MOTORBIKING

When I was 16 (oh such a long long time ago), I went on the back of a boyfriend's motorbike (well, actually, it wasn't a 'real' motorbike, it was one of those 50cc mopeds that everyone zipped around on in the 1970's - zipped, again, being too strong a word for the speed in which they travelled.  They had such tiny engines that in order to get up hills you had to rock backwards and forwards over the handlebars willing it to Make It To The Top). I didn't like riding pillion because I had absolutely no faith in my boyfriend's riding abilities - I felt unsafe.  To be honest, I felt I could do better!  Because most of my friends at the time were bombing around on these mopeds, I wanted to 'keep up' ... I also wanted to stay alive!  So I got my own motorbike - unthinkable for a girl at the time (this was 1976).  How I loved that bike, the freedom and independence it gave me!  It was the start of a life-long love affair. These are my favourite pictures of my 'motorbikes through the ages (click on them for a bigger view).

Well, this is it, my very first motorbike - a Yamaha 100cc.  Bought brand new!  I absolutely loved it ... in fact, during an argument with a boyfriend, he roared, "It's either me or that motorbike."  I promptly picked up my helmet and left (that's him with the scratched out face! - the other bloke's my dad, the small guy's my little brother).

I got stopped innumerable times on this little red machine.  The police would flash their lights or wave me down from the side of the road and ask, "Is this your bike?"  As I say, girls just didn't ride bikes in the 70's - I took to carrying my documents around with me to save petrol producing them at various police stations. Those were the days when biker friends would turn up at 10.30 on a Friday night and say, "Wanna go to Weston [Super Mare]?" and without batting an eyelid my boyfriend and I would throw stuff onto the bike racks and just take off.  Talk about spontaneous! Coming back to Birmingham from Bristol once, I noticed something wrong with my machine.  Getting off and inspecting it at the side of the road, I realised the engine bolt was loose ... so loose there was a danger the whole engine would drop out.  Having no tools on me (hey, I'm a girl!), I had to stop every 20 miles or so to bash the bolt back in with the heel of my boot.  It was a pretty hairy journey! Another time, whilst spending a few days in Devon, I suddenly got terribly homesick (I was missing a new boyfriend and couldn't wait to get back and see him).  Rather than spend most of the day riding home, I decided it would be quicker to catch a train - I worked for British Rail at the time so train travel was free. On the station platform was another biker and his machine.  The guard told us that we wouldn't be able to put our bikes in the guards wagon if they had petrol in them ("Fire hazard," I think he said).  I was a bit upset, but my fellow biker wasn't.  He simply pulled the petrol pipe off his machine and emptied the tank onto the tracks.  I followed suit, and our bikes were boarded.  It didn't strike me as a particularly dangerous thing to do until about 20 years later! After two years of joyous freedom, I got married and pregnant and had to sell my lovely machine.  It would be another 15 years before my next bike.

And this is it, bike number two.  Yep, red again, but a Honda 100cc this time.  This bike was bomb-proof, it just kept on going come rain or shine, through snow and ice.  I finally got round to taking my test on it.  After a few pretty intensive riding lessons (from a great place in the Lickey Hills), the bike suddenly developed its first fault.  It leaked (I think it was brake fluid).  THIS WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE MY TEST!!!

My (then) husband and his brother worked until the early hours of the morning trying to fix it, but they couldn't get the necessary replacement parts.  I was desperately upset.  The following morning, I rang the Lickey Hill instructors.  "My bike's sick," I wailed.  "Come and borrow one of ours," they said (see, I said they were great).  I chose one of their bikes and rode around on it for a while to get a feel for it.  I headed towards Redditch, concentrating more on the unfamiliar controls than my surroundings - consequently, I managed to get myself completely lost.  Two hours later, me and this bike spluttered back to the training centre.  I was then whizzed off to the test centre and got there just in time.  The test went okay, although it was disconcerting to have the examiner follow me, watching my every move and crackling instructions through a headset.  Afterwards, during 'question time', I couldn't remember what a manhole cover was called and, in answer to one of the questions, said, "Oh, them round metal things in the road with bobbles on the top."  Despite this, I passed.

