The Surprising Beginning to the Stories of the Places of my Youth

Introduction

Today a friend mentioned the concept of a golden thread of memory. I found it intriguing, so I had a bit of a think about what it meant to me. I’m of the opinion that a golden thread of memory is a thing that winds its way from the past, bringing out good times with extra clarity and reminding us of what they meant and perhaps have come to mean to us.

 I had every intention of starting a new series on my blog called 'The Places of my Youth' with a nostalgic trip around the Chesham area, which saw the beginnings of a time of my life which I refer to as a little piece of magic. That’s a golden thread of memory if ever there was one!

This story, however, hijacked my planned start to the series because of how it ties beautifully into this idea of a golden thread, because that’s exactly what it came to be, a golden thread of memory tying a journey in the present to a fantastic time in my past. What made it all the better was that it came as such a complete surprise.

Places of My Youth Part 0.5

Last Sunday, at least as I write this, I took my bike out for a ride. Essentially, I looked at the chores and DIY I was supposed to do, looked at the sun shining outside, said something rude about chores and DIY and got on my bike to see what adventures awaited me on the road. I just wanted the feel of the wind on my face. With 750,000 odd miles on bikes under my belt I still love it.

Anyway, back in the day I used to do this every now and again, and it could lead me all over the country to some quite interesting places. Sometimes my ultimate destination would be a mysterious ruined castle, sometimes it would end somewhere like the romantic and exotic wilds of West Ruislip. More recently, local rides led me through a magical little village with what looked like the remains of a medieval wall and another ended up in Tesco's in Prince's Risborough about 5 miles away! These were, in microcosm, how these things went in the past.

Today's totally unplanned ride took me into a bunch or roads on the other side of West Wycombe. There's some truly lovely countryside in the area, particularly on a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon, so I set off with no particular destination in mind, just a desire to know where 'this' random road would lead and what sights it would show me. 

It was while I was riding around these roads that I was struck by a sudden sense of deja vu. Somehow, I knew these roads, and knew them really well. Shortly after this realisation struck me as I saw a series of signs for places, like Skirmett, Fingest and Bovingdon, and I came to understand (with no small sense of wonder) that I was on the very same roads that I learnt how to ride a motorcycle on back when I was 17 and started what was, in some respects, a storied career as a biker. I was riding once more down the very first roads I ever saw on a bike.

Memories of summer afternoons on my Oh So Mighty CB100 came flooding back, rides with my best friend, Graham (who is sadly no longer with us) on his Z200, a beast compared to what I had. Journeys round these roads by myself, the time when I misjudged a corner and ended up in a hedge, the first time I managed to get my CB100 to its absolutely massive top speed of 60 mph. That's pretty hairy on those roads you know! Golden times. 

It was as I rode around all these great roads, enjoying the memories and the truly lovely countryside that I saw a sign which said 'single track road with no passing places for 2 miles'. I'd never seen this before, so despite the forbidding nature of the entrance I just had to turn aside from nostalgia and try something new. I just HAD to; you understand?

In contrast to the roads I had been enjoying, this one was extremely narrow, dark, overgrown and very, very wet. My feet were quickly soaked, which reminds me that the next time I do this I should prepare better, and the potholes had potholes! I am sure that some at least lead into a mysterious underworld populated by Svarts, the Morrigan, worse things if that's possible and maybe one led to the Abyss itself.

However, before my imagination could paint me into a place from which there was no escape, and after travelling downhill for what seemed ages, I literally emerged out of the trees to see more lovely countryside, into what I realised was the bottom of a narrow, steep-sided valley.

I was then that I met a pair of horses (with riders, fortunately) coming in the opposite direction! I literally had to drive into the hedge at the side of the road and switch the bike off. They could have been King Arthur's knights on a terribly grand quest, but they were instead a lovely couple doing the same as I was, and enjoying the countryside on a far more genteel mode of transportation than I was using. We exchanged pleasantries as they passed and it was then that I realised that a van was following them at a discreet distance. Fortunately, I was then in a good place to bury myself even further in the hedge and we JUST managed to pass each other. JUST.

