The Main Thrust

THE MAIN THRUST

The original fraternity of biking continued to ride free despite whatever the rest of the world was doing. They were not so much freedom fighters, as people who quietly got on with it. Many of them were still alive as this was being written, and reliving their memories gives substance to the biking past. The issues important to them remained within the field of engineering, riding, and living in the saddle.

It was a wet Welsh night when Tudor John Hiscox’s bike broke down. Someone lit a match to see if there was any petrol in the tank. A pyramid of flame leapt up, and another of John’s mates stepped forwards and blew it out.

*

Harry Kennedy wished he still had his Scott Flying Squirrel. Older bikes carry as much kudos, if not more than the latest innovation. Finding them in sheds and barns has become an international pastime.

National service meant that many post-war riders were draughted into the military, despite an end to hostilities. It didn’t curtail their biking too much, as Harry says: “I bought a 1947 Norton 500 single, ES2 model, to go home most weekends. Returning to Cottesmore on Sunday evenings for duty on Monday morning, I reckoned on leaving Tyneside at 10 p.m. Sunday, and being on-station by 2 am Monday - giving me five hours sleep. Two-hundred miles in four hours on single carriage roads was, I thought, quite a feat at the time.”

The rapid travel Harry recalled is part of the essential biking experience, and a swift reliable bike becomes endearing. Harry goes on to note other models he owned, and how a decompression lever made starting easier on his mate’s Panther, ending with the question: “As for an electric starter?” There are those of his generation that wished they’d had such a luxury, while others regard them soft and not for real motorcyclists.

The ability to start a machine caused some gradation of rider ability. If you couldn’t master starting technique, how were you going to manage riding conditions? Running alongside the early clutchless bikes obviously required some effort, and if you physically could not make that effort, riding was not possible. After the bump-start, the kick-start became the first point of contact between rider and machine, and the bigger the engine, the greater the difficulty in turning it over. It was felt among many that this dictated the power of the machine you should opt for.

There was of course a knack that could be learned, like gently turning the engine with the ignition off. This allowed you to find the compression stroke, and lessened the chance of a backfire. The backfire could cause the kick-start lever to jump back, and can cause considerable discomfort, if not break a leg. Mastery of the kick-start became a mechanism in the measurement of machismo in certain circles. Even in the 21st century, when someone tries to start a large engined bike, it draws other riders’ attentions. They contemplate the outcome: loud burble or embarrassed hush?

Harry continued to use the Norton for some time after he left the RAF, but said that: “As girls were coming into my life, I made the transition, via a Morgan, from Biker to Boring Commuter.” This kind of an end to biking typifies the lives of many who found biking anathema to families and other responsibility. But the memories and emotional attachments obviously stay with you.

*

P.H. Robinson has typical biking memories. He says: “As young as twelve I was angling to get myself a ‘grown-up’ cycle (motorcycle) and used to ride dirt track (bicycle). Any old bike with the mudguards taken off.” Like others, he also rode round the fields on a motorcycle, in that period of transition from cyclist to being a license holder. He would sometimes have a quick spurt on the road, and added: “When I thought the local policeman was in another area I would risk it...it is immaturity and youthful exuberance which make you do such silly things.” Excursions onto the road were irresistible for some, despite any lack of legal requirement. It’s a kind of double-daring. P.H. reflects on it as folly, but some simply never got out of the habit, while others came to use it as a mark of protest.

P.H. got a 250 BSA when he was old enough for a licence and rode it to work. Under a tarpaulin near his work place he found a V-Twin Royal Enfield. He bought it for £5 and sold it for £10, to someone who saw him pushing it away. Deals between Bikers can strike up friendships, no matter how temporary. Few riders recall bad dealings, but one or two that do also told how they managed to off-load their lame ducks. The trust among Bikers suggests that any faults would be explained to the buyer, but many bikes are put through auctions or traded in at dealerships. The theory behind this is that anyone buying from an auction should know that the machine will require attention, and that a bike passing through a dealer will be repaired. But in reality, it’s a shirking of responsibility, often tainted by greed.

