." The Honda was and still is a delight to ride with good suspension and comfortable seating for both rider and pillion passenger, compared with the old B.S.A., which had a rigid rear frame. In my opinion the "sprung heel", rear suspension, call it what you will would have to be the biggest advancement in motorcycle comfort. Nothing ever falls off the modern bike like it used to in the old days, mainly I feel due to lack of metal fatigue caused by vibration and road shock. In November of 1981 my daughter Jenny gave me a motorcycling book for my birthday. It is titled "the B.M.W. story " and portrays all B.M.W.bikes from 1922 to 1978.1 read this book from cover to cover and became more and more familiar with these superb machines which in many respects are ahead of their time in design. The very thought of owning a B.M.W.of my own was only a pipe dream but never the less I kept on admiring them for years to come. In 1987 whilst visiting family in Switzerland we were staying in an old hunters retreat on the top of the Banina Pass into Italy and every second bike that rode over that Pass seemed to be a B.M.W. of some sort. On the same holiday my cousin, knowing my love of bikes, took me to the little village of Olten, between Basel and Zurich, one Tuesday afternoon. Much to my surprise there were about 200 motorbikes of all shapes and vintages assembled there. It seems that in the summer months this is a regular meeting place every Tuesday afternoon with bikes coming from all over Switzerland and surrounding countries, their riders enjoying the limited duration of fine weather and the mountain roads and passes. I could not speak their language but showed a keen interest in their machines and through my cousin as translator indicated my pleasure and admiration at this wonderful spectacle. On a sad note, whilst driving home from that meeting we witnessed the results of an horrific accident in which a drunken driver had veered onto the wrong side of the road and crashed into an oncoming motorcyclist setting his vehicle and the bike into flames and incinerating the rider. Two weeks later we happened to pass the same spot and for the first time I saw that a small white cross and flowers had been placed on the side of the road. Since then, this tribute has become a familiar sight on many Australian roads. I took an early retirement at 55 years old in 1988 left Sydney and moved to Braunstone , south of Grafton, where we had previously bought a small acreage on which we had built a double garage. I don't like it being called a shed. We lived in the garage and my Dad's old caravan and set to and built a simple yet comfortable house with a lot of help from friends and relatives, and while this was taking place I did not have the time to ride the Honda, but longed for the time when we could go for rides and picnics again as we did in Sydney. This did eventuate and in the summer months we often rode down to the local swimming hole at McPherson's crossing to cool off. By this time Robin had become deeply involved in the Courts Crossing /Braunstone branch of the Red Cross Society and I became more involved in the Braunstone Bushfire Brigade, as a result that we both had less time to go on bike rides and picnics together. By this time the Honda had become a second means of transport for me as I often rode it to the fire shed when called out on a fire so Robin had the car for her use. It came in mighty handy also for playing "postie" when I delivered the Brigade newsletter four times a year all over the district. Quite often Robin needed the car to do the shopping at which time she was duty bound to visit her elderly Mother in Grafton leaving me with the bike to undertake odd jobs for friends and relatives. On one occasion I rode the bike to Carrs Island where I had been re-painting a house for Robin's mother. When the time came to ride home it started raining and I lost control of the bike on a very sharp slippery corner at low speed . I had a crook shoulder for months after which goes to prove that you're never too old to ride but too old to fall off. Miraculously the tin of paint I had been carrying in the pannier bag did not spill. At another time ,same island ,1 was carefully riding across the old timber bridge and managed to get the front wheel of the bike stuck in a rotted out board and crashed into the handrailing. Thankfully it did not give way,thus avoiding an unnecessary swim. I might add that the old bridge has since been replaced with a modern concrete structure.
I got to hear of The Ulysses Motorcycle Club, which was formed in 1983
for motorcyclists 40 years old and older, and in 1998 through an
acquaintance Ken Jones who is an early member, I obtained a membership
application form and subsequently joined their ranks. I anxiously
awaited the "Riding On " magazine the Ulysses club mail to all members
and enjoyed the articles they contained as indeed I still do. Living on
the Orara Way, the"back road from Grafton to Coffs Harbour "I frequently
drooled at the bike groups riding past at week-ends and longed to ride
with them .It became obvious to me that their bikes were more modern and
faster than my old Honda so I was a bit hesitant to pursue the matter.
