THE SHED AND OTHER HUTS
There is a certain personal magic that imbues various habitats. Due to the practical nature of motorcycling, some of this is accidental or forced by environment - like when a kitchen is turned into a workshop. The Biker residence, as noted earlier, gathers distinct clues alluding to the biking interest. Also, part of the move into self-identity is to get your own place. During the 1960’s and 70’s, many youths who desired independence could not afford to buy property. In the US and Europe, apartments were shared. Some people shared rented houses, creating microcosms of Bikerdom, while many others entered the UK’s bedsit land. This division of houses into multiple dwellings was physically cramped, but allowed people to put their own personality into some private space. The shared location of such specific properties also brought similar and dissimilar people in contact. Not just the lower-paid, but people of foreign extractions, students and various others whose lives were semi-nomadic.
The 60s and 70s UK saw much dereliction of domestic and industrial premises. Many people took advantage of such amenities, using them as meeting places. Besides the nomadism of the road (being cognisant with hallowed ground), a sense of place also knits communities. Apart from the meetings held in disused factories, squatting houses was popular: your own place for free, where you could retire to after a good night out and carry on with the revelry.
The trouble with such places is that they still have owners somewhere. The Biker called Jamie (who saw the big ears) got arrested for ‘stealing’ an aerosol of furniture polish from a derelict house. For some though, the squat wasn’t a genuine refuge, but an enjoyed tension caused by the illegality of occupation. They presumed that reversed kudos made them cool or wild. A continuation of the teenage bedroom, these various spaces allowed an intensification of lifestyle, that ranged from subtle to a clutter resembling junk shops. Swastika flag curtains, model bikes, posters and even worn-out clothing (e.g. denims) were used as decoration. The influences of various cultures intersected in a pastiche that culminated in biking statement.
Dim lighting was favoured among most youth cultures - which lead to the borrowing of the older type paraffin-lit road warning lights in the UK. These were (usually) red metal boxes having a curved top fitted with a hook, and a hinged door to permit lighting and refueling. Light was emitted through circular red glass windows on each side. The later, battery-powered plastic flashing lights were also diverted to home use - instant disco lighting. Street signs and other street furniture all became fair game, along with the odd gnome from someone’s garden. Pub signs and ornaments were also spirited into homes, and though theft is not a fine quality, it added to the kudos of the artifact. It’s attraction hinged greatly on how or from where it was liberated. That story imbued the owner with satisfaction and garnered respect - even for gnomes.
There is one place that many bedsitters and dwelling sharers had to give up on. It is not a human residence, but a practical storehouse. Some are made of timber, others of brick with slate roofs, yet others of metal or asbestos sheet. In the UK, old air-raid shelters were put to this purpose. Some are known as garages, but they all have the same essence - of shed. The shed had for many years been declared a man’s domain. Gardening, domestic and mechanic’s tools vied with home-brewed beverages as the major constituents. But the biking shed became a virtual shrine. Not the kind of holy place where reserved behaviour held the occupants in a restrained bile of religious zeal. But one more like the black gospel churches in the US, where people sang and shouted hallelujah (the shed’s occupants usually swore).
The shed is like the nerve centre of an ant colony, where the queen (the motorcycle) is pandered to in all its glory. Most things within this enclave are purposeful, toward the need of the machine. But as time passes and machines come and go, there is a build up of detritus and debris that take on artifactual properties. As mentioned before, the number plates and other remnants of long-dead bikes begin to clutter every corner and rafter. Larger sheds often have some sort of seating brought in, and those with electricity laid on grow fridges and kettles. They become social meeting places where riders get together over some repair job, which turns into a social ritual. So much so that the repair may never get done.
It has been asserted that Yorkshire folk and Australians are the predominant shed people. But sheds have a cosmopolitan appeal, manifesting as converted coach houses or whatever the main residence has to offer. Whatever shape it takes, many riders have a building that could only be described atmospherically as a shed. Because so many females ride, sheds are not strictly male domains. They still might be the preferred male sanctuary, but gender never barred anyone from entering the shed spirit. The smiling (but not enforced) psychology among males says that: If she knows where the tools are, she can fix it. Trouble is, most blokes can’t find a damn thing anyway.
It is in the shed where many major biking developments occur, from the earliest motorcycle concept to the latest prize-winning custom; Gottleib Daimler and Sochiro Honda were shed-thinkers. There is the sorrow and pain of post-accident wreckage, failed repairs and breakdowns. And there is the joy of some successful repair or experiment. The walls echo to the sound of disastrous tears and roaring engines that burst into life after some tedious, successful labour. There is an atmosphere of extra-domestic civilisation that exudes from the smell of damp, oil and petrol fumes. Tilley lamps and other transient forms of light and heat turn the shed into a virtual nomadic dwelling, even though they don’t move. (Some might have in the past, as old van shells and railway carriages often become sheds).
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The shed is a place of discovery for the latent Biker. I was not allowed to keep my bicycle in the house, and was therefore ordered to keep it in the shed. To this end, I received my own key. Power. I came and went whenever I chose. I could fish among the ammunition cases for tools and spares without recrimination. A rectangle of dusty light from the window would spill over my shoulders, as I ferreted in the old wardrobe full of oil tins, carburetors and speedometers. In the shed, I could enact things unseen, and would climb onto dad’s Velocette. POWER. I rode thousands of miles to the sound of my own bike noise impersonation, which I perfected to the point that mates could distinguish the makes of bike I emulated. More than anything, freedom of the shed bestowed the first inklings of manhood and responsibility in me. Wherever I went, I had a key in my pocket THAT REALLY UNLOCKED something.
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In such a place then, one can sit and dream idle imaginings or scheme away at bikish developments. Specials flit into the mind, from there onto the bench and floor, and from the shed onto the road or track. Gangs and other affiliations are formed. More than a museum or other collection, more than the Biker’s human residence, the shed is the containment and manifestation of Biker culture next closest to the machine itself. It is the place where the rider says: Home at last, before they even enter their dwelling proper. It is where we whisper our goodnights and hellos to those who respond with the faithfulness of unaffected love, like a dog or a horse. Let the radio sing, let the spanners clink amid the cheerful banter. Let your mates into your shed, and they enter your soul.