Coming out of the other end of the road I came to the realisation that I was totally, utterly and completely lost, which is quite a feat in the back roads around Marlow and Henley, and it took me absolutely ages to find a signpost. In fact, had I driven through a patch of mist I might just have believed that I had travelled to the other side and was about to see the hosts of the Sidhe arrayed in all their otherworldly glory.

Well, that thought was completely smashed to very small pieces indeed when I came across a sign that said 'Marlow' this way and 'Henley' that way and I realised that I wasn't lost in the Otherworld at all, but very firmly in a mundane part of this one, close to the town where I grew up.

Not the Otherworld, Somewhere between Marlow and Henley

I then ended up (by design this time) at Marlow Sports Club. The tennis section of the club is where I started to discover these wondrous creatures called 'girls' (I still know nothing about them by the way) naturally played some tennis, winning a few Junior tournaments and later (post accident) becoming the Junior Organiser and Club Coach. On the other side if the cricket field was the bar. I'll draw a kindly veil over the multiple, classic, ways I made a complete fool of myself there. 

And that, in effect was the journey. I rode down Marlow high street, which bore very little resemblance to the place it was in my childhood, except for the toyshop which was the most important place in the high street (for me) for years, and rode back home, with a stop at my local Harvester for a good meal with people who have become friends. I finished the afternoon tired but happy.

Postscriptum

This, was in a small way, a very good day. This golden thread of memory reminded of absent friends and good times I'd had in the past. You could argue that this is the whole point of these golden threads and I won’t disagree with you. Having been through some dark(ish) times in recent years driven by stress and overwork, it was good just to let all that go, and remind myself that in a lot of way ways, I am very rich, especially in the friends I have and the people I know. I hope some of you will read this one day.

Storms and Stonehenge

For once this is not a story of a breakdown or a near-death experience. It was a bit of a brown trouser moment mind you, although by then I was far too cool for brown trousers. Yeah, right.

I’d left Exeter in bright sunshine. A perfect day, and I was riding along the A303 when I literally saw the clouds roll in from absolutely nowhere and the rain began. Rain was a bit of an understatement actually. Let’s call it a monsoon! So much so that I was soaked right through before I could stop the bike and change into the waterproofs I’d brought along.  

So I got back on the bike and carried on riding. Then the storm started and it got really wet. Then I saw lightning strike a tree some distance ahead of me, and then I saw it strike a hill not far away. There I was on my demon-possessed metal bike in the middle of nowhere and not a car in sight. I was just a tiny bit worried. Only a tiny bit. OK? Was this yet another coincidence, a hell-driven storm from absolutely nowhere? I think not.

I carried on riding through the downpour, since there was literally nothing I could do about being struck by lightning. In due course, I saw Stonehenge on the left-hand side, and I thought, why the hell not? There was no one around so I parked the bike, climbed what was then a low fence, and capered around in the stone circle like a mad thing while the storm raged around me, screaming and yelling as if I’d been possessed by a demon myself. I later put this whole incident down to the said diabolic influence of Yellow Peril.  Obviously.

Then I went ‘OK I’ve done that' and rode the rest of the way home without incident. Like you do.

While I didn’t realise it, that was the end of the big stories of Yellow Peril. That summer, I decided I’d had enough of being a labourer and someone had told me that I could make a minimum of £200 a week as a motorcycle courier. Well, that was true, but you were under so much pressure to get stuff in that if you weren’t in London from Slough in 20 mins they were on the walkie-talkie thing they lent you, saying ‘where the hell are you!’ and you had to take massive risks filtering traffic In London, every minute of every day, thrashing your bike to death, just to make deliveries. One guy in this company got prosecuted for doing 100+ miles an hour filtering through traffic. He got away with it because he claimed that it was impossible and the judge believed him. He told us he’d actually done it.

It all came to a head for me when I hit a speed wobble at an indicated 92 mph. You normally accelerate out of one of those, but on Yellow Peril, I literally had nothing left, and I ended up on the central reservation of the motorway and I was damned lucky not to hit it. Yet another brown trouser moment courtesy of Yellow Peril and in fact a near-death moment that effectively makes a lie of the first paragraph, even if this isn't the thrust of the story. 

