A cautionary tale of a motorcycle

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A cautionary tale of a motorcycle

When I was younger, very much younger, I had a BSA motorbike. A BSA Bantam motorbike; not very powerful but to me at that age it was a real motorbike with lots of precarious sticky-out things, no mudguards and a Devilish black paint job; and you could ride them in those days without wearing a crash helmet or any sort of protective clothing. Incredibly dangerous when I think back, but that is the beauty of hindsight if you live to have any!

One extremely attractive thing about this bike was that it had been modified, in a round about and not very professional way I must admit, for trials riding. Well, I say modified; the mudguards had been removed, the engine had had something done to it that sounded incredibly exciting to a young teenager like me and best of all it had something called a quick-acting throttle! To be honest I had no idea what a quick-acting throttle was supposed to do but it made the bike sound exactly like that crazy frog tune that was popular a little while ago, and that was more than enough to put a gleam into any teenage boy’s eye.

The very first weekend after I got my BSA bike with quick-acting throttle my mate Ron and I rode into the countryside for her first try-out. It was a lovely summer’s day, the sun was shining, the birds were singing and Ron and I were ecstatic. Ding, ding, ding, bahh sang the bike as we set off down the long, straight two mile lane to the village. We proudly looked about at all and anything that would take notice and showed off to every living thing we passed, including a scarecrow that Ron was later to argue he’d seen move and attempt to chase him the last time he had walked home along that lane in the dark.

The tempo of the ding, ding, ding, bahh steadily increased to a ding, ding, ding, bahh, bahh, bahh, ding and then further dings and bahhs were added in a somewhat random and alarming manner. Our speed gradually and worryingly increased to a point where I felt obliged to adjust the quick-acting throttle from it’s, until then fully wound open position, to something a little less demanding of the engine. I gradually eased forward on the knobbly hand grip that surrounded the quick-acting throttle. Nothing happened! I eased some more; still nothing. I pushed the knobbly hand grip all the way forward as far as it would go but still felt no decrease in the bikes speed. The dings and bahhs were now growing in amplitude as well as tempo and were being interspaced with various pops and phuts, and most disconcerting of all with the odd high pitched wheeeeee. I twisted and twisted again the quick-acting throttle but still nothing happen to slow our now horrifyingly fast advance towards the village crossroads.

Being much more familiar with electrical then mechanical things even at that young age I knew that the engine had a magneto attached to it that produced the spark for the one and only spark plug fitted to the machine. If the voltage was removed from the spark plug I reasoned then with no spark the engine would stop. I removed my right hand from the useless quick-acting throttle and reached down and felt around for the high tension lead to the plug. The moment I found it I knew I had made a mistake. I got the most almighty shock anyone can possible get while sat astride a demented vehicle, and the surge that went up my arm sent the bike careering all over the road as I struggled to keep control of it with only my left hand on the handlebars. I could see, out of the corner of my eye Ron’s body lean first to the left of me and then to the right as we swerved all over the road. I swear that at one point he reached an angle relative to the road that defied nature, but he still managed to stay on the bike.

The crossroads were getting closer and closer and larger and larger and stood out in crystal clarity amidst the growing panic building up inside me. What should I do? I couldn’t stop the bike! I quickly ran through the options. It’s amazing how at moments like this logic kicks in to try and keep you alive. I could keep heading for the crossroads and hope nothing was coming the other way. There was a steep hill on the other side and that would slow us down. I ruled that idea out immediately; much too dangerous. Steer the bike into the hedge and hope we didn’t impale ourselves on a branch; still too dangerous. Get off the bike! That was the only option left. I shouted to Ron to get off and felt him tug at my sleeve. ”Yes” I shouted, “get off!” I felt him tug my sleeve again and took that as a sign he understood what I was saying. I threw my left leg over the handlebars and launched myself off the bike. I spun round and round and round and round in the road, the Tarmac and chippings digging into every exposed part of my body. I saw stars and pretty colours and blood.

I came to a stop after what seemed like an eternity and looked up through the grime, sweat and blood to see Ron still sat on the back of the bike clutching desperately at the seat to keep himself upright! The bike was still travelling along the lane, albeit in the fashion of a bike that was running on the finest Scotch whiskey, and Ron was still with it. They both continued in this manner for several dozen yards more, first on one side of the road then on the other, and in my dazed state I wondered who might be steering them both. On two occasions Ron performed his miracle of physics again and defied the laws of gravity, his body swaying in unison with the wonderings of the bike. I could see as clearly as anything little beads of sweat spraying out great distances from all over Ron’s head. On the bikes final swerve to the right it caught a large stone under its rear wheel and made a decisive bee-line for the ditch. I saw the bike, followed by Ron disappear into the ditch only to miraculously re-appear like a bullet out of a gun and leap a good eight feet into the air before landing back on the grass verge. All the while that haunting ding, ding, ding, bahh, bahh, phut, wheeeeee sound was floating across the countryside like something out of Faust. Remarkably the bike remained upright after landing and continued on towards the post office garden hedge. And the most amazing thing of all was that Ron was still on the back of it! Still swaying and rolling and following every nuance of the bikes movement. It was uncanny. I shuddered and felt an ice cold finger run down my spine. I thought perhaps I’d died and gone to hell. Through the hedge they both went making what appeared to me to be an astonishingly small hole in it. Finally and at long last the bike fell over and ceased its demented journey towards oblivion.

I picked myself up from the road and checked for any broken bones. Everything was sore but all my necessary parts seemed to function. I wrapped my hankie around a gash on my arm and made my way as quickly as I could to the hole in the hedge. I knew that the postmaster might be out any minute and the last thing we needed was an irate Postmaster complaining about a hole in his hedge. I peered through. The bike was on its side partially buried in a rather lovely bed of carnations. The unforgettable sound of the engine had ceased and there was a mystical silence about the little grotto my bike and Ron had ended up in. I looked down at Ron. He was on his side still sat on the back of the bike and still clutching desperately at the seat. His face was a brilliant red and his eyes reminded me of those bouncy eye spectacles you can buy in joke shops. They seemed to be bobbing up and down in his face. I pushed through the hedge and after a desperate struggle managed to free his hands from the seat. It was as if some supernatural force was keeping them locked there. “Come on Ron we’ve got to go” I urged, “Come on, grab one side of the bike and we’ll pull it back through the hedge”. Ron’s eyes bounced alarmingly as he stood up and I averted my own from them, I still wasn’t 100% convinced I hadn’t gone to Hell.

We both pulled and tugged and eventually managed to get the bike back out onto the road. The forks were bent somewhat but the tyres were still up and it fired first time on the kick. The quick-acting throttle seemed to be working too. “It’s a long way to push it” Ron said. “Well I don’t fancy riding it after what just happened” I replied. “It might not stop again” “Why didn’t you just turn the petrol tap off, it would have stopped then” Ron queried. “Never thought of that” I said.

[puntoMX]

Man... this could be straight out of a book... Are you sure you didn´t "miss" your job where you were made for?

Why fix computers when you could have done some thing like this?

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Aw, I'm blushing now!