The Early Years

I had a pushbike for a few years. It was great. I learned to ride itwhen I was just nineteen years of age! (an early starter as you can
see). I lived to ride and cycled everywhere, but I tended to cycle
in to things rather than around them. Things I cycled in to ...

A lamppost (bent front wheel)
A dog (dog ok, grazed hands)
A leaf (slide across the path and fell off)
A hole (fell off, broke lights)
A mini (no brakes due to rain, no damage)
A car door (idiot didn't look)
A tree (minor bruise)
A traffic cone (scraped paintwork)
A bus shelter (major bruise)
A car at speed (major cuts and bruises, bike written off)

After the last episode, the guy at the shop looked at the shattered bike and my swollen face, made some suggestions about public transport and taxis, and sent the bike off for repair. The insurance company wrote the bike off and gave me a cheque for just over 100 quid and with this money, I bought a pushbike!

Cycling was ok I suppose. It kept me really fit (being my sole means of transport) but was not pleasant in bad weather. My biggest cycling feat was cycling from London to Brighton. Despite nearly crippling myself with this, I felt proud of my achievement and continued to cycle as much as possible. I even named my bike "Cyclops" but this was all brought to an abrupt end when the bike was stolen. I thought about getting a replacement, but suddenly I had a better idea.

The first motorbike I bought was the biggest heap of junk that ever saw a road. It was a Honda CB100 which I had managed to scrape out of the back streets of Peckham for two hundred quid. A friend of mine rode back through Saturday traffic and it arrived coughing and smoking, and collapsed in a heap. This was the last time the damn thing ever worked.Despite being mechanically inept, I tried to work out why it wouldn't go. I even got another friend to look at it. It eventually ended up in the back of a barn collecting hay. Onwards and upwards ...

The next bike I got was from a reputable high street shop. Buying the bike wasn't the problem. I paid my money and made my choice, 600 quid's worth of Honda CG125. The problem was riding it.

My track record of two wheels was a little dented it has to be said, so for the first time in my life I decided to get some advice.

Leathers, so I was told, would not survive continually falling off, so I was sold a jacket similar to the types of jacket used in racing. I guess they must have seen me coming and sold me a 200 quid fibre glass helmet, 145 quids worth of armoured jacket that made me look like a cross between a traffic cone, Michelin Man, and a Belisha beacon. Never mind, I felt safe. In the event of a crash, I would simply bounce down the road like some sort of demented fair ground ride.

I had no previous riding or driving experience of any kind, and my friends suggestion that a motorbike was exactly like a push bike, was no help.

With the traffic as bad as it was I decided to check out the CBT
(Compulsory Basic Training), which in those days, strangely enough, was optional. The shop, as part of the service, was kind enough to deliver the machine to the training area and I walked.

A couple of hours of letting the clutch go with a ping and stalling the bike began to sag my spirit but bitter determination and the cost of the bike, jacket and lid eventually got me lurching forward. After a while I managed to get moving in straight lines. Progress at last. The instructor, by now, was bored out of his mind and suggests that perhaps I should try a U turn. No problem says I, and rode off. I started the U turn at very low speed and turned the handlebars sharply to get around in the available space. Unfortunatley, as I turned the handlebars, I also turned the throttle
and came rocketing out of this U turn at high speed. Panic seized my tiny brain as I hurtled towards a brick wall. (Readers must note that thirty miles an hour in a confined space, to a learner is a devastatingly high speed!). Everything was screaming past me and my brain was shouting to my feet "BrakesBrakesBrakesBrakesBrakesBrakes". In the calmness that followed, I managed to remember to bring the clutch in to avoid stalling the engine. With the clutch gripped and held firmly I gave my life and soul to the brake pedal. The was a loud screech. The bike stopped dead and keeled over sideways trapping my leg and mashing my knee in to the ground.

Bugger!

I could see the instructor just standing there with hands over face. It was beginning to dawn on me that I may be just a little short of being the perfect biker. They patched my knee and made some suggestions about taxis and public transport, perhaps I might even venture to a car. They couldn't possibly recommend I ever ride a bike again and, to be quite honest, my knee was stinging like interest on an overdraft and I was inclined to agree with them. I went home with my big red jacket, shiny helmet plus dent and a torn pair of jeans.

A week passed and once again I plodded to the CBT training area. The bike was delivered again by the shop. Only a few minutes of clutch pinging and I was lurching forward again. I even managed to get a u-turn sorted with the minimum amount of damage.With the joy of an undertaker, the instructor announced that I probably wouldn't kill myself in the first day if I was really carefull and that was that. I was a biker!!

It has to be said that my biking skills have vastly improved since I first started but will never reach the god like standards of Fogerty or in fact of most other bikers.

However I still don't believe in public transport!