You understand therefore why I finished my 2nd week, collected my pay packet and never looked back, and spent the summer fibre-glassing the inside of oil rig cabins for the princely sum of 1.50 per hour. They took me back essentially because handling raw fibreglass was so horrible that no one else would do it, but at least it wasn’t going to kill me! (though the raw fibreglass did make me feel like hell every night)

Why I Learned to Hate Spokes

I’d just worn out a tyre – and I mean really worn it out. It was balder than Yule Brynner after a close shave. It was one of those Bridgestone tyres of the era that came with the bike, which were hard as nails and lasted for ages but weren’t great for actually sticking to the road. As I recall Bridgestone makes good tyres today, by the way. Anyway I digress, and to get back to the point I’d had it replaced with an Oxford tyre which had massively thick treads and was square like a car tyre; but that wasn't a concern.  Yellow Peril handled like a boat anyway and I thought it’d last. In the event it didn’t and here’s why.

I was travelling back to dad’s from Exeter going along the A303 at about 60 mph when the rear tyre blew out, and I mean it really blew out! One second it was functioning as normal and then it just wasn’t there at all.  

The bike jack-knifed like those guys you see doing speedway circuits and I was in a lot of trouble. There was a car right behind me and if I’d gone down it would’ve run over me with the obvious results. Yet another brown trouser and indeed near-death moment courtesy of Yellow Peril to add to the ever-growing list. Thanks.

Anyway, I fought the bike onto the side of the road and brought it safely to a halt. That was not a bad piece of biking as I remember it and I’m quite proud of it. 

However, the car was off over the horizon with never a backwards glance. Thanks a bunch! Though with the complete lack of ironic waving or general mickey taking I am pretty sure they got away with it since my bike's superpower wouldn't have kicked in.

I took stock. I was in the middle of nowhere with no means of communication. There were no mobile phones back then. I needed to get to a phone and do whatever I had to do to get rescued. With no AA or RAC membership that meant a call to dad on a workday. Thankfully I remembered his number! I just hoped he wouldn’t be too mad.

Dad being mad, always such an angry man

I think it says something about the bike that I didn’t even think much of what I had to do and just got on with it. I pushed the bike about 5 miles to the nearest garage (I didn’t want to leave it on the side of the road) made the call and took the wheel off the bike while I waited. Yep, I had enough tools with me for that to be quite routine.

Dad came straight out to my rescue, for which I was and am forever grateful, and we got the wheel to the nearest bike dealer, which was in Amesbury, and they put a new and far more expensive tyre on. When they took the old tyre off (which I’d ruined by the way) they discovered that the people who’d done the previous tyre had neglected to put rim tape on the damned wheel! The only surprise was that it had taken that long to cause a puncture. 

I put the massively inconvenient timing down to the diabolic influence of Yellow Peril, and this is the root of why I hate spoked wheels. (Above and beyond the obvious inconvenience of cleaning and adjusting the damned things). 

Tyre weld was added to the tool kit. Sigh. (I did need it later on in a much more mundane way, for those who might have a vague interest).

Long Vehicle, Short Vehicle

By now I was getting Yellow Peril sussed, I had done a whole bunch of ‘stuff’ to it (which I’ll talk about elsewhere – it’s not of interest to everyone) one of the key things being Locktiteing the timing cover screws – not just with Locktite either these were special and expensive screws with a plastic insert, so this journey isn’t about something that went wrong. Shhh, don’t tell anyone! 

I was heading across the A303, it was a lovely day, and I got stuck behind a yellow trailer, a very long one with Long Vehicle Signs on the back. Yes, I was immediately struck by the irony of the situation, a yellow long vehicle being followed by a yellow short vehicle. Well, who wouldn't be?

So was the guy in the mini metro who overtook us both, deliberately preventing me from overtaking by the way. How very rude! 

I saw the pointing and the laughing as this family went past me, especially the laughing, so it was no surprise to me after I’d got past the trailer – and I got further delayed by the scorpion tank which was not far beyond, when I saw this same car stuck on the side of the road, with the driver changing the wheel as I passed him. I gave him a totally non-ironic ‘cheery wave’ as my Short Vehicle left him in my dust. It confirmed what I’d always thought, my bike was possessed, but once more it gave me Justice!!  Yeah, baby! 