On reflection, P.H. wondered how much the Royal Enfield he bought would be worth, but was happy at the time to have £10 towards a 350 Manx Norton. He discovered it had belonged to a bike dealer called Bill Beavers, who’d one a bronze medal with it in the Senior TT. P.H. was proud to be the owner of a bike that had actually raced at the Isle of Man. The pride expressed in ownership of a used competition bike still exists and has spread to other artefacts ‘as used by professional competitors’.

His next bike was a Matchless ‘Jampot’ 500 twin (nick-named after the shape of the rear suspension units). He discovered that it wasn’t so quick, and spent a lot of time tuning the engine. He said: “I once gave a girl a lift from the dance hall, and after that she advised all the other girls not to accept a lift from me, as it had terrified her. This was not the outcome I was after as one of the reasons for having a new-ish modern bike was to be able to pull the birds.”

Fascinating word, that; birds. Not strictly a biking term, but a sign of how men regarded women as something other. Using the term bird wasn’t always derogatory; it was the way people’s minds were working during that time, and carried some affection. It also elucidates the fact that, despite many women using motorcycles, it was unconsciously presumed by some to be a male domain.

One of P.H.’s friends also owned a Scott Squirrel. Being a two-stroke meant you could do neat tricks. P.H. said his mate’s show-piece was to: “Start it up running in reverse, then drive it backwards outside the dance hall.” This kind of performance might be deemed showy, but a rider’s familiarity with their machine soon causes them to develop a riding style of their own, including tricks. An ability to perform stunts demonstrates a degree of control that drivers of machines owned purely for transport do not aspire to. Outsiders view biking stunts as madness, missing the point entirely. By learning to do tricks, the rider gets to know the machine’s limitations, and rides accordingly.

One friend of P.H. bought a brand-new Norton Dominator, model 88, which coincidentally bore the number 88 in the registration. They were all envious, but a biking accident with dodgy witness accounts spoilt the dream. He doesn’t name the rider, but says: “He was killed at the Crown Inn junction. I was with him and just behind. I went to one side of the car and he tried to go the other, and hit the front of the car. He was wearing a helmet, but I wasn’t and the glass from the crash was in my hair. At the inquest they tried to say we were racing each other and that that was what caused the accident. But it was never the case. The young man’s father never spoke to me again. The outcome of all this was that the whole group of us sold the bikes.”

This has to be the saddest biking exit. When someone close is taken from you, the vacuum left in your life can drastically alter the course of your own destiny. For those of us that can get over such losses, getting straight back in the saddle is the best cure.

*

Fear is something that Jack Bell knows nothing of. He rode the local Grass Track circuit. Asked how Jack had got into bikes, he said: “I didn’t have a motorbike for work. I had a motorbike ‘cos I reckoned I was pretty good. I wouldn’t say I was better than anybody else, but round here, there weren’t many better than what I was. I wouldn’t even say Geoff Duke or any of them buggers was better than me.” Many aspirant racers feel that they just needed the chance to prove themselves, but creating the opportunity is virtually impossible without loads of luck and even more money. But they all believe it’s the taking part that’s important. His contemporaries would help each other build bikes, then ruthlessly hound each other on the track. Arthur Pell, who built the Pell Special that Jack rode, recalled being lent parts at a race meeting, then going on to beat the person he’d borrowed them from in every heat.

Jack Bell Slides the Pell Special

Just as there was temptation to take field bikes on the road, aspirant racers would use the road as a testing ground. It’s the sort of antic that gives rise to horror and humour in the same instant, safety being the same misjudged aspect as with stunts. Jack got involved with testing other people’s racing bikes on the road. He said: “Now me an’ Stan Cooper, he’s dead, poor bugger, now - we was tryin’ out this 650 Triumph. It was on dope (methanol fuel). It’d do 145 mph and I had a go on it. He used to keep it in his van, and we’d just put it back in when a copper came. He says: ‘Have you seen anybody round here with a motorbike?’ Course I was dressed like I am now (in ordinary shirt and trousers), there wasn’t no helmets so it didn’t look like I was ridin’. It’s a rum do.”

