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#Post#: 300--------------------------------------------------
The Demise of the Classic Biker
By: KenJ Date: December 19, 2014, 10:07 am
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I have just read a very interesting article on classic bikes and
their riders by a certain Jake B, in an obscure Scottish
motorcycling monthly called the "Banter". I could precis it
here, but wondered whether, through the wonders of the Interweb,
the writer may just read this post and publish it on this NF
Forum, as owning Modern Classics as we do, it would be of
general interest.
#Post#: 301--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Demise of the Classic Biker
By: nick949 Date: December 19, 2014, 8:42 pm
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I wonder who that Jake person might be. I'm always up for a
good read. What are the chances that he might read these
obscure posts?
Nick
#Post#: 302--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Demise of the Classic Biker
By: banquo Date: December 20, 2014, 10:22 am
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Quite high it seems.... I'll see if I can rake it out and upload
it somewhere. Patience, because I can't do it at home....
#Post#: 316--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Demise of the Classic Biker
By: banquo Date: December 21, 2014, 7:38 am
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Here we go then:
HTML https://app.box.com/s/xfzfz3xx72l555kxdb3p
HTML https://app.box.com/s/xfzfz3xx72l555kxdb3p
Awaiting incoming.... :D
#Post#: 319--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Demise of the Classic Biker
By: nick949 Date: December 21, 2014, 8:05 am
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Great stuff Jake. Not much to disagree with there.
I don't think things are quite so bleak on this side of the
ditch and if anything, there is a bit of a rise in 20+ year olds
buying 70's and 80's Japanese bikes as cheap transport, not so
much because that's all they can afford, but from preference.
Whether this leads them towards points and oil leaks will remain
to be seen.
I think part of the trouble stems from the 'collector'
mentality. Younger people (at least here), just don't get to
see, or hear, the classic bikes we love, being out on the road
in regular use, so they are simply not on their landscape.
Nick
#Post#: 322--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Demise of the Classic Biker
By: KenJ Date: December 22, 2014, 10:49 am
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I said to my bike riding son, that I would leave my BSA Goldstar
to him, as I only have a few good bike riding years left. He
said "Sell it and take mum on a round the World trip. I won't
ride it, the tyres are too narrow". There speaks a young man,
that has spent many miles breathing in the exhaust fumes of the
Goldie, as we beat up the A and B roads on our way to various
events. He wouldn't feel safe without his disc brakes and sticky
tyres. In twenty years time, I think they will going to the
scrap yards, like they were in the 60's.
HTML http://i.imgur.com/ubjOggK.jpg
Found this pic of me at the Manx GP a few years ago, not an NF,
but one cylinder and 500cc. I was in heaven and can't understand
why anyone would not want to own this bike.
#Post#: 323--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Demise of the Classic Biker
By: Dave Date: December 22, 2014, 11:00 am
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He's probably still too young to appreciate it's charms, he
might change but his generation has grown up with rocket ships
#Post#: 325--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Demise of the Classic Biker
By: nick949 Date: December 22, 2014, 11:04 am
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That's the opposite reaction to my son, who has his hooks firmly
set into my Guzzi 750S. He currently rides a Buell XB90 and a
Kawa Versys 650, and has had a VFR800 and KTM640 in the past, so
appreciates modern bikes.
The 750S, despite it's skinny tyres and lack of ABS / Traction
Control etc., will definitely see the road under his backside.
Of course, I expect that to be in more than a few
decades..........
Nick
#Post#: 328--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Demise of the Classic Biker
By: banquo Date: December 23, 2014, 9:28 am
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[quote author=KenJ link=topic=78.msg322#msg322 date=1419266996]
I said to my bike riding son, that I would leave my BSA Goldstar
to him, as I only have a few good bike riding years left. He
said "Sell it and take mum on a round the World trip. I won't
ride it, the tyres are too narrow". There speaks a young man,
that has spent many miles breathing in the exhaust fumes of the
Goldie, as we beat up the A and B roads on our way to various
events. He wouldn't feel safe without his disc brakes and sticky
tyres. In twenty years time, I think they will going to the
scrap yards, like they were in the 60's.
[/quote]
Read the article out to him over Christmas Dinner Ken, and shame
him into submission.... ;D
Failing that, I'll come down and pick it up when you're fed up
with it, not that I'd be able to do it justice.... :-[
I just can't see you pacing around the deck on a cruise liner,
so I'd be doing you a favour really, although I'm not sure your
good wife would agree!
