Bitten by the bug: a biker's life (part three)

The third and final installment of Frank Roberts' life and times on two wheels...


Kawasaki 750 turbo (not authors own!)

My Honda was becoming troublesome, along with my wife. The Honda went first and I got a Kawasaki 750 turbo - Jesus Christ, what a machine. Shortly after getting it I was out for a ride down some country lanes that I knew fairly well. Weaving around the bends it was obvious that this bike didn't feel right. It was almost like the bike was trying to throw me off.

After a few more bends something definitely seemed to be wrong, until I glanced at the speedo - 73mph. Ok, so it was me! I assumed that as with my other bikes, you're cornering too fast when your footpegs scrape the ground; not this one baby.

Around then was when I decided to see how fast I could take it. Near where I live a new road had been built, long, smooth, straight, and a curve with a decreasing radius at the end that has now become a black spot with several fatalities. I got up to 135mph on the straight, the fastest I've ever been on a bike. I had to brake carefully to maintain stability but the exhilaration factor was fantastic.

As I mentioned, by now sadly the wife became more troublesome, and when we divorced the Kwakka also went, as once again I needed a car to take the kids out on my access days. Bike-less again; this time I would be for years.

And so we come up to the present day. Two years ago I bought a Suzuki 800 Intruder that my third wife and I had found while browsing in a bike showroom. Despite the fact that the wife had never been on a bike, she liked the look of it. I'd never thought of having a cruiser, and it looked impressive.


Suzuki 800 Intruder (not authors own!)

They gave me a test ride and when I got back the salesman said, "I can see by the smile on your face that you liked it, how would you like to pay?" Bugger - and I thought I was good at poker. The proviso was that the wife was happy on the pillion, so the salesman took her round the town on the back, and she soon gave the nod of approval. It helped that she was able to see so much more than from inside a car - being only 4'11" she can barely see over the dashboard, but on a pillion in an elevated position nothing is out of view.

I now go for rides out from one of our local pubs, and really enjoy being a poser. My wife comes if there is nothing on telly to watch. When she is not there I tend to have a heavy right hand and it ends up in a race, with the underside of my footplates dragging on the road when cornering.

I love the atmosphere in summer when we are going along the sea front; twenty or more bikers, always the thumbs up from kids, admiring glances from young girls who don't realise how old some of us are - not me of course, I'm still a teenager. Strangely I don't feel much affection for my bikes, not even the old moped that got me started. Maybe it's because the feeling of riding a bike is not brand specific.

One day I parked my cruiser outside a town centre biker's pub, and a young tw*t came beside me and parked his little whiny scooter thing with L plates. "Nice bike mate" he said. My temptation was to ignore him, but suddenly I remembered myself on Dad's moped at Rykers.

I just smiled. "I started borrowing my Dad's moped, keep at it, pass your test and you'll get there" I told him. He smiled back and nodded: "Yep, one day." I wonder if anyone who was at Rykers all those years ago ever wonders whatever happened to that tw*t with the wobbly helmet on the moped?

Frank Roberts

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Bitten by the bug: a biker's life (part two)

Today we continue with Frank Roberts' memories of a lifetime on bikes. Apologies for the delay - final part to come tomorrow.


Honda CD175 (not authors own!)

Nothing lasts forever. I soon got married and moved away to work. The others also got married and the rich bastard was being groomed to take over his father's business. With marriage and a responsible job comes responsible family transport - thus no bike.

I was bikeless for the first time by choice, and I didn't like it. True, I didn't get wet when it rained and there was no dressing up for protection, but there was something missing. Life comes up with strange circumstances, and when my industry took a down turn I applied and joined the police force.

I became a plod; my force did not allow new recruits to drive cars, and only traffic police rode motorcycles. However my then-wife had a job in one town and I worked in another, and we only had the one car and a new mortgage. With little income, the solution was to get a motorbike - yippee! I got hold of a nice little Honda CD175, complete with the dealers' free crash helmet - yes, you guessed it, white.

The Honda was not a patch on my old BSA, but it did the job to and from work in all weathers, including snow. I also went for the occasional pleasure ride on my own, since I didn't know any enthusiastic motorcyclists at the time. The denims had by now been replaced by a two piece Barbour suit and Gold Top leather boots.

A couple of years later I replaced this bike with a Honda 250 Super Dream with a Rickman fairing. I couldn't believe how dry and warm the fairing kept me. In a moment of madness I traded the 250 in for Honda CB500 twin, purely because it reminded me of my old BSA. Despite being faster I felt more exposed and colder.

Then oh, what joy! Having been a traffic officer for a short time and attaining police advanced car driver status, I was accepted to attend the traffic motorcycle course which lasted a month. It involved riding theory which I found interesting but a bit difficult, basic bike mechanics (no problem), and the best bit; a long ride out every day - and I was being paid for it!

I passed my advance bike test and returned to my division where at the beginning of each shift duties were given out. My section only had one or two regular motorcyclists and they had to patrol in pairs, so within a short space of time I became a regular motorcycle patrol officer. The bikes were individually issued, so while I was waiting for mine to come from HQ I used an old Norton Commando 750 that was begging to be retired. It had a large bright yellow fairing, a blue flashing light at the front above the headlight and bright yellow panniers containing paperwork, basic tools and a first aid kit.