Jack next referred to a photograph of him: “Now that photo of me (on the Pell Special), it was found in a trunk. Hadn’t been seen for 40 years. ‘Cos Alan Bowden found some undeveloped films when his mum died, so he took ‘em to be developed. There were some fantastic riders and rum characters in those days. Arthur Pell’s motto was: ‘Knock everybody off.’ There was more characters than there is now. You missed some good times.” I can vaguely remember those times he spoke of. When I was tiny, my father took me to watch some dirt-tracking, and the heroics of the rider’s performances have always stayed with me. I recall one rider completing a race with the exhaust trailing on the black cinder track, the madly decorated half-pea helmets, the encrusted goggles, the hooped jumpers and the smell of Castrol R. This oil’s odour is as much talked about as the smell of leather in some circles. The racing rules were uncomplicated - get there before anyone else does. There were no commercial sponsors, and the only people who seemed at all fed-up were those whose machines had conked... maybe those were better times.

2 Jack Bell drifts the Pell Special

Seeing changes come about, older riders have something to compare with, and it’s true that an empty road is preferable. One way to find them was extreme in the least. During the 1950s, the powers that be made emigrating to Australia easier by lowering the fare - to around £10. The average wage of around £3 per week made it seem viable. Jack was tempted, but says: “After the war I wanted to race in Australia, but there was a lot of poisonous snakes. What you wanted was a 7R AJS. They cost about three-hundred and fifty quid, which was a hell of a lot in 1948.”

For a moment, Jack became philosophical. He lambasted bike thieves, wondering why these people received such mild treatment in the courts. The light fines or minimal hours of community service imposed don’t reflect the principle of the matter. He noted how people were now having to go to such extremes to protect their bikes from theft, with ground anchors and special locks. But even these devices, installed inside brick buildings, do not stop determined thieves. Whether insured or not, the victims are left feeling abused by the offenders and by society. Even the most passive Bikers allude to the death sentence for horse thieves or the Arab tradition for removing the offending limb.

Changing to the subject of marriage, Jack quoted another of his friends, Eric West, who’d said: “It’s all right gettin’ married while you’re racin’, ‘cos then they (women) know what to expect. When you get bloody married and then start racing the girls don’t like it.” Biking does have a masculine or at least naturalised streak, as many women who enter it are less particular about non-essentials. But for Jack, like many others, his biking world had been dominated by male company. They viewed women as an obstacle to their riding; while at the same time some women regarded biking as an obstacle to things like marriage. Conversely, some other road going males regarded women as the objective of their biking. It is a strange phenomenon, how people (of either gender) will use some pursuit to find a partner, then give it up once they have. Other, luckier people meet partners who share their interest and enter an enviable aspect of their dream, whatever it may be.

Jack now skipped to the subject of bike clubs, having recently joined a grass-track club formed by local man Reg Blackburn (to spectate, not ride). He noted the different riding styles of past and present, describing how much more slide they used to use. He added that he was no longer in the club because they expected everybody to pitch in with the work. Due to Jack’s history of local riding, he felt that he could at least have held associate status. But some clubs aren’t as they were. They are driven by economy, not enthusiasm.

He rounded up his thoughts by remembering a race that got his name in the papers, not for winning, but because of an accident. He found the newspaper cutting and read from it: “Spectator Hurt. In the Unlimited cc final, a woman spectator received a cut to the forehead from a flying stake that was torn from the ground by J.S. Bell on the Pell Special.” He explained what had happened, saying: “I wanted to win and tried to get past on the outside and tore a stake up. I was taken to hospital, but I never knew who that woman was. That’d be about 1955. It’s a rum life, in’t it?”

Because the bikes slide through the corners, like in speedway, there is little room to go round the outside. But desperate riders will sometimes ignore logic in the hopes of a win. Spectators were not fenced off at any distance in those days, and would line the track side. No blame would be apportioned - it was just bad luck if anyone got hurt.

Jack was suffering with his legs when I met him, but there’s little doubt that he will ride again if he can. Meanwhile, he amuses himself by making bets on the World Super Bike heats.