#Post#: 329--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Demise of the Classic Biker
By: banquo Date: December 23, 2014, 9:39 am
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Here's another, recycled from 2004:
Sounds of the Seventies
Longer term members of this fine Club may find the following
account somewhat familiar, it having appeared in the predecessor
to The Banter as recently (?) as 2004. On the assumption that
long membership almost certainly coincides with short memory,
and the Telly is full of repeats at this time of year, put those
Groundhog Day feelings to one side, slip your vinyl Déjà Vu
album, featuring the talents of Messrs. Crosby, Stills, Nash and
Young from its cardboard sleeve, drop it onto the turntable and
take a second bite of the somewhat sour cherry of the seventies…
****************************************************************
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There is much to tempt the spotty 16 year old in 1971. The
draconian moped rules that will breed the FS1E and Fantic
Choppers have not yet arrived, and anything of 250cc or below
can legally be ridden away on the folded maroon cardboard of the
provisional license, brandished with pride to envious peers on
every possible occasion.
Angus Campbell’s Dunfermline showroom is a temptation of
gleaming candy paint, with the usurpers from the Rising Sun
abandoning their advanced pressed steel spine frames in favour
of more conventionally styled machinery, to appeal to Western
tastes. These precision jewels drip with chrome and with
multiple cylinders, each sporting its own carburettor, and with
mirrors as standard, in which the 16 year old hopeful can study
his flowing locks, the first wisps of facial hair, and the
landscape of acne vulgaris. Rev counters indicate up 12,000 rpm
and speedometers up to 120 mph, optimistically promising
performance that once was the domain of the most exotic of
racing machinery.
But this particular 17 year old is unimpressed by these foreign
offerings. Only a British bike will do, to start the daily
commute along the Hillfoots to Stirling and to college on the
other side of the known world in Glasgow: only a British bike is
a real bike, and the only real British bike is a Triumph. There
is no practical reasoning behind this, but purchasing the first
motorcycle of your life is a decision based on emotion. Looks
and smell and noise take precedence over such mundane
practicalities as reliability and build quality, and of these,
the style and the badge are by far the most important.
Hence the preference for Triumph. The now 17 year old has only
the flimsiest knowledge of what lurks behind those polished
alloy castings, but he knows aesthetically that the triangular
form of the timing case on the Triumph twins is much more
attractive than the ovoid of the lesser BSA. Likewise the
teardrop of the tank, the shape of the cylinder head, and the
overall package that was Turner’s finest is in every way
superior to the competition. His dream is of the psychedelic
creations parked up outside the café, their fuel tanks hand
painted in Humbrol enamels with the symbolism of flower power
and Easy Rider, their ape hangers reaching to the sky, and the
banana seats curving seductively over the flared mudguards.
But the creased provisional does not permit the purchase of
Bonneville, T-Bird, TR6 or even Daytona, and the choice becomes
more limited.
In the front shop at Campbell Street languish the rows of new
and ageing British machinery, each 4-stroke provided with its
own drip tray, to collect the inevitable oil slick, and the
2-strokes looking flimsy and effeminate, with their spindly
forks and clattering petroil motors. A 2-stroke is not on the
agenda, so the Bantams, Greeves and Fanny Bs are discarded. A
Cub has the right badge but the wrong size for a 6’ 2” youth,
whose lack of knowledge of things motorcycling borders on the
ridiculous.
But, standing alone at the end of the row is a vision of desire.
From the chrome of its wide, high bars, through the bright
vermillion of its cycle parts to the chunky K70 tyres, hanging
from the conical hubs and chromed rims, it ticks every box and
seems to wink seductively as it breathes, “Buy me” to the
love-struck youngster.
It’s only a year old, so there can’t be much wrong with it, so
it’s not worth waiting for the delivery of a brand new one, is
it? Patience may be a virtue, but not to the teenager of 1971.
Papers are signed, money changes hands, a Stadium Project 2,
complete with webbing straps, is thrown in, Concentric is
tickled and kickstart swung. The TR25 Trailblazer rattles into
life, a satisfying blat from the matt black upswept exhaust with
its perforated chrome trim, and shivers on its sidestand as it
settles into an uneasy and too rapid tickover, tappets
chattering away, and rubber mounted front mudguard quivering in
anticipation. L plates are wrapped discretely along the rear
light support and a front fork leg, where they will be as
invisible as possible, 18” flares swing over the saddle, and 1st
gear is engaged with a satisfying clunk.
The provisional licence entitles the rider to ride, but instils
no competence whatsoever. The first few miles then, are an
accident waiting to happen, but empty roads and good luck
prevail, and it will be a few weeks yet before the inevitable
first spill, bloody knee, broken footrests and crunched sheet
metal. It’s dark, and the tiny Smiths speedometer glows
comfortingly, almost as bright as the attractive, but tiny,
chromed headlamp.