Early in 1999 the South Grafton Exservices Motorcycle Club [.S.G.E.M.C.C.] had a static display of vintage motorcycles at the local shopping centre. I was delighted to see an old A.J.S., Velocette, Indian and many other old bikes on display in their former glory. They were promoting a 2 day rally to be held in March of the same year so I obtained an application form to attend the rally. We were not able to be part of that rally however due to our commitment with the Red Cross but vowed and declared if they were holding one the following year we would definitely be in it. Consequently In March 2000 we had our first ride with a group of about 100 or so bikes and thoroughly enjoyed this new experience. We met locals and riders from all over the place and were made most welcome. We knew one rider Ray Sinclair and his partner Jenny Hammond through the Rural Fire Service and rode along with them on their 1940 civilian Harley Davidson and side-car and another local identity Max Priestly on his golden flash B.S.A. Robin and I spoke of the exciting time we had shared on that rally and were looking forward to the next one in 200I.Alas our whole world fell apart when in September 2000 Robin was diagnosed with lung cancer and by early December after numerous tests and operations she sadly passed away. As a dear friend Rose Gibbellini in New Zealand put it she now had her wings. I was devastated, sad and lonely and without my daughter Jenny and her family and my very good friends and neighbors I would not have been able to cope with the situation. It was quite a while before I felt confident enough to ride the bike as my mind was constantly wandering and I felt the lack of concentration might have caused me to have an accident. I eventually re-assessed the situation and decided that the bike would be a good diversion, so joined the S.G.E.M.C.C. and attended a few social rides, the 2001 Jacaranda rally and a few "classic" rides with my newfound friends. I was enjoying these rides and found that by keeping myself busy with house and garden in between rides the time passed more quickly. At one stage I was considering looking around for an old British bike to restore, then build a bike trailer and attend more rallys further a field when I received an invitation from the Clarence Valley Ulysses Club to attend 3 fund raising events in the coming months. So, in June 2001 I polished the Honda and rode into Grafton to meet up with the local Ulysses group and admire their bikes and more importantly meet a group of riders all with one common interest who welcomed me into the fold. I attended a few rides with them on the Honda, setting off first and trailing back towards the end of the field. Their concern for me was quite outstanding, so much so that I wanted to become more involved. It was obvious to me by now that restoring an old British bike would be too time consuming and would not give me enough time to ride with the Ulysses boys {and girls}. With the Honda [now 23 years old] performing to its maximum on these exhilarating rides I decided rather than blow the motor up I would look for a bigger more modern bike. I started buying a popular motorbike magazine that advertised nothing but bikes and associated items both new and second hand and at the same time passed the word around to my friends that I was in the market for a B.M.W. tourer. I knew exactly the model and colour I wanted, having seen and sat on one at my first Ulysses encounter. Good things come to those who wait and by August 2001 Jenny found one on the internet, so at age 68 I fulfilled my ambition and became the proud owner of a pre-loved 1988 B.M.W. K100L.T. Tourer. The performance and handling of this big bike reminded me of a similar feeling I experienced as a kid when I graduated from a scooter to my first pushbike. I have been for numerous rides on this bike in the 6 months I have owned it and enjoy the quiet, sedate, powerful comfort it offers me. On my first 2day trip with the Ulysses I had my next encounter with the boys in blue when I was booked for traveling in excess of 15K. Over the speed limit. A kind word of advice from my Ulysses friends prompted me to write away explaining the situation and being my first offence in over 50 years, 1 was let off with a caution having learned my lesson well. I rode the "Beemer" to my brother Keith's at Wollongbar shortly after buying it and he was suitably impressed, so much so that he composed a poem which I received through the mail the next week It goes like this......... I sometimes wish I could do Some of the things that I used to My little brother has just acquired One of the things he has long desired It is a B.M. motorcycle, tourer able To add to his Honda cycle stable The only problem now it seems This is one answer to his dreams It's hard to find him home of late He covers the miles and thinks it's great It's good to see him well and happy And the K. 100 sure is snappy I sometimes wish it was my bike But I wouldn't swap cause I do what I like So the story is, be happy ole man And be content ,cause that's what I am. K.E. In the early days when I was still trying to familiarize myself with the bad habits of the Indian ,1 was on my way to Coogee beach for a swim. As I passed Coogee Police Station going down hill to the beach I retarded the spark by using the left hand twist grip and the old bike gave a mighty backfire and blew the muffler off. It came to rest in the gutter right outside the Police station. Thinking I might be in trouble for having a loud exhaust,! parked