And yes, the other part of that journey was having a very hard time getting past the Scorpion tank which was on some sort of exercise (I am sure it wasn’t supposed to be on the road but I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.)   Those things are pretty quick! Those guys gave me a thumbs up as I went past so I am pretty sure they didn’t break down later! 

Just for reference, I saw quite a few tanks on the A303 – this was the first one however that was under its own power, the rest had all been on trailers and were mostly Chieftains. Those things were so unreliable that they gave Yellow Peril a solid run for its money and that's saying a lot.

Rebuilds and Mods

The list of things I did to Yellow Peril is quite extensive – by the time the bike did its last miles with me I’d replaced almost all of the Philips screws with Allan heads, and all the key ones had been coated with locktite. The Timing cover screws had been replaced as I’ve mentioned with special screws with a plastic insert which did a fine job of holding the points in place, a considerable relief let me tell you. 

 

In addition, I’d replaced the seals on all the shocks, and when a Haynes manual says some force may be required, what it actually means is a bloody great mallet and a lot of cursing, or more sensibly, don’t try this at home folks! 

That was just some of the small stuff I did. I’d also coated the downpipes in Zinc (not the nice plating either) because did I mention the finish wasn’t great? and chemically blacked them myself which was in reality some sort of high temperature spray called chemical blacking. 

I’d rebuilt the top end twice. Every 12k miles,  although the second rebuild was minor by comparison, reground the valves (twice), decoked the head, found that the tappets and camshaft were too soft on the first rebuild and with dads never failing help stoned them clean and had them case hardened. 

I'd also replaced the cam chain tensioner. I should probably have fitted needle roller bearings to the cam, but given what happened to the bike it’s probably a good thing that I didn’t. 

There’s more, most of it being small stuff like more locktite on many key bolts (which I didn't replace with something better, new and better headlight bulbs, plus all the usual exigencies of bike maintenance back then – not forgetting boiling the chain regularly in grease and causing a massive stink in whatever place I was in, which wound everyone around me up, especially mum who was a saint about the whole thing. Did I mention replacing the cam chain tensioner? The list went on and on and included replacing wiring, and as I've said already plug caps, those being the simplest thing I did.

In the end, I did get the bike working reliably, but on balance, while I learned a lot it so wasn’t worth it. I think back then it was something you just accepted if you were going to put any sort of miles on a bike!

Thor, Love and Thunder. In Review

 

Most of you who read this will already have decided whether you’re going to see this or not, so I’ll confine myself to saying that if you like superhero movies you should go and see this, and see it on a big screen with a good sound system. I thoroughly enjoyed this film, and while I had concerns when I saw who was directing it, I have to say that everything he did worked, and the first act flowed seamlessly into the last and set it off perfectly. One day they’ll do a bad one of these. Really.

If you want the wordy version of the review here we go! 

I’ve got to tell you all that I had pretty strong doubts going into this film. While Thor Ragnarök wasn’t by any means bad, it was tonally uneven and the Guardians of the Galaxy bit felt grafted on, even forced. Given that the films share the director, you’ll understand my concerns. However, I was so utterly wrong to be concerned.

I and finding it quite hard to write a meaningful review and keep it spoiler free, so I’ll confine myself to saying that like Thor Ragnarok the film is indeed tonally uneven but in a good way. Many parts of the first act and a half are laugh out loud funny, the interactions between the various characters are great, the Guardians of the Galaxy part was, in its own way awesome, and Russel Crowe totally stole every bit in which he appeared, especially in terms of his general campiness.

However.

This all serves to lead into the final act and  the contrast is all the more marked for what gone on before, As the adversary Christian Bale was lacking only in that I don’t think he got enough screen time, and the way his ‘stuff ‘was handled was just visually and conceptually amazing, while the way it ended was better than I could have hoped for.

While this film was literally a tale of gods and monsters, in the end it was a human story, and was all the better for it. Go see this.