Stopping at the roadside just outside Dunfermline is a mistake,
and the single refuses to restart. Of course, it’s a BSA B25,
thinly disguised as a Triumph, so that’s no surprise, and the
previous owner no doubt had very valid reasons for terminating
his ownership experience of such short duration. Campbell’s will
be closed by now, mobile phones haven’t been invented, and the
nearest payphone will be miles away. Down to the left, a steep
farm track descends into the growing darkness. Second gear is
engaged, as the youth at least knows better than to try in 1st,
clutch disengaged, and bump start attempted. Nothing. And the
first lesson is learned, that what goes down, has to get pushed
all the way back up again. Heart pounding, and legs aching, the
reluctant beast finally makes it back to the main road. It’s far
heavier than it looks.
Sweat drips on to the tank, as more frantic and ill-timed
kicking is attempted, until finally, it bursts into reluctant
life again.
In the darkness, a faint glow can be seen, where the cylinder
head adjoins the barrel, and the spitting of the blown head
gasket is a precursor to the many failures, both mechanical and
electrical, which will ensure the machine spends more of its
life awaiting or under repair, than transporting its owner from
A to B. Over the months that follow, the clutch will slip, the
gearbox will fail, the head will split between the ridiculously
large valves, and there will be a string of blown fuses,
eventually traced, by the simple expedient of shorting out the
fuse, and looking for the smoke, to an uninsulated wire below
the fuel tank. The front mudguard and exhaust can will split,
rocker covers will fly off, and various parts will
self-disassemble due to the vibration. Overheated GTX will foam
and emulsify in the frame, whilst the motor fries below, until,
eventually, it dies altogether, and resists any attempt to make
it go.
A strong familiarity is formed between the callow owner and
Willie Pitblado’s emporium of all things British, and the
machine’s tax disc is stolen, as it lies forlornly on the vacant
lot opposite his shop in Golfdrum Street after its owner fails
to complete the grafting on of a B25 cylinder head before
darkness descends, and then gets a bollocking from Willie the
following day for being too stupid to ask to have it wheeled
inside. (Bizarrely, if you Streetview Golfdrum Street, there’s a
BSA Bantam sitting on a trailer just along from Willie’s shop!)
This apology of a machine takes the responsibility for the
owner’s summary sacking from his first job (and the awe
inspiring salary of £240 per annum) having in its single handed
fashion caused the worst attendance record in the history of
Glasgow College of Building and Printing and the inevitable
consequences of that in the end of year exams, although its long
haired owner did receive 10 marks for writing his name on the
paper, when the Examiners decided the average marks were so low,
that everyone would be upped by 10%..
That first attempt at further education may have failed, but the
long and painful journey from complete mechanical incompetence
commenced in that year of abject misery. Of course there were
good times to punctuate the bad, and despite being the butt of
every joke, the owner of the always broken bike did develop some
competence in riding pillion behind the ever patient purchasers
of Hondas and such, and even gained some fame in his ability to
ignite Embassy Regals at speed, and hand the lit cigarettes to
his riding companions. Pillion life also had significant
benefits in the beer department, as you didn’t get breathalysed
for being drunk on the back, however unwise it might be.
The TR25 finally died, and after a mere 12 months, its value
reduced from £200 to a mere £50, it was traded for a candy blue
Suzuki T250J, which compounded the mechanical mayhem, by holing
a piston, shredding teeth from rear sprockets, ejecting the
baffles from the dreadfully made silencers and finally throwing
a big end, probably through no fault of its own. The owner did
feel and still does feel some guilt about the day it was sold on
via an advert in the Courier to some spotty youth with the same
confident demeanour of another from just a few years ago in
1971. That new owner also would learn the hard way that the
almost new and very shiny bike was but a simple and fragile
shell, containing all the horrors of a rapid education into the
world of reality. The education started quickly for him, and he
tried to bring it back five minutes after the money had changed
hands, but by then it was too late…. Guilt; it fades with time….
There was a crypt in the back of Angus Campbell’s workshop,
where the dead, dying and forgotten trade ins used to lie,
gradually reverting to the oxides from which their metals were
smelted. The Trailblazer never moved from that spot for as long
as the shop remained. Sitting alongside an irreparable
Bridgestone 350, and various other discards, it probably got
melted for scrap, but for years after that, the owner would
awake from a persistent dream where it still sat in the shed,
the smell of the fuel and the oil and the rubber still teasing
the nostrils, just waiting to be fired up, and rolled out onto
the road again.
However bad your first bike was, there will forever be only one
first bike, and so it gains a special, if dark, place in your
heart.
[URL=
HTML http://s21.photobucket.com/user/bancquo/media/postings/trailblazercopy_zpscc1c8697.jpg.html][IMG]http://i21.photobucket.com/albums/b298/bancquo/postings/trailblazercopy_zpscc1c8697.jpg[/img][/URL]
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