the bike and ran back to retrieve it. In picking it up it was so hot it burnt my fingers, but I managed to kick it along the gutter back to the bike, lift it into the pannier bag and coast down the hill away from the Cop Shop. I waited until it cooled down sufficiently then replaced it and continued on my way having learnt yet another trick with the old beast. I might add, the cold sea water was very soothing on my burnt fingers. On one of my first trips to Bathurst bike races on the Indian one Easter the motor was not performing properly. It was missing ,spluttering and coughing badly. I changed plugs to no avail and an old bloke by the name of Wimpy Nelson who I had met previously through Keith , pulled up, climbed off his outfit and asked "what's up son?" When I told him of the problem he said to" forget the bloody spark, it's in the carby." He took over and in a matter of minutes he had the carby off and dismantled and discovered the bowl full of what looked like tea leaves. He asked me if I had been camping and when I replied in the affirmative he suggested that next time, make the tea in a billy can. I thanked him profusely and we each continued on our way. This same fellow ,1 found out later used to ride his Velocette outfit to Bathurst with his racing Velocette on the sidecar platform, race the bike and return home. One time on the way home his outfit bike broke down so he simply swapped bikes , not forgetting to of course to take the No. plate off the road bike and put on the racing bike to avoid unnecessary attention by the police. Whilst on the subject of Bathurst in the early 50's when we made our annual pilgrimage there to watch the bike races, we used to camp just off the road near Dunkeld, a small village just a few miles west of Bathurst. Drinking water was often a problem and sometimes we would sneak back to a nearby school and fill our billy can from the water tank. On this particular occasion the tank was dry, so after cooking our frankfurts in the last of the water we had then let it cool off overnight and skim the fat off to enable us to make a cup of tea for breakfast. YUK! This is a practice I don't recommend. As I write of these experiences another incident occurs to me that happened on the Rockhampton trip with Jack on the B.S.A. We camped along side a lovely river and filled the billy up to make a cuppa .1 poured the tea while Jack served up the meal. We settled down to a feed fit for a King and Jack was the first to sip the hot tea . "You bastard " he said,"you put salt in my tea instead of sugar". It transpired that the water supply was a tidal river and quite brackish. Fortunately we had not re-filled the canvas water bag up with this crook water and we just enough fresh water left to boil up again. Years ago when I was still at High School, my brother Keith and his mate Allan became interested in watching motorcycle off road trials. At that time there was a bush circuit at Kellyville, which has long since replaced by suburbia. We often piled into the family Essex sedan and Dad drove us out to watch the events. As far as I can remember all the e bikes were either Army B.S.A.'s or pre war British bikes of all makes. The riders had to contend with all sorts of conditions including steep graveled hill climbs, dodging rocks and boulders, climbing over logs in low gear, and riding through long stretches of muddy river beds without putting their feet down. Each time they put a foot down to steady themselves they lost a point and to qualify they had to complete the circuit in a specified time without stopping. It made for excellent spectator viewing, as there were plenty of good vantage points and the crowd would roar encouragement to the riders as they participated in this difficult and skilful form of motorcycling. It wasn't till years later that I witnessed a similar style of riding but on well sprung off road Japanese bikes that jumped logs and boulders and leaped down riverbanks at breakneck speeds to maintain the lead. They were nearly all young fellows and I was astounded at some of the feats they performed. I know very little about this form of racing so won't elaborate but I must say that they made Kellyville look very tame. Some time later a young friend Malcolm Dobie, whom I have known since he was 8 years old bought himself one of these trail bikes and we watched him compete with our hearts in our mouths. Knowing I was keen on bikes he offered me a ride on the mud flats near The Entrance on the Central Coast of N.S.W. I took him up on the offer but not having ridden for some years did not pluck up enough courage to obtain speed of any degree but never the less enjoyed the experience, as once again I was on two wheels. Christmas holidays 1950 I rode the Indian from Sydney to Toukley ,north of Gosford on the Central Coast of N.S.W. and spent some time with my parents who were camped on their friend's property which backed onto Canton Beach. These people had two lovely young daughters ,Margaret and Annette who I was very fond of. Unfortunately they were far too young for an 18 year old 'bikie' like me to take advantage of ,however I finally persuaded their mother to let me take the older girl ,Margaret ,for a short ride up and down the street on the Indian. We dressed her up in my leather jacket ,cap and gloves and I still have the photo today of the first girl I took for a ride on my motorbike. We remained friends for years but eventually lost touch of each other. The same year Keith had intended riding his Velocette up to Toukley to