So, I'd passed my test and was ready for bigger things.  I immediately bought a Kawasaki 350cc, primarily because it was cheap.  It had no baffle and the noise was incredible ... I swear it could be heard across the whole of Birmingham.  It looked flipping horrible when I first got it, all peeling paint and rust, but my (then) husband turned it into something wonderful.

I had it for a while, and it was a real nippy little bike.  Then the opportunity to get something even better came up, and I couldn't resist.  I asked my bank for a £1,000 loan and, when they gave it to me, I gushed, "You've just made my dream come true."

And this is it, my Dream Bike (along with two of my sons).  An imported Yamaha Virago 1000cc; perfect paintwork, absolutely gorgeous to look at, a complete sod to ride through heavy traffic.  There was something wrong with the handlebar bearings and, despite changing them, greasing them, doing everything we could think of to loosen them, it was still stiff and unweilding to ride.

It was like manoeuvring a tank, there was no fluid motion to it, just jarring turns.  And it was heavy.  The last straw came was when I was pulling out of the car park where I worked, which was on a slight gradient, and the engine cut out for no reason at all.  Stalling suddenly, I lost balance, and the bike fell against a parked car.  I couldn't lift it back up again and had to yell for someone to come and help me (so embarrassing!).  The car was undamaged, fortunately, but I lost my nerve and all faith in my machine.  I didn't want a bike that was unreliable and unresponsive .  I decided to do a straight swap for a bike I'd long admired at the West Midlands Virago Owners Club (which I helped to run).

I like this photograph.  The Virago Owners Club did a run out to Wales.  About 50 motorbikes rode up to the top of this huge hill/mountain and parked at the top to admire the view.  We also admired this cyclist valiantly peddling his way up - it took him absolutely ages.  Then, just as he got to the top, we all started up our motorbikes and began the ride downhill.

Because there were so many of us we pulled away quite slow so we'd all stay together.  The cyclist must have thought 'They're not stopping me speeding down the other side after all that effort' and overtook us all.

This is Perfect Dream Bike number two, a Yamaha Virago 535cc.  Perfectly balanced, light and low, it was like riding on air.  It never let me down.  Paniers meant I could dash to the shops for milk and bread, deliver work to the students I typed for (who always left their 10,000 word thesis until the Last Possible Minute) and also go on Virago rallies (always fun).

Ah, biking rallies. Where it was usually cold and probably raining.  We once bought a separate tent for the boys to use on a rally in Yorkshire.  It absolutely poured down during our ride out and when we got back, the boys tent had leaked, everything inside it sodden. They spent the night in our small tent, four of us scrabbling for space and a piece of the two dry sleeping bags.  That's my Virago on the left, I'm plonked on my (then) husband's bike, a Virago 1100.

On another rally the first night (as always) was spent in a nearby clubhouse.  I sang Meatloaf's Bat out of Hell so loud I couldnt' speak for days afterwards.  I also got horribly drunk and, during the ride out the next day, I felt really really ill but couldn't stop for fear of losing the 'pack' and getting lost - a sign on the motorway reading "No hard shoulder for 600 metres" put me in a right panic, and I wondered whether it was easier to throw up in my helmet or lift it up - fortunately neither was necessary, but it was a close call.

That squashy seat (modelled here by youngest son) might look comfortable but, believe me, after 200 miles, it was like sitting on concrete.  The boys found it a complete bore to come out on any trips with us (even though it gave them MASSIVE street cred and made all their friends jealous - a family outing consisted of four people on two roaring motorbikes)

And here's a pic of the boys looking Extremely Bored.

All my bikes have been working bikes, used rain or shine, summer or winter.  A couple of times in winter or if it was raining and I stopped at traffic lights, drivers would wind down their car windows and say, "Bet you're cold/wet!"  Wearing thermal underwear and a wetsuit over a thick leather jacket and gloves, I was positively boiling!  And wet?  Only the part of my face that was exposed when I had my helmet visor up (it fogged up real fast when it was down). I used to use the Virago to get to work each day at the University of Birmingham.  I even used it when I first started temping as a secretary.  But when I started working in Birmingham city centre (where the money is!) I chose not to battle with the insane traffic or leave it parked up in some side street (custom bikes are notorious for getting nicked).  Sadly, for the last two years, its been confined to the shed ... but one day ...

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