Mr Smith: The Education of Young Smith
Oh how distant seems the day when I first became absorbed by the mystique of our mutually beloved form of transport, the sublime Motorbicycle.
How many are the years which have passed since I made that fateful first decision – conscious or unconscious – to allow myself to include those wonderful devices in my life, and, despite a few years in various Institutions For The Partially Buggered, what a fortuitous and fruitful decision that was.
However, I have found myself wondering over the past few days just when it was that I became a Real Motorcyclist. You see, it all started with the time I saw my first Triumph …
It was Robert Lancaster’s birthday party and I was a mere child. Robert’s mother had been divorced (or so I believe, due to the reluctance of my parents to discuss such matters in those days) and Robert was blessed (or, perhaps, cursed) with a succession of uncles. The one who was present at the time of said Celebration of the Natal Anniversary owned a Triumph twin (I remembered the machine so well that I recognised the model as a Thunderbird when I later saw it in a 1955 sales brochure) and, as a treat for all of us wee whelps, Uncle Anonymous took us for a spin around the block.
When my turn finally came, I stood beside the idling machine with Trembling Trepidation, my height allowing me to stare directly at the Triumph logo on the handsome tank. I had been literate for a few years so I read the name aloud.
“Triumph. Isn’t that when you win something?”
“Blood oath,” laughed Uncle Whoever, looking down at me with obvious interest and amazement in his eyes.
“You’ve done better than winning the bloody lottery if you own one of these!”
They were powerful words. My father’s entire future seemed to revolve about winning the lottery. I accepted the hand he reached down to me and, with the ease which comes with practice, he raised an eager youngster onto the pillion of his pride.
I’ll never forget that ride as long as the Gods allow me to draw breath. The thunder of the engine, the wind in my face as I peered around Uncle Nameless’ back, the smell of hot oil, the spectacle of the horizon tilting as we made the turns, the aroma of a well-worn leather jacket and the feeling of emptiness as I was finally lifted down remain with me to this day.
It was then that I promised myself that I’d ride and, more importantly, own one of those things that were better than winning the lottery. But that’s not when I became a motorcyclist.
Some years later I accompanied my male parent to the abode of one of his mates from the RAAF. This mate, whose name eludes me, raced motorcycles as a hobby and, since he had a quid or two, had managed to get his hands on a (rather) second hand AJS racer. He had invited my father, a painstaking and thorough mechanical perfectionist, to take a look at the machine and assess its potential. I had asked to come along despite my mortal fear of my father because I had recently seen a newspaper article which included a photographic reproduction of a young rider, his face a study in concentration and his machine leant over in seeming defiance of gravity, with the simple caption “Hailwood at speed”. I remembered my ride on the rear of a Triumph and wanted to know much, much more.
After a close examination of the machine in question, a bottle of Dirty Annie, a couple of blasts up the street and back and a couple more bottles of Dirty Annie, the AJS was pronounced in fairly sound condition. Exploratory surgery was indicated and a bit of preventative maintenance suggested but, with the added encouragement of a few more bottles of Dirty Annie, it was decided that the machine was fit enough for a good blast up the deserted and, at the time, uninhabited road. In addition, the machine’s proud (and now slightly inebriated) owner suggested that the “young fella” might like a spin. Bloody well would he!
I sat on the machine while the controls were explained to me. I had learnt to drive a car at age 10 so I could understand the purpose of the various levers even though their placement seemed somewhat unusual. The instructions were simple: “Give ‘er a few revs, ease in the clutch and feed ‘er some more power when the clutch bites.” It all seemed very simple really.
At this point youthful exuberance took over from careful control and, with the engine idling at around 3000 rpm, I dumped the clutch rather severely. As the big single lurched forward my hands locked to the bars with a grip of iron, an action which opened the throttle to, as they say, the max.
The AJS had, by this stage, overcome its inertia and the sudden snapping open of its throttle caused it to hesitate at first and then paw the air with its front wheel as the engine delivered gobs of torque to the rear wheel. My eyes were wide, my teeth were clenched and my anal sphincter was threatening to jettison all cargo as I decided that the best form of action would be to select second gear.
