by Chris Cowland –
Driving today’s cars is akin to sitting in an armchair watching a video screen. Phrases from the past such as double declutching are positively alien, and a perfectly executed handbrake turn brings withering looks rather than smiles and admiration.
Driving today’s motorbikes, however, is quite the opposite. In my teens, flat out at 50mph on my 1958 150cc BSA Bantam, I would have time not just to smell the flowers, but to count the blooms as I went past. My latest Triumph Rocket 3 motorcycle with 2,300cc and 148 horsepower gets to 100kph in about three-and-a-half seconds and demands constant attention.
My life on two wheels began at age 12 when my uncle gave me a 50cc Philips Gadabout moped. I remember the frustration of pedalling the darn thing about two blocks before the motor would putt-putt into lethargic motion. I soon progressed to owning two Ariel Arrows, 250cc two stroke twins, and while my parents were away on holiday, I dismantled one of them, carried the parts upstairs to my tiny bedroom, and performed a complete restoration including brush painting the whole bike. The smell never quite dissipated, and I was busted immediately on their return.
I will never forget my first (legal!) drive on the road at 8 a.m. on Boxing Day, my 16th birthday, around Virginia Waters and Windsor Great Park, shrouded in mists and wonderful wintry countryside smells. I was hooked. I could imagine how our ancestors felt when they first climbed upon a wild horse and thrilled over the visceral sensation of speed, freedom and power, almost like flying. My next bike was the one I should have never sold. It was a 1959 all alloy pre-unit Triumph Tiger 100. I bought it for £20 from a schoolmate, Tony Bastin, who achieved fame later in life by his relationship with Freddy Mercury, brought short by death from AIDS within a few months of each other.
This bike would top 100mph, and I would endeavour to achieve this every day on my ride home from school, with my satchel strapped to the gas tank. One day, I was stuck behind a Morris Minor, and only just managed to hit the magic ton as I entered the village, which had a 30mph speed limit. As fate would have it, my mother just happened to be in the front garden as I whizzed by, so I had to spend the next hour in the pub at the other end of the village pretending to be working late at school. Bob Dylan crashed a similar bike around this time, and did not tour for the next eight years, so I learned my lesson and drove much more conservatively from then on.
When I bought the Rocket 3, the first thing I did was sign up for an advanced motorcycling course, and I cannot recommend this enough. I thought I knew how to handle a bike, but the police instructors showed me techniques that could literally save your life. This course should be compulsory for all riders. Pay for your kids to attend; it’s the greatest gift. Looking back, I was more than lucky to have survived into my 20s. No seat belts, no breathalyzers, few speed limits and a short-sighted mother.
