One Friday night I awoke to Steph, sans vêtement, slipping in beside me in my narrow single bed. ‘The Pope says it is OK’ she whispered. This made the Summer of 76 even more wonderful. Thenceforth, during the day I walked three foot off the ground, and in the night embraced liberating mores. Often we all slept outside in the backyard under the stars, the evenings being so warm. Mum and dad’s visit came and went, Steph charming them with her honest friendship. Roly came … and stayed, taking work in a local garage. Progress on the bikes began to be real. The glacier was on the move.
Pre-season rugby gatherings brought the realisation that I had lost my American. Of course this was in the days long before cell phones or the internet. With no way of finding him again, I needed a replacement, as we were now preparing three bikes. The obvious choice was Roly. The perfect wing-man, he just needed convincing that a gentle introduction into foreign travel was not necessary after all. I recall assuring
10
Gestation
him that the food would always be great … and edible, the weather would be benign, the adventure wonderful. A letter home from him to The Olds thanking them for a monetary gift (It was late Sep 1976 … birthday time) advises them that it has enabled him to commit to going with me. He included the comment ‘’I think I know what you will think of that !’’
Things were falling into place, Lawrie had gone off to Terre Haute, Indiana and hopefully was earning lots of money. There was not really much of a plan, no real itinerary … too restrictive. We would wander as we felt fit. There was no end date, no return point. We would work that out later … you never know, we might find work. Quite clearly Steph and I could see a future together and whilst she would love to be a part with the adventure she was broke. Even taking a third job as a car cleaner wasn’t filling her coffers quickly enough but we were loving the now. I got mail from Anne who’d shared the earlier moto adventure out to Iran. She was teaching Indians in Northern Saskatchewan but wanted in. She said she would meet us in Mexico City in her VW Combi, now repaired after an exploit in which she had
Steph and my ex-London taxi.
11
no one said it would be easy
managed to let it run backwards into a lake. She is a tough and intrepid Aussie who would be a good addition to the gang. She’d just ridden the freight trains of Canada for 1,100 kms, so clearly her sense of adventure had not lessened in the couple of years since I had seen her.
To get around, Roly bought a 1956 500cc BSA B33 from a Kiwi who was going home. Russell was an interesting, likeable character who had contacts in the motorcycle world and he sourced some cheap tyres for us. I had worked out that we should start off with road tyres and only switch to the chunky Trials Universals when we got to the unsealed roads of South America. Each bike would carry two spare tyres. Probably on some spectrum, Russell could remember all the number plates of every vehicle he'd had. Becoming friends, we shared a lot of tales as motorcyclists do … but he topped everything we could throw in the pot with one from earlier in the year. His daily ride was a snorting Norton Atlas, almost as powerful a bike as existed at the time. He’d had an occasion to park the bike near a biscuit factory and when he returned to the bike he found all the factory girls lined up at the bus stop opposite. As young men do ... he strutted over to his steed, went through the pre-starting rituals, then fired her up with a mighty lunge. A 750cc four-stroke, tuned, twin-cylinder motor truly stirs the soul and Russell could imagine the collective hearts all a-flutter at his masculinity and derring-do. Spotting a gap in the traffic he dropped the clutch to smoke away in great style. The panache that he hoped would impress, was somewhat negated by the act of forgetting to remove the large chain from through his back wheel to the neighbouring lampost. The result was spectacular with all the spokes being torn from the hub and the bike collapsing to the ground in a shower of sparks. He reckoned the guffawing could be heard for miles and his humiliation rendered him speechless and lolly-pink with embarrassment.
I chuckle when recalling our lack of professionalism and the almost third-world conditions that were available to us for our bike preparation. Not always allowed to work inside the flat, and mainly having to work at night it meant adapting to what was available. The London Taxi had a large passenger area interior with two fold-down seats facing the rear where the main full-width bench seat was. Rebuilding Bessie’s engine was done in the back of the taxi, on the street outside No 46 with the inside light on, occasionally augmented by the use of torches. We sat on the fold-down seats with the engine on the sturdy back seat. To our surprise, when
12
Gestation
easing the barrel off the piston, a bronze locating-button fell from the assembly, narrowly missing going into the gaping crankcase opening. This was not something we had encountered before. Instead of having circlips holding the gudgeon pin in place, pre-war BSAs had a pair of bronze buttons. This was a very simple and fail-safe solution. Ultimately Bessie’s engine was fully fettled and re-inserted into the frame.
Bessie was the first bike adjudged ready for action and an autumn sortie into the New Forest for an overnight camp was our first significant jaunt. Steph and I were on Bessie and Roly on his B33. Although designated as an M23, Bessie was the first of what, post-war became the B series of the Birmingham factory’s line-up, lasting
Penelope slowly growing on the front path of 46 Alexandra Grove.
13
no one said it would be easy
right through to 1963. The two BSAs looked magnificent together, with their lineage so clearly displayed, they looked like a mother and daughter on an outing. I am not quite sure why we didn’t consider the B33 for the big adventure being as she was newer, had a more developed engine and far superior suspension … but we didn’t.
The New Forest episode sits in family folklore as ‘what might have been’. It started well enough with a pretty mundane ride in the sun from North London to Southampton and beyond. It started to unravel when we attempted to check into a camp in the forest. I’d experienced the oddities of British campsites on a previous south coast adventure in the black cab, with another iteration of mates. We’d been turned away from numerous camps because we didn’t have children. “We’re a family camp” was the oft-repeated refrain. When finally a paddock for the infertile was found, a quiet night followed with the proprietor telling us she’d never, ever had any trouble and laughed at the main-stream paranoia of the resort areas.
This time, an even more bizarre scenario played out.
“Have you got your own toilet?”
We looked around in mock amazement, patting the meagre luggage whilst uttering suitable inanities.
Roly in action in the al fresco workshop in front of the flat.
14
Gestation
“Oh, we seem to have forgotten it!”
“We don’t need to go at the moment, thanks.”
“I thought you were going to pack it!”
However, like their coastal counterparts they had decided on a demographic deemed suitable for their establishment and toilet-less motorcyclists weren’t on the list. They were inflexible and not even pleading constipation was going to change their mind.
This meant free-camping in the forest itself, and that could have been ok. All good things must come to an end is a pretty obvious homily. It is often attributed to Chaucer but understood by all of us. Some prepare for it better than others. The ‘Summer of 76’ had set records and seemed