Wrong!
Selecting second gear turned out to be somewhat of a mistake since, due to my severe lack of experience, I punched the lever through with the merest tad of clutch and, because I had not yet released my vice-like grip on the throttle, I found to my dismay that the front wheel still felt inclined to bay at the moon. I needed to act fast to avoid a vehicular/arboreal collision since the AJS, having lost the linear stability present (usually) when two wheels are in contact with the old Terra Firma, had decided to aim itself at a pleasant grove of very formidable eucalypts. I decided to disengage the clutch.
Now, as you all will know from perusing the famed Mr Cowan’s lucid explanations of things mechanical, the clutch connects the source of motive power to the propelling medium , in this case, the rear wheel. Sudden severing of said connection can have dire consequences. I was about to unleash these consequences upon Poor Me.
Pulling in the clutch lever caused two things to occur almost immediately. Firstly, the front wheel returned very suddenly indeed to the road surface, enabling me to correct our course and attempt to stop the machine by dragging my feet along the ground (and fortunately even in those days I wore either Rossi or Blundstone boots) in the time-honoured manner of the desperate cyclist. Secondly, since I still had the throttle wound full on (one reason why I couldn’t figure where the brakes were at), something hit something else inside the engine causing all reciprocating motion to suddenly cease. I sat stock still upon the seat of the machine as I heard the approaching sound of the running feet of father and friend.
This was the first of many times in my life at which I have resigned myself to death.
A technicolour camera would have come in handy at this stage. I was white with fear, Daddy Dearest was purple with rage and his mate was flushed with exertion and laughter.
“Don’t hit him, Smithy,” the mate laughed. “Look at the poor young bastard. He’s bloody near crapped himself. And we were going to rebuild it anyway. C’mon son, you look like you could use a beer yourself. Let’s wheel this thing back home and we’ll give you a lesson on the inside of Ajay engines.”
As terrified as I was, I was back there the following weekend when the rebuild started, although I don’t think that’s when I became a Real Motorcyclist.
There have been many other times when I thought I had finally made it but now, with the inestimable advantage of hindsight, those occasions were obviously mere stops along the trail. Times like my first long distance trip of 140 miles in the depths of winter, in the rain, wearing only a T-shirt, jeans and the dreaded Rossis, with no helmet, visor or goggles, jacket, waterproofs, tools, gear. That was a real advantage on the old Thunderbird and I thought I’d finally made it into the ranks of Real Motorcyclists. But, naturally, I hadn’t.
Then again, when I woke up on the road one night with smouldering clothes and my leg across my chest and the first thing I asked was the classic “How’s my bike?” I was sure I’d made it then, but later contemplation put that impression down to mental collapse due to severe shock.
Of course, there’s the time I had the nurses turn my bed around and open the window so I could hear my Little Brother Dorf start his 450 Silver Shotgun and watch him ride away after visiting me where I lay semi-paralysed and wildly deranged. I was sure I’d made it then, but that was probably just the drugs.
There was the time I was finally able to once again ride a motorcycle and, even though it was only a Yamaha 75 scooter, I rode it for hours that day with tears in my eyes and joy in my soul. Struth, on that bright day I was positive that I’d made it – but, of course, I hadn’t.
The day I bought my first new motorcycle (and the only one, I may add) I was sure I was there finally. I’d bought the very first Moto Morini Sport to be sold in Good Old Oz (from Barry Graham at Arncliffe and I have only good words to say about the man. G’day, Barry, still got my Matchless tank?) I saw that purchase as my final Coming Of Age, but I was wide of the mark again.
The other day, however, I was leafing through the pages of Classic Bike and ran across a photo of a Dot scrambler from the late Fifties/early Sixties. Now, I have never had a liking for dirt bikes, two-strokes, Earles-type front forks, Pommies or competition as such but I found myself thinking “What a lovely looking machine. Here’s to the builder.”
Maybe that’s what it’s all about. Maybe it’s attitude not action. Maybe I’m on my way to becoming a Real Motorcyclist after all.
Cop you later.
By Peter Smith. Two Wheels, May 1987.