spend New Years Eve with us prawning on Canton Beach . He got as far as Gosford quite late in the day and punctured his front tyre. He repaired the tube and continued on his way when it started to leak air again forcing him to stop. By this time it was very late ,all the garages had closed and it started to rain so he sheltered under a tree. We were worried and concerned when he did not arrive at Toukley when we expected him , but he had no way of letting us know what had happened . No mobile phones in those days. Early next morning he appeared , having waited till the garages opened in Gosford, and bought a new tube. We were all relieved to see him arrive safely and all ate a hearty breakfast of prawns we had caught the night before. In actual fact he had sheltered under that tree all night and saw the New Year in by himself in those dismal conditions. As I mentioned previously in the early 50's there was still petrol rationing and cars were scarce, so the motorcycle was a popular means of transport. The N.R.M.A. road service mechanics rode Harley Davidson bikes with huge side car 'tool boxes' for quite some years to come, possibly into the late 50's. Keith had spent some of his high school years with Keith Smith who had become one of these road service mechanics. Keith, the mechanic, lived not far from us in Kensington in the eastern suburbs of Sydney and we often saw him in the course of his duty. One day my Morris broke down quite close to home and I was about to ring for roadside service when the familiar thump thump of the big Harley was heard and Keith appeared on the scene. He saw me with the bonnet up so stopped and rendered assistance for which I was very grateful. I often thought of those guys riding at all hours of the day and night and in all kinds of weather and considered them to be true motorcyclists. Over my years of motorcycling I have had to conduct numerous roadside repairs in order to get mobile again. The Indian was notorious for a slipping clutch which had to be adjusted frequently. It also had a leather belt drive to the generator which often broke and had to be replaced with a spare I always carried if I didn't want to run out of sparks. I eventually located a rubber "v" belt ,thus solving that problem. Punctured tyres were often a problem , although I don't remember actually mending a puncture on the roadside. I always carried a bicycle pump and often had to stop and use it to get me home. Broken chains sometimes occurred mainly due to poor quality and uneven stretching and I always carried a couple of spare links, a connector and a chain breaker to conduct necessary repairs. The Vello as I have previously mentioned had the bad habit of stripping fibre timing gears until the timing case was re-bushed. Broken headlight brackets, mudguard supports ,chain guards and battery holders often had to be wired together to get me back on the road, not only on the Indian and Vello but also on the B.S.A.none of which had rear suspension. The B.S.A. had an annoying habit of jaming in a neutral position between 2nd. And 3rd.gear if gear changes weren't made positively enough. When this happened it was a 10 minute job to unscrew the clutch adjusting cover plate on the gearbox and wiggle a screwdriver around on the selector forks to fix the problem. As luck would have it ,this usually took place in heavy rain or traffic to add to the problem. The odd broken clutch, throttle or brake cable occurred so much so that we got into the habit of taping a spare cable to the current one for a quick change over. I had all my tools stolen from the Indian pannier bags outside Tech so when the B.S.A. came on the scene I very quickly fitted a lock to the toolbox. The Honda and B.M.W.have lockable tool compartments under the seat, which is a great idea. The only thing that has stopped the Honda is running out of fuel twice, but I can hardly blame the bike for that, and so far the B.M.W.has not let me down. Shortly after I was discharged from national service training, I spent a weekend at Katoomba in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney. I rode the B.S.A. outfit Bill Croft rode his A.J.S., and Peter Cooly his Triumph . We had no trouble in finding a suitable guesthouse to stay at, for it was in the days before Motels (Motor Hotels} were introduced and guesthouses were in abundance. The quest houses had separate rooms segregated shared bathrooms, and dining and recreation rooms which were equipped with table tennis tables, billiard table and the old familiar dart board to entertain their guests as this was in the days before television. There was no room service or off road parking at this particular place but they had a tennis court which we took advantage of and they always respectfully rang a bell at 6A.M.each morning so guests could discreetly return to their respective rooms before the breakfast bell rang at 7A.M. We had a ball. We all went dancing at night and met some girls who happened to be staying at the same guest house as us .We played tennis with them the next day and took them sight seeing on the bikes. All in all it was an enjoyable weekend and a refreshing change from the many camping trips I had previously been on, even if it did stretch the budget a little. Let me tell you about a little incident whereby the Indian gave smoke signals. I decided in my wisdom that the electrical wiring was a bit grotty so I decided to rewire the entire bike. Dad advised me to replace one wire at a time re-connecting it at each end to avoid wiring it up incorrectly. I