Moto Guzzi 850 - bike of choice for the force

My gear was black riding breaches and a black waterproof jacket with warrant number on the shoulders. My helmet was no longer white; it was bright yellow which matched the bike. Later my own bike arrived, a more recent Moto Guzzi 850 that looked much the same, except there was an additional rotating blue light on a stick behind the rider.

This was the life, tearing around sometimes as fast as we dare with the blues and twos on, and being paid for the pleasure. While some of the incidents we attended were often traumatic, I cannot ever remember being tired of it.

Again, life puts up opportunities, and this time a senior officer looked at me one day entering the nick. "You don't look a bit like a copper" he said, noticing the bushy black beard I had at the time. "Come and see me in my office later, I'm starting a new squad."

There were a lot of ex-soldiers in the force who looked like they were born in uniform. As yours truly looked like a sack of sh*t somewhere in the middle, I was put on a specialist surveillance unit which ended my career on a patrol bike. But I needed the money, so for a time I satisfied myself with riding to and from work, and the occasional ride around on a nice day.

Frank Roberts
...to be continued

Bitten by the bug: a biker's life (part one)

Today's post is part one of a reflective look back at life as a biker, written for us by Frank Roberts. Next part on Monday morning. Enjoy...


NSU Quickly (not author's own!)

I first got the bitten by the bug for two wheels as a teenager, like most of us. I used to borrow my Dad's moped with his permission. It was an NSU Quickly, probably a misnomer seeing as its top speed must have been 45mph downhill with a following wind. It gave me the freedom to go out and see my mates down town and not have to rely on buses or walk in all weathers.

Dad insisted I had a crash helmet and was given a second hand Everoak Racemaster. I must have looked good in my gear, denim jeans and jacket, old black flying boots, and the crash helmet which I painted white and was probably three sizes too big. What a dashing figure I cut as I pedalled furiously to get the thing started while the helmet wobbled up and down, nearly obscuring my vision.


Racemaster helmet - a life saver

I lived in Reigate at the time and occasionally went up to Rykers on Box Hill to admire the bikes. I was painfully aware that the other bikers took the piss, but I like to think it was good natured. At least I was on two wheels and free. I used this little moped for many months as a form of transport, Dad only used it for work. I went out with my mates who had other forms of two wheeled transport; Lambretta, BSA Bantam, Honda 50, and a rich mate that had a new Triumph Tiger 100. All of these bikes (apart from the Triumph) were in various stages of dilapidation, but we thought we were the local Hells Angels chapter.

I did not have a girlfriend at the time, which was nothing to do with my mode of transport - I still looked cool. One or two of the others did but girls were not really a priority. I think we just enjoyed our inflated self image. We normally went out on a Friday to the local pictures or to a pub for a game of bar billiards and a pint or two.

Then catastrophe struck on one summer evening, as a car pulled out in front of me and I slammed into the side of it at break neck speed, 20mph. I somersaulted over the bonnet and landed on my knees. I can still remember seeing the nearby trees upside down. I slid down the road a short distance and stopped, feeling a bit stunned I got to my feet but felt a bit wobbly; it was when I tried to walk I guessed something was wrong. My left kneecap was shattered. I was taken to hospital where it was removed, and I spent six weeks off work.

Initially I was told I could never walk unaided as my leg would never bend sufficiently, but my initial thought was 'f**k off, just watch me.' Since then I have competed in cross country, and not once have I had to use a stick. Mum insisted that I had driving lessons - boring. It took three goes to pass my test, and even then I wasn't allowed to borrow the car; odd one that.

A year later I was back on two wheels - an Aerial 250 Super Sport, on which I passed my bike test first time. I no longer got the strange looks at Rykers and my sartorial elegance had improved. I had a real leather biker's jacket, still the wobbly crash helmet and flying boots but I looked more the part. My mates also had better bikes; the rich bastard had a new Bonneville, while the others had a sporty looking Panther, a BSA 500, and (would you believe it) a Sunbeam.

We all had girlfriends as well. Our 'rides out' were much the same but went further, as we met other bikers from various places and swapped stories of mechanicals, near misses or accidents. I always had to show the battle scar on my left knee.

All was well for a while, until another catastrophe. I did a U-turn in front of a car and the inevitable collision occurred. Despite being unconscious I was not as badly hurt, as the wobbly helmet saved my life. My right leg was in plaster for a short time and my lovely face looked a mess. My nose still looks like a pink shark's fin which has been a source of amusement to my three wives and many friends over the years.


BSA 650 (not authors own!)

Fortunately the rich bastard came to my rescue and temporarily fitted an extra leg rest on his Bonneville so I could still go out with them until I got my next bike, a BSA 650. Once again I was mobile and my bike attracted more interest, my dress code was the same but this time a new white helmet... what was it with me and white helmets? As well as my knee, I was now quizzed by other bikers about the state of my face; the short answer was always "yes, in two years I fell off my f**king bike twice."

Frank Roberts
...to be continued