1967-ish; I must have been about ten or eleven, looking over the fence in our garden in the small english market town of Newton Abbot in Devon. A Royal Enfield motorcycle was being cleaned by its owner and I was watching with a bored expression, just waiting for the guy with the quiff in his leather jacket to start it and make that wonderful angry sound that barks at the world as only a big single can. He tucked the rag under the bikes seat then threw his leg over it rolling it off the stand, a swift kick and then another and the machine roared into life. I had no other idea in my mind; one day, that would be me pulling away with a slight slide and a wheel spin with the wind blowing my hair back as I twisted the grip on the bars. The bike and rider vanished but I could hear the engine for several minutes winding on down the road; "one day", I thought out loud.
A few days later and the Rocker with the quiff was taking the object of my dreams apart,
"What you doing?" I asked,
"Head gasket." He said with a scowl.'
"Whats that?" Was my reply.
"Look kid, if you want to do something; give her a clean!".
"Thanks", I said and ran out of our garden and through the gate.
I sat on the ground wiping the grime from the rear wheel while the top bit of the bike was taken apart and soon the thing called a head gasket was being gently removed.
"Hmmmm, dont look to bad!" Said its owner, "What's your name kid, mines Ken. Might get away with recooking it... Want a cup of tea?" He asked.
"Thanks! I'm called Nick, but me Mum calls me Nicholas when she is angry with me!"
We went into the house and the kettle was boiled on the gas stove then to my horror the thing called a gasket was put on the gas flame! Wafts of oil smoke filled the room with a pungent grey haze that clawed at my throat. I swallowed a gulp of the tea, the gasket was now glowing. Ken picked it up with some pliers and dropped it, still glowing red, into the sink he had filled with cold water. It sizzled and hissed for a second sending a rush of steam to join the haze of smoke. At that point I knew this was my calling.
We finished our tea and returned to the bike where I carried on my cleaning duty, watching every spanner movement and soon the tank was being put on.
"Will it be okay Ken?" I asked,
"Hope so... Finger crossed!" He replied, switching on the petrol tap and turning the key. Two kicks later and the bike roared into life yet again and settled down to its normal ticking over.
"Let's try it! Wanna come on the back?"
"Really!? Wow!"
"Hop on and hang on tight." Said Ken.
I climbed onto the back, shaking with a mix of fear and anticipation
"Hold on tight!"
I put my arms around his waist and clinging on with all my might we went gently out of the drive and onto the road. I had my head buried between his shoulder blades and tried to oppose the lean as we rolled around the first corner to join the flow of traffic.
Ken shouted, "Just lean with me, and hang on!"
Off we went out of the town and along a road called the Bovey Straight. The Enfield pulling on my arms with every turn of the throttle, round the roundabout at the end of the straight and then back to the drive at home.
Still shaking, I got off, legs like jelly. All my Birthdays and Christmases had come and gone in ten minuites flat.
"Okay Nick," Said Ken, "Thanks for your help!"
I just said thanks back, still a bit dazed at the days highlight event.

Mum stood in the door of our house. She did not look happy.
"Nicholas! Get here!" She shouted.
"Oops." Thought I.
She flashed a look that I knew to well in Kens direction and said, "And I want words with you later."
In the house I was banished to my room and wondering what it was I had done or forgotten to do.
Mother came in,
"Right Nicholas if I ever catch you on that dreadful thing again you will get the hiding of your life! You know that your Granny was almost killed on the back of a bloody mororcycle so you stay here and think about it!"
She had an expression that was not just angry it was more than that, I now think it was mixed with fear.
I was called and as we sat down having Sunday dinner. She was composed and calm and said simply, "if ever you get on that thing again or even think of getting a motorcycle when you're older I will cut you out of my Will."
I knew better that to argue it and just thought, "One day."
Monday at school I told all my mates of my adventure and they all looked so jealous and a couple said I was lying, but I knew.
The evenings had started to draw in and it was always dark by the time I had got changed and had tea. I heard the Enfield several times come and go but Ken went to work early and came home late so we didnt see each other.
Then one evening I got home and the Enfield was lying in the drive with a cover over it.
I never saw Ken again I never plucked up the courage to ask mum what had happened.

