A Sentimental Journey
“You ought to be doing it on something fifty years old Dave. Something that harks back to the days when you’d leave a face print on the dealers window trying to see what they had in the showroom this week. The first bike you drooled over, that’s what you should be borrowing. A hard core retro tour, sleeping in a Millets tent in the corner of a farmer’s field. Go out with a bang.”

I hadn’t planned to add anything to A Last Hurrah beyond hopefully informing you that I’d been successful in acquiring a press bike, and I was ready to rock and roll. I wasn’t even intending to reply to any of the comments (a few of which involved levels of lyricism that I will do well to emulate when I report on my travels) until I read Stuart Holding’s contribution (above) and it painted such a vivid picture, I thought it demanded a response.
It’s interesting to note that most of the comments are either from folks I know personally, whether in the real or virtual world, or people who have copies of my book or were readers of The Rider’s Digest back in the day; but Stuart is a friend of a friend who I’d never so much as had an exchange with on social media.
Not knowing Stuart, it’s difficult to tell if he was serious; but if he was he clearly doesn’t know me either. As madly romantic as his idea is, if I was mad enough to try to sleep in a Millets tent, I’d have to wait for the irate farmer to turn up to evict me and realise that he had no chance of getting shot of me unless he helped me up off of the ground first. Which is ironic because I believe I could still pick a bike up if it was unfortunate enough to find itself on its side. I managed the Rocket 3 that I threw down the A303 and bikes don’t come much heavier than that (that’s yet another story that I’ve never written about, perhaps it’ll be something that I reflect on while I’m wending my way around the British mainland).
As for bikes I drooled over; unlike many of my peers who started riding off road (legally or otherwise) long before they were old enough to finally buy a Fizzie, I never really gave bikes a lot of thought throughout my teens. As I explained in the Barry Sheene obituary I wrote over twenty years ago:
“In March 1975 I could have written everything I knew about bike racing on the back of a postage stamp. I’d heard a few of the bigger names and seen pictures here and there, I’d even seen the odd bit of footage on the box, which was probably of the TT. The trouble was whenever they wheeled a victorious rider out for a post race comment, he always seemed to be a tight-lipped northerner who preferred to do his talking on’t track. Consequently he’d stand there with that mad panda face they always had when their goggles came off and respond with nowt but “ayes” and “nays”. Then suddenly the newspapers and TV were full of the story of a brave young bike-racing prospect from London, who had had a massive off at over 170mph on the track at Daytona.”
I went on to say: “I was one of those dumfounded masses. I can’t speak for anyone else, I’m sure a lot of FS1E’s were snatched from protesting sixteeners and put up for sale by worried parents, but for me he was a revelation. Far from thinking: “Ouwwwch!! I’m glad I never expose myself to that sort of danger.” I looked at him in positive awe and wondered what it must be about motorbikes that would drive someone to put their vulnerable flesh and bones at such risk.”
A matter of a week or so later, I went to Coburn & Hughes in Manor House (bikers of a certain age will certainly recall their adverts in the early ‘80s; my friend Hilton informed me that the girl in the Ducati advert was his first love!) and bought my first bike, a Suzuki TS90 on hire purchase – and very soon afterwards I discovered exactly what it was about bikes. And as my rides got better over the years, reaching a pinnacle when I owned a Ducati for the last few years of my twenties, riding bikes became an essential part of who I was, and still very much am. Like I said in ‘A Last Hurrah’, it’s only when I’m seated between a couple of wheels with a willing engine driving them, that I can convincingly transport myself back to my younger, nimbler days.
So putting aside my lack of lust for the contemporary hot machines in 1975, looking back from the perspective I’ve gained since, I can see that there would be plenty of interesting candidates to choose from if went the classic route. Without question a 1975 Ducati 900SS – in silver and blue – would be number one with a bullet in my wish list, but there’s no way I could bend the knee I ruined in a freak walking speed accident 20 years ago, enough to fit its rear set pegs. The original naked Goldwing would provide an interesting alternative. I borrowed one from the Mercury controller when I had a job going to Gloucester and my Ducati was being rebuilt (after I blew it up – that’s another painful, previously undocumented recollection that could well turn up if I find myself rambling). Afterwards I described riding the ‘Wing as “rush with hush”. A kettle, particularly if it came with rasping 3 into 3 expansion chambers, would be another contender; along with the Z1-B, the Triumph Trident and the 400/4 to name but a few. I could even go for a TS90 if I wanted to be really real – and decidedly perverse – about it.
Which is all very well, but the reality is that most people who own what have become very much collectors’ classics, especially if they are reliably roadworthy, aren’t usually overly enthusiastic about the prospect of loaning them out and having 1,500 or so miles added to their total.
So thanks for the suggestion Stuart, it certainly scored a sentimental hit. It transported me back to a time when comfort, convenience and fear of consequences were all close to the bottom of any of list of considerations when it came to a recreational ride on a bike.