*

Bob Moir has passed away and is unable to speak for himself, but his daughter, Wee Jeanie, has inherited his memorabilia. With her recollections, it is possible to discern another view of post-war biking. It begins with her letter: “My dad never saw me ride a ‘proper’ bike. He’s never been to a rally with me, or seen me sodding off around the country at the drop of a hat like he used to. All this he’s missed because he died just as I was meeting people with bikes. He lives in me. He’s with me each time I turn the key. Each time some bastard cuts me up, he gives me the strength to keep going. My dad was my whole life for so many years, his life was bikes, and now all that is intertwined into my reality. Sometimes at rallies, I look around and think, yep. He’d be here, maybe talking to that group about... I wonder what they’re talking about? Then I might bounce over and find out for myself.”

Jeanie continues: “This was a man who overcooked a roundabout, got up, and rode to hospital with a broken collar-bone. A man who, when questioned about his heaps of bike luggage at a camp site, pointed to his bike and said: ‘All this here came on that there and that’s the only way I’ll get it home again.’ My mum and dad’s courting days were mainly spent in the garage fixing or cleaning the bike. I truly believe that biking, like so many other things in our lives, is in the blood.”

Bob was a member of the BSA Owners’ Club. Single-make and other clubs burgeoned as the peace survived decade after decade. Clubs were still performing well not only for the riders, but for the public image of biking. The Editorial of Graham Walker in Motor Cycling magazine of June 12th, 1952, quoted the Committee on Road Safety. They had said that club membership: “Fosters a sense of responsibility and pride in safe and skillful riding.” In that spirit, Bob taught Jeanie to ride by supportive example, not by being insistent.

He left photos, documents from ACU and Dragon Rallies, and a note-book that illuminates his and other people’s biking times. The ACU Rallies of the 1960s were well-organised. Various trophies were up for grabs, often sponsored by newspapers, bike manufacturers and others. They ranged from silver cups to medals, the idea being to complete each stage within a time schedule. Arriving too early was as bad as being late. There were awards for different entries, including one for scooters and another for sidecars. Complimentary breakfast vouchers were given to competitors, and in 1961 they were issued by Lucas, electrical component manufacturers.

Official programmes for the events carried advertising from bike and accessory manufacturers, and motorcycle publications. Entrants would be thrilled to see their names and details were listed, and various single-make clubs were represented among them. The runs took place at various UK locations and attracted large entries, and many spectators on the way. The ACU and its members stood for sense and sensibility in the bike world, but they enjoyed themselves. As a national club, it is still instrumental in legislative issues concerning protective clothing, and acts as a competitor’s governing body in the UK.

The pictures taken by Bob and his friends help us to imagine biking in the 1950’s and 60’s as it followed on from biking’s beginnings. The images include a juxtaposition of mainstream and fringe types. They show that a change was in the air.

His note book takes the form of a log, giving expenditure and mileages, with some notes on the places he visited. One particular trip took him from Portsmouth up to the Lake District and Scotland. He itemises a list of his requirements, with things like film, food and bike spares priced in the pre-decimal British currency. He spent the equivalent of £23.72, having covered 1,733 miles and used around twenty-two gallons of petrol, over thirteen days. Incidents included getting lost, finding a deer antler, seeing ospreys and encountering snow on the mountains. He also had punctures, and repaired a broken clutch cable. Such minutiae are the reality, the ups and downs that predominate the enthusiast’s experience.

He visited various people across the country, showing how the biking network is a scattered concept. His jottings are an insight into the pure enjoyment of riding and exploring in The Second Golden Age of biking. Most other people’s holidays involve a tiresome journey that is dead time. On a bike, despite any unfavourable weather or problems, time doesn’t have to be passed in a vain attempt to amuse yourself. You enjoy the ride, then dismount and enjoy the location. You’ve arrived ahead of the caravans, and probably found a place where they can’t get to. Some say biking is hard, thinking of adverse weather, whatever, but it’s easier on the soul than wasting your life sitting in jams.

Bob’s memorabilia include items from the Welsh Dragon Rallies he attended, in the 1960’s. Camp fires and drinking were indulged, if only to fight off the cold - the rallies are usually held around February. Singsongs were so important that the official rally document was a song sheet, rather than a programme. The Third Dragon Rally in 1964 greets riders on the inside front cover: “Time: 1964 February 8th/9th. Place: Gwrych Castle, Wales. Conditions: As hard as ever. Expect nothing. That’s what you’ll get! (Unless you count the bowl of soup and the medal!).”