bought myself a huge roll of blue electrical wire, took Dad's advice and set to. The job took me a couple of days to complete and I was patting myself on the back when I was finished because miraculously everything worked. The first time I rode the bike with the new wiring I turned a right hand corner at the bottom of the hill I lived on and smoke poured out from behind the instrument panel, giving off an acrid smell .1 had the presence of mind to disconnect the battery as quickly as possible and the smoke eventually subsided. I then had to push the bike home up the hill and into the garage. On close examination I discovered that the new wire to the ignition switch [it was a coil ignition] had been replaced too short and in turning the corner I had stretched it out and pulled the contact on the combined ignition and light switch on to an earth terminal thus causing a dead short. The heat of the fire had melted the entire switch so I had to buy a new switch and start again. I have always been more careful when rewiring anything since then, as I will never forget that horrible smell. Safety gear and wet weather gear weren't as sophisticated 50 years ago as they are today. In the rain we mostly wore an army, or in my case an R.A.A.F. great coat which kept the rain out for up to four hours after which time they became very heavy and took about a week of sunshine to dry out. My friend Bill Croft who I was in National Service with had been issued with a coat that leaked on the seams. He returned it to the store at Richmond R.A.A.F. base and complained bitterly to the supply sergeant who was sympathic and suggested it was porous. Bill's reply was "porous? I'll say it's porous. It's poor as piss." The sergeant didn't see the funny side of this comment and made Bill wait a couple of hours before he replaced it. The next one was O.K. and he wore it for ages after our discharge from National Service as we got to keep our uniforms since we were on active reserve for 5 years and general reserve for a further 5 years, by which time our uniforms were worn out or we had long since grown out of them. We mostly wore leather shoes or lace up boots but towards the close of my initial motorcycling days I splurged and bought a pair of fur lined boots from Omedies in George St. Sydney. I still have those boots today and wear them when I ride the Honda in classic rallies. In case you are wondering, Omedies was one of the many motorbike shops in the vicinity of Wentworth Ave. in those days, Wentworth Ave. being the display centre of most makes of motorcycles. I remember one occasion when we were on a staff picnic at Bobbin Head in the Ku-Ring-Gai National Park. Keith was dressed only in his swimming costume and decided to jump on his Velo and go for a spin up the cliff road. He must have been traveling too fast as he ran into the cliff face and broke 3toes and reshaped his little finger. He was able to ride home but I remember him limping around for days after this incident. It taught him a lesson as it did me. What's the old saying? You learn by other peoples mistakes. We used to wear all types of goggles as there were plenty of different types on the market. The simplest and cheapest type were ex W.W. 1 gas goggles. They came in flat packets of 6,1 think,,from most disposal stores and by clipping the sides to the celluloid front they formed a pair of close fitting goggles with clear front and side vision. Speedway riders often wore 3or4 pair of gas goggles when on the dirt track and as the top pair became covered in dirt and mud they whipped them off and used the next clean pair underneath, and so on, until the race finished or they ran out of clean goggles. They were pretty handy for the spectators to wear also because when possible we sat in the front row and copped all the dirt. Whilst on the subject of protective eye wear Keith often wore American Army issue sun glasses instead of goggles. One day whilst riding his B.S.A.outfit across tram lines in Anzac Parade Kensinfton he hit a bump and the sun glasses he had been carrying in his shirt pocket jumped out and landed on the tramlines. He smartly completed the crossing, parked the outfit and ran back to retrieve them as by this time there was an approaching tram. He waved his arms frantically at the tram driver and pointed to the glasses but the driver didn't see Keith or the glosses, or pretended he didn't. I don't need to tell you the rest of the story, except that Keith eventually retrieved his prized possession without any glass and with very flat long frames. He was not amused. In the days before Mount Druitt air strip was turned into a race track Geoff and I used to try and outdo each other at top speed. As I mentioned earlier Geoff s Army B.S.A. and my Indian were fairly evenly matched. They were both 500 c.c. side valve and were not designed for speed. I don't know how fast the Indian went in M.P.H. as it did not have the refinement of a speedo. One Christmas Geoff gave me a small present of a small packet of Epsom Salts "to make the Indian go" I returned the insult by giving him a small packet of mixed herbs for the B.S.A. which did not have enough herbs of it's own. It was all in jest as we were always slinging off at each other. In conclusion of these stories I would just like to say the problem I have now after all those years of motorcycling is, not to be able to go fast enough , but to try and travel slow enough to stay within the law, or better still not get caught.
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