We Left Our Hotel in Bournemouth a Little Later Than I Had Hopped For, to Be Honest I Wanted to Have Been at Sammy Millers By
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We left our hotel in Bournemouth a little later in the morning than I had hoped for; to be honest I wanted to have been at Sammy Millers by opening time, but as recent history had shown me my chauffer and his wife where not one’s to be pushed into a schedule that wasn’t theirs, The journey seemed tantalisingly slow, we navigated by using an internet sourced directions that didn’t some how fit, we finally drove past what looked like another tacky whistle stop museum in the English countryside side, parked in the front of a field was an old elevator with what looked like an old moped some how affixed to its top, soon the compulsory 180degree turn had been completed and we where heading back towards, what looked like tacksville museum. Swiftly we where heading down an single tracked road leading along side a low roofed brick building with a couple of old petrol pumps spaced out on the journey, we then swung right into a car park, towards the back of the car park was what looked like a petting zoo then some other tackyville attraction to one side, not the auspicious museum I had hoped for. We then entered the courtyard and I instantly recognised the lay of the land from pictures on the web site I had spent hours drooling over. A couple of horse drawn carts where placed around along with what appeared to be a Victorian Pushbike. On passing through the courtyard I noticed a couple of bikes nonchalantly leaning up against a wall of what turned out to be the restoration workshop. Not just some bikes but BSA Trails machine and a very tidy Bultaco Trials machine. Accompanied with Then to add to the moment was a Triumph Tiger Cub almost complete and un-restored I stood there looking at this machine as memories of spending hours and hours working on my own fine example of this British motorcycle engineering of the sixties came flooding back, (I could almost spell the petrol on the thumb of my riding glove after having to “tickle the carburettor” to allow the thing to start every day!!). I wondered if in a year’s time some other 55 year old would look and remember as I did then. We then made our way up to the entrance of the museum to pay our entry fee and purchase a program/catalogue. The area surrounding the reception was a maze of nick-knacks, books, post cards and all manner of other gift items to be sold. Now I am no business or sales person, but all the selling training I have gone through always said not to clutter the point of sale, keep it clean and efficient, some how this area was a for runner of what was in store, it’s a case of break all the conventional rules, this is motorcycle heaven, no more conforming to society, its all just all for the bike, there is an age old Harley Davidson adage that says “If I had to explain it to you, you wouldn’t understand” So I cant say any more here. Straight from rummaging under the counter comes our host for the day, a guy in his fifties still looking fit and well, his skin and complexion slightly tanned from weather exposure I would suggest, he was wearing a Ink blue full length dust coat, completely undone all the way down. Both the side pockets seemed to be bulging with something or other, may be some cleaning cloths, may be his cigarettes, who knows? Its top pocket semi bulging with array of pens, pencils and what looks like a small steel ruler, on the front of the pocket was an amateur attempt of a logo badge promoting the Sammy Miller Motorcycle Museum. Whilst the coat wasn’t clean, it wasn’t dirty either, just grubby from most likely years of wear with out the need to wash it. He had a very pleasant nature and obviously knew an awful lot about the museum and its contents. Very soon we had paid or dues and armed the obligatory guide book we where off in our own little world, soon all sorts pf marvels where there in front of us, row after row of two wheeled beauties, bikes from all parts of the globe washed up in this museum. But I was on a mission, there was only really one bike I had came to see and it’s was my mission to find it. We drifted past the different areas and types of bike, past two beautiful Vincent’s, one a 1951 Shadow And one a Vincent lightening both 120MPH bikes from 1950 and 1951 (before I was even born) We paid homage to founder of the Norton Motorcycle company, James Lansdowne Norton (1869-1925), looked and touched the famous 1953 ex works Norton kneeler, Then able to look and, actually touch the first machine to lap a GP circuit in excess of 100mph a 1939 495cc AJS Four cylinder, I am in heavan. This piece of AJS mechanical wizardry, complete with supercharger and water- cooling was piloted around the Ulster GP circuit by Walter Rusk. At an average speed of above 100mph. What a man he must have been!! We drifted past sections named Triumph, BSA, AJS, Military, Ariel, Matchless, Brough Superior, road racers of the 50’s and 60’s that’s with out mentioning a section of Japanese road racers with an actual Mike Hailwood Honda GP machine, or a collection of Rudge machines with a hand full of New Imperial motorcycles as well. In this nirvana I believe there was at least one Harley Davidson, but this was forced into submission by some magnificent examples Indian Motorcycles, along with a citation to the most famous Indian of all time Mr. Bert Munroe’s famous Indian. The Worlds Fasted Indian movie fame. Every section we passed through contained more and more special motorcycles, and guess what? Some even leaked oil into the drip tray beneath each full sump, and some even smelt of petrol, testament to the fact these are not specimens in a glass case, these are examples of motorcycles that can still be ridden (in most cases anyway) and ridden hard, and so what if they blow up, most things can be rebuilt, if not better to have lived and loved than never to have loved at all. As we meandered along one of the upper display arrears past a couple of genuine factory BSA Bantam trials machines form the 1950’s, we passed a guy, who was busy cleaning imaginary road grime from the bikes, its then it hit me, these bikes are all clean and freshly polished, not just the crowd pleasers but all the bikes are the same, all spotlessly clean and gleaming from having a tin of spray Auto-Glymm polish applied and then buffed off by hand, all bit a very old hand that belongs to a granddad who volunteers to come in two days a week and polish the bikes just to be up close to them, did he ever ride a bike? He didn’t tell, just content he can be up close to the bikes. Half way through our first circuit of this museum we met up with our ever- cheerful host as we passed into the second wing of the museum, and there in front of me was what I had sat in a metal cylinder called an aeroplane for 24 hours to see, the bike I had dreamed about all those years ago, the bike with so much history attached to it. I felt intimidated by its presence, I almost started to shake with excitement, I could feel a lump in my the very back of my throat, my voice quivered as I said to my wife, “That’s what I have come 12000 miles to see” “What!, that’s all we came to see? couldn’t you see something like that in Australia?” Was her retort, I strongly disagreed. Now I am known to be a hard, and miserable old man, but this bike meant so much to me. I walked up closer to it, strange how some things didn’t seem to mater right then, the kids, the grand kids all blended it to the back ground, here it is, GOV132 . This sounds really weak and strange, but I reached out a hand to touch the twist grip and noticed that as reached forward my hand was shaking slightly, and I felt really small against this machine. They say that those who are lucky enough to see the famous painting The Mona Lisa say that here eyes follow you round the room, and that some pieces of fine art compel you to look at them from all angles, to me this was my Mona Lisa this was my Michael Angelo’s Sistine Chapel, this was my Picasso, my dream, all rolled into one collection of metallic components sat on two rubber circles, with a small amount of organic matter turned into lubricating oil and fire breathing petrol, or what you would recognize it as an Ariel HT5 trials bike. I looked at the machine from every angle and studied every nut bolt and washer on the machine. I could roll the twist grip; I could move the brake levers, I could move the gear lever, with its drilled out holes that where not quiet symmetrical, just looking at the lever I could feel Sammy with the lever on the drill press drilling each hole independently, the fact that the holes where not quite in line or symmetrical to the shape of the lever showed that some one crafted the lever, and that it wasn’t (the lever) something cut out from a laser guided high pressure water cutter.