On the Events Happening in University Bike Rallies and the Extreme Dangers of Beauty

I mentioned before that I joined the University bike club, and as a result I ended up going on several rides with them, and I learnt a lot, mostly about my bike going wrong. On one ride the screws on the side of the engine vibrated loose enough that the damned thing dumped oil on the road, and I needed to walk to the nearest garage for more, and on others all sorts of smaller bits fell off, like foot pegs and indicators, but at that stage I was still learning the ropes, OK?

On one particular ride down to the south coast, the silencer fell off. Yes, that big old chrome thing on the back fell right off. I would say that the exhaust note immediately got a lot better! However, I was going through Taunton I think, so this happened in front of a lot of people. One enterprising chap shouted. ‘Mate, You’ve lost your exhaust!’ Words to that effect at least. 

Well, duh. Yes, the huge clanging sound and the change in exhaust note were slight clues as to what had happened. I had, in point of fact, attained a basic understanding of recent events.

However, he then tried to be helpful and picked the thing up. 

Let’s just say that didn’t go well. At all. 

‘Damn and blast!’ he said. 

Actually, this gentleman kindly taught me all sorts of new words and considerably expanded my vocabulary; He impugned my parentage, sexual habits, intelligence and (at the very least) damned me to a very nasty afterlife having my gonads removed on a daily basis with blunt knives. In retrospect, it was all really quite creative. 

I did want to say something about picking up a hot exhaust being a generally bad idea, but I didn’t think that would go down too well. I just said ‘sorry mate’ and soused his hand with the bottle of water in my panniers. I don't know why I had one, to be honest. It wasn't to drink. I suspect that it was there just because if I didn't have water, I'd need it, even on an air-cooled bike! 

As I recovered from the absolute tirade of abuse, I waited for the exhaust to cool, got out of there with considerable dispatch. and made my way back home. Oh, I did love the exhaust note, but boy was the bike lumpier than 4 tonnes of school custard. Pity that.

Oh the remembered trauma of school custard!

On another one of these rides, my mate Martin and I were riding through Exmouth I think, on our way to Sandy Bay where the ride was going to start. He was on his CB400 and had learned to respect the power of Yellow Peril and no longer took the mickey out of my bike. (Some of the place details might be wrong by the way, we are talking a 40+-year-old memory here.)

What’s absolutely not wrong is that Miss Pulchritude 1981 was walking along the other side of the road. Oh, she was gorgeous! Given that it was a hot summer’s day she wasn’t wearing very much, and what she was wearing showed off her assets very much to best advantage. Sometimes it’s good to be young, right? Oh yes.

I had no idea that Miss Pulchritude was a thing btw. Here she is!

Well anyway, she was a head-turner and that’s literally what happened. Martin turned his head, let off a few ‘woohoo's’ (or words to that effect) unfortunately forgetting that the road ahead turned sharply left, whereupon he missed the turn and ended up pitching himself into a convenient passing hedge. 

‘It was worth it!’ He yelled, from the hedge, clearly none the worse for wear. ‘What are you doing tonight?!’ Well, I couldn’t blame him for trying, and at least she didn’t say ‘Washing my hair!’ which was (I’m sure) the response I’d have got. I think it was something like ‘I have a boyfriend!’ No surprises there, but she was laughing as she said it, and I have to admire Martin’s audacity. At that time I could absolutely not have done that!

Not quite 'in the hedge like this' but I liked it so it'll do!

The rest of the day passed without major incident, Martin was (fortunately) fine, his bike was undamaged and hadn’t hit him, so we both got a good story out of that which still makes me laugh, though it could have turned out much, much, worse. 

Footnote

Just so you know that these rides weren't all about things going wrong or ptotential accidents, I did have a lot of fun as well. One one of these is to do with this bike illustrated below

This is an image of a Morini 3 ½ stolen from Mark’s Sammy Miller Facebook post. I put it here because it was one of the most fun experiences I had on a bike while I was riding Yellow Peril. One of the guys at Uni had one of these and he let me take it out for a run. I had that lovely rider insurance that Norwich Union gave out in those days. 

After Yellow Peril, this was a revelation. A taut, over-designed chassis and a narrow frame meant you could do pretty much anything to this bike. I found the twistiest, most treacherous roads and it sailed round them with consummate ease. 

If only the gear-shift had been on the left and down and up like the bike I was used to!