A few years rolled by. We moved to Paignton and I had just left school and got a job as an apprentice mechanic in the local Ford garage. Mum had married again to a man called Mel, a great mechanic. He adopted me as a Son and we got on well, so that was all good and mum was happy. He fueled my hidden desire for bikes often with motorcycle storys of his own and I helped him on the spanners.
Then one day one of the mechanics said he had a bike to sell, a BSA Bantam D7 Super.
I thought about it and we shook hands with me agreeing to pay Fifteen Quid (approximately $30) in installments, as my pay was only about Six Quid per week, four of which going to my keep at home.
I collected the BSA pushing it to a mate called Wayne's lock-up to keep it out of the way, to keep it hidden.
It needed a bit of work so slowly, we sorted it out.
We both kicked it over and over and it would not start! So out of despair I tried to bump start it, running alongside it, all of a sudden the BSA leapt into life and dragged me on my knees up the lane and crashing into Waynes brick built gate post pushing it over and sending it crashing to the ground.
The knee's of my jeans were shredded, as was the contents they held. Wayne's Mum patched me up and whilst I appologised to his Dad for the damage I had caused, he just laughed and said he was going to knock it down later anyway and that I had just saved him a job!
On my way home, I practiced trying not to hobble and went in doors, changed my jeans to mask the days events from Mother.
We kept the Bantam a secret and rode it up and down the lane and around the local woodlands for several months, and then the offer of a BSA 250, a C15 arose from a friend at college, part built and a the right price. A 250cc, WOW! This was bigger, better and faster than I could have hoped for only a few months down the line of purchasing the Bantam. My ascent into the world of the "bigger bike" had begun, whether it was to be a rocky or smooth slope, I could only guess. I decided to confront Mother (Cue dramatic music).
"Mother... You know years ago you warned me; if I ever had a motorcycle, you would cut me out your Will... Well! There's nothing in your Will worth having!" So I got a motorbike.
She looked at me in horror and just walked out of the room. Dad looked at me as if to say, "You possibly could have handled that a bit better Son." But at least I had come clean. No more hiding.

Money was always short in our house, so doing as much as we could with very little was second nature. It took some time to get the 'new' BSA C15 up and running and Jap crap was beginning to make itself felt and the lads with a few quid could buy into the new trend but not for me.
I maintained my own bike and tried to keep up the "British is best stance" with statements like; "This jap rubbish will never last!
A motley bunch of us youths and a few older guys would assemble a The Fourways Cafe in town. Bikes rowed up on the pavement outside, along with the C15 generally dropping a bit of oil.
“British bikes leak oil!” was the Riceburner's stock response, "Just marking her territory!” was mine, it was all good banter.
But keeping up when on a ride out was real hard work and usually resulted in a fair bit of spanner work the next day. Thrashing the old girl to the hilt took its toll on everything and being a single, it shook the life out of the fastenings meaning that if I didn’t check all the bolts I could be sure that a part would try to drop off.
I needed more power! Methanol… now that’s a thought, the model shop sells that ,
so cutting petrol with methanol seemed just the ticket for some more power, off to the shops!
The bike now filled with a blend of fuel it started and ran but it was rather lumpy. A bit of tweaking on the main jet and turning the point’s tower, leaving the clamp bolt just a bit slack; I could fine tune her so I could adjust it while riding, off I went.
Slow running was rough but as the RPM climbed so it smoothed and was a little better. Adjusting the timing by hand, thumping my way up the long steep Marldon Road and turning round at the top, I gave the bike a fist-full down the hill, the exhaust down pipe glowing red at 65 mph… 70… 75, changed into top gear, now we were flying.
The bike valves started to bounce then an almighty bang put a split second stop to my trial run. With a loud clatter and the screaming of a locked wheel, I whipped in the clutch as the bike started to drift sideways.
I rolled to a stop, in pain as hot oil was splattered over my jeans.
I jumped off doing a hip hop dance to keep the oil sodden denim off my legs, but just above my knee was a hole and something hard was protruding. It hurt like hell!
I dropped my jeans and found a shard of the spark plug ceramic sticking out of the inside of my knee.
I pulled it out with words like “bother” and “drat”, then looked at the bike and was horrified to see the entire front of the crankcase was gone and the remains of half a very bent con-rod dangled limply out of the bottom.
This resulted in more words like “shucks”. Shattered remains of the engine littered the line of oil for about 200 yards up the road and I pushed the bike home.
The engine was a complete write off. I took it out and one of the Lads reckoned he had another so a few quid changed hands, but it had no gearbox internals, but that was okay, that and the Clutch were the only bits left worth saving from mine.
A couple of gaskets and a few days later the BSA was up and running again. It had to be, it was my only transport for work, college and pleasure. The Methanol mix was left on the shelf along with some bits of smashed Engine to serve as a reminder of exactly what the BSA couldn’t take (not that I would forget for a long while), the burns on my legs healed and so did the spark plug hole, leaving a scar I still carry today.
The C15 rattled on for several years, I threw it up the road a couple of times and spun out on ice but the old girl served me well and I always walked away.
My apprenticeship in motorbikes and spanners was cast, forged, cooled and set.1967-ish; I must have been about ten or eleven, looking over the fence in our garden in the small English market town of Newton Abbot in Devon. A Royal Enfield motorcycle was being cleaned by its owner and I was watching with a bored expression, just waiting for the guy with the quiff in his leather jacket to start it and make that wonderful angry sound that barks at the world as only a big single can. He tucked the rag under the bikes seat then threw his leg over it rolling it off the stand, a swift kick and then another and the machine roared into life. I had no other idea in my mind; one day, that would be me pulling away with a slight slide and a wheel spin with the wind blowing my hair back as I twisted the grip on the bars. The bike and rider vanished but I could hear the engine for several minutes winding on down the road; "one day", I thought out loud.

50 minutes ago