This rally was no picnic, but it wasn’t rock ‘n’ roll either. Having begun at a time when rock and roll was viewed by older generations as pop music, it might seem tame compared to the rally atmosphere that younger Bikers know. But biking in UK winters is only for the brave or slightly distracted. Most Bikers are probably both, which explains why they love life so much, and prefer riding in unfavourable conditions to staying in - as the introduction to the 1966 song sheet suggests: “As the president of the Conway Club it gives me great pleasure to see so many people so enthusiastic about motorcycles that they are eager and willing to battle the roughest of weather for the sake of the ride out to meet others of the same breed. When I see the ranks and rows of tents, and the grinning brigade of lads - and lasses - and the polished - and unpolished machines all together it makes me laugh, for I think of those idiots who murmur about the decadence of the British. British? We must never forget our European friends. A thousand welcomes to Wales to you all. Pip Harris, President.”

In the same issue, Tom ‘Tiger’ Roberts enforces the spirit in which these events are held: “The Dragon Rally is for motorcyclists. We will strain and stretch any point in this event - but we will not welcome those of you who cheat and come down by car or van. This rally is for real motorcyclists. You will not get past the gates unless your trip has been made by motorcycle, with or without sidecar. So you have been warned once and for all. Out!”

Their comments describe the jovial yet resolved sentiments surrounding biking ideologies of their times. This was the biking world, to be preserved as such.

*

Among Bikers, a daft music theme has been alive since at least the 1960’s. It seems apt to include a question my friend Tom Woodhead often asks: “Why, when you’re blasting along on a summer’s day, do you always get silly tunes in your head? It’s never Born to be Wild, but things like You can do magic, by Libby and the family cooking.” It’s probably because we’re happy and preoccupied, and is therefore unimportant. Next time you hear a Biker singing, listen up, and you’ll see what I mean. Meanwhile, I make no apologies for the following samples of lyrics from various Dragon Rally song-sheets.

SONG OF THE DRAGON MEN

Hear! The sound on valleys ringing

with the motor’s raucous singing

As again machines are winging

Onward into Wales!

Wide the throttle - engine’s growling

Mingles with the wild wind’s howling.

It echoes from the grey crags scowling

On the way to Wales.

Onward to the meeting!

Warm will be the greeting!

Let it Blow! Come sleet! Come snow!

Who cares a damn about the winter weather?

Swiftly, smoothly, wheels are turning.

To our fore a beacon’s burning.

Down remembered roads returning.

Dragons into Wales!

Bill Hume/Ron Miller

THE MAD MOTORCYCLIST

A mad motorcyclist lay dying

At the end of a new motorway

His oppoes were gathered around him

To carry the pieces away.

The engine was piled on his wishbone

The footrest was jammed round his head

A spark plug stuck from his left ear ‘ole

‘Twas plain that he’d shortly be dead.

I’ll be riding a cloud in the morning

With a harp, not a throttle to hold

Where the tappets do not need adjusting

In that land of the gates pearl and gold.

(Bill Hume)

Other songs included: On Ilkley Moor Bah’t ‘at, The Big Rock Candy Mountain, and Green Grow the Rushes. Singing would be wound up with God Save the Queen, but provision was made for those not ready to hit the sack with the likes of Clementine, ‘Enery the Eighth, and The Red Flag. In an addendum to the 1966 sheet, Bill Hume apologizes for the continued folk song theme, having been inundated with appeals for songs from the Top Twenty (the Pop Charts). He explains that unfortunately, the copyright on those songs would make printing them in the song sheet too costly. Also, he adds that: “By the time the rally occurs, the songs that were popular when the sheet was prepared are all forgotten - such is the life of pop.” He suggests that anyone who knows the words could sing them anyway. That ‘life of pop’ Hume speaks of was purely incidental to the particular type of rider attending Dragon rallies, although there might have been a few rock and rollers giving vent to their favourites.