My first 100 mph ..... nostalgia is. not what it used to be

 

My father ran a motorcycle.

 It was a transport of delight because it meant that as a family we could get out into the country side and enjoy the fresh air, a favourite family outing was to Lyme Park on the fringes of Stockport in a small village called Disley.

The first motorcycle was a Rudge Ulster. I do not know where it came from, it appeared, and my father also acquired and fitted a sidecar to it. The bike was a high revving sports bike completely unsuited to pulling a side car but because my father was mechanically inclined he was able to keep the bike maintained and sufficiently roadworthy both as a source of transport for himself and family outings for my mother, sister and myself.

On one occasion we were on a family outing into Derbyshire when the bike broke down as we were pulling up the long drag known as Long Hill outside Buxton.

There were two bikes that day, our Rudge, which had broken down and my Uncle Ronnie’s Indian. The RAC man declared the bike un-repairable. My father then tried to use a small pebble under the cam lifter, but this was shattered under the pressure when he restarted the engine.

At this point a man came down from one of the big houses opposite where my father was struggling to repair the bike. My father had a fairly short temper and I could see that he was ready to react if the man spoke in a way that he might interpret as offensive. 

My mother, also sensitive to my Fathers moods intervened and began to apologise.

The man, however, responded kindly by inviting us inside for a cup of tea. He then asked my father what the problem was. My Father mollified, described the parts he needed to repair the bike. Over tea, amiably served by the man’s wife, the man then offered the use of his car to get us home, buy the parts and return next day to repair the bike.

By any standards an extraordinary act of kindness rare even for the late fifties in England, impossible to imagine in the UK of today.

Eventually the Rudge had to go, it was proving too unreliable.

The next motorcycle was, even in the late fifties a classic motorcycle and an object of envy amongst some and desire amongst others. It was a Vincent. Subject not only of high praise, splendid reviews, a dedicated following but also a wonderful song by Richard Thompson.

Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike

A girl could feel special on any such like

Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you

It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952

My Fathers’ Vincent was somewhat later than a ’52 and he acquired it in something of state, the engine had been ruined by the previous owner who had used the wrong engine oil. So my Father had to rebuild the engine completely, the parts were expensive and so he swapped the Rudge for the parts he needed at a dealers on Deansgate in Manchester. After the deal was done the salesman called us back as we were leaving the shop he handed my father a black vinyl tank cover, ‘I think the Rudge was probably worth a bit more’ he shrugged, as my Father took the tank cover away.

I used to sit for hours watching the painstaking work involved in stripping the old engine and re-building the new. My Father’s impatience sometimes caused him to curse beneath his breath occasionally tools were thrown in frustration but eventually the job was finished and the bike started.

Again a thoroughbred machine was backed, like a racehorse between the shafts of a coal wagon, onto the sidecar and we set off.

As a special treat that day I was allowed on the pillion. My Father and I were wearing flat caps and goggles, helmets were not then a requirement. I was thirteen years old. We drove out of Manchester to the north along the old A6 Road.

For a while I thought that we might be going to Blackpool, normally a once a year treat to see the illuminations, but it was the wrong time of the year. The bike performed impeccably, my mother grinned at me through the sidecar window, my sister squashed uncomfortably, grimaced in the back and then we arrived at the beginning of the road my father had been aiming for all along.

The newly opened Preston by Pass, he opened the throttle. The Vincent responded as though it were alive under my fathers controlling right hand as he opened the throttle the machine simply eased itself to a speed which I knew was magical.

My Father reached over and tapped my shoulder, pointing down I peered over his shoulder the wind whipping at my hat and pressing my goggles into my cheeks.

100 mph, it could have been the sound of speed I was excited, animated, bursting with pride as I shouted aloud, the wind whipping the words out of my mouth and into the cool Lancashire air.