Hacking Hilarity
Big Fred had a beard down to his shaky knee-caps, about 110 years old and still going strong on a mangy BSA Bantam that had last seen an MOT certificate in 1974. He was rumoured to have an excessively affectionate relationship with a horse-sized Alsatian – about the only bitch who'd come within ten feet of him as his clothes gave every appearance of being as old as the Bantam's MOT. Fred's survival mantra was a simple ZEN matter of ignoring anything and everything that might impede his forward motion, including officers of the law and bricks thrown by unemployable young men. The sheer relentless nature of his ignorance had, so far, held him in good stead.
Fred did a little bit of wheeling and dealing, mostly consisting of picking up a motor here and hammering it into any chassis whose comparative dimensions didn't entirely contradict the laws of physics. There was little artistry in his hacksawed and welded bitsa's but they usually ran in an approximation of a straight line and came with a wad of paperwork that was backed up by his grandson's computer hacking skills. Basically, if you wanted a running motorcycle that would pass police scrutiny for a hunded quid or two, the only place to go was Big Fred's.
That was how I found myself breathing deeply (nothing to do with the body odour, Fred) and letting out the clutch of a 400 Superdream that had been popped into what I hoped was a GN400 chassis (there was the possibility it was actually a GS125's frame!). The thing leapt forward and ground its way through the rather loose geabox until it hit 70mph, resolutely refused to go any faster.
It stopped, went where it was pointed and didn't vibrate that much; ergo, it must be a good 'un. It must be said that I don't know anyone in Cornwall who has ever complained to Fred about their bike – which might have something to do with the devil-eyed monster dog that looks protectively over Fred's crumbling cottage.
A week later, I was sorely tempted after a 50mph excursion through a field that ended by whacking into a rather tough hedgerow – down to front brake failure, something went with a large bang. Some of the impact softened by the frame downtube cracking up – hilarious, not. In fact, the bike was so badly bent that the only salvageable item was the motor – and if you ever saw a dissolute chappie hopping and skipping down Cornish country lanes carrying a Superdream motor (and set of numberplates!), well that was almost certainly me!
Never one to learn from past mistakes, I ended up buying a 250 Dream with a seized up motor – the balancer chain snapping according to the owner. Of course, only after some artful grinding, drilling and hitting the frame a few times with a really big sledgehammer did the various parts mate, if not as wholly intended by the manufacturer.
One result of the crash, the bike now refused to better 65mph, making it a bit of an accident waiting to happen on most open roads. The handling was much more interesting, needing plenty of handlebar corrections and the odd bit of cursing to let it know who was master. Oddly, the single front disc would lock up the front wheel with hardly any effort whilst the back brake simply didn't work at all. Most amusing on damp roads.
Nevertheless, it ran through most of the winter and spring with barely any input from me, other than filling the tank at ridiculous intervals – I'd guess 35mpg, too depressing to actually sit down and work it out. Come the summer and tourist hordes, we were mowed down by lunatic youths who found the sight of bent bike and my bleeding kneecap hilarious; throwing me a few cans of beer as consolation.
The next thing I know, they have disappeared up their own backside and a couple of young coppers are giving me a breath-test, assuming I am drunk in charge of a motorcycle. I didn't rant and rave at their incompetence as the (already dodgy) doc's referred to the old frame and if they checked the frame number I would be done for. After surviving the alcohol test, enduring an half hour lecture on safe riding techniques, I was told I'd better call a taxi to take me to the nearest hospital!
I mumbled abuse at the world all the way home, pushing the bent Honda and cursing every painful step. Things turned really tragic when the local bodger/mechanic snapped the forks trying to straighten them and told me to piss off when I complained.
This left me with the interesting problem of pushing the Honda home. Solved by Big Fred coming to the rescue with a set of forks off something relatively modern – I had visions of a forkless bike in the nearest motorcycle parking bay! - that was tapped on using ancient blacksmith skills but somehow managed to have braking that was less resolute than the original, which no doubt wasn't really that with which the Dream came out of the factory. Anyway, twenty quid poorer I was on my way again, leaving a slightly confused Fred muttering that he was sure he had sold me a GN framed Superdream.
Okay, I was riding around on a bike that was rotting beneath me but there is a certain art to keeping them going until the END finally comes. Araldite, Superglue, sheet metal (as in old beer cans) skills and desperate scavenging all help. But there is always a point of no return.
But not quite yet. For reasons that escape me at the moment, I'd agreed to roar over to Barnstaple and take a mate down to Lands End on the pillion. He was a rather large chap, summoning immediate visions of the back end snapping off – we really could've done a good impression of Little and Large – and not any sort of biker. The only thing we had in common, a certain desperate poverty.
Anyway, he'd agreed to pay for the fuel, now running at around 30mpg as the engine internals tried to grind themselves into oblivion – probably cheaper for him to take the bus! The bike bounced along at all of 60mph, with a desperate flat out whine, and a chassis that swayed from side to side of one whole lane.
We did around 45 miles of this, a beautiful July summer day, when what seemed like a bloody typhoon hit us out of nowhere. I have been around long enough to know to lean into a side wind but what are you supposed to do when the wind is swirling around you from each and every direction?
Within seconds, my mate was screaming for me to stop – something to do with the bike dodging over to the other side of the road, leaping back and then trying to swirl right round. Despite braking, slamming the throttle shut and fighting with the bars, end result, bike and us heading for the nearest ditch.
Matey decides to test my medical skills by having a heart attack but soon learns he had better shape up if he wants to see the morrow. The whirling wind finally abates, as quickly as it came up, leaving us thinking it was an optical illusion,
The poor old Honda, like us, soaked through and wheel spindle deep in mud, refused to either start or budge. Scrambling up the side of the ditch, I see my huge friend do a Ninja leap right out of there, screaming something about snakes. Couldn't see anything myself, perhaps because of the hysterical laughter wracking my body – the poor guy looked a total wretch!
He refused to speak to me again. By the time I've returned home and bathed it's too dark to do a rescue mission. Another mate, with an ancient car and trailer, and I spent most of the next day trying to find the Honda – no chance! Either been nicked or sunk without trace into a Cornish ditch, most likely a fitting end to its life. And if you ever find it, you can keep it – honest!
Marcus D.