The Undertaker

by Kevin Keld First Published in Great Britain in 2021

Copyright Kevin Keld 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electonical or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the Publisher in writing. Preface

Kevin Keld hails from the charming, picturesque East village of . Spending most of his working life on the nearby Industrial Estate at various engineering establishments it seemed a natural progression to open his motorcycle shop in that industrious area. A background in engineering and fabrication gave him a head start when it came to building custom bikes. He admits to being useless at marriage and after two failed attempts he gave up not before being blessed with three doting children who have zero interest in . After being diagnosed with chronic heart failure in 2005 he retired from the UK preferring the sun kissed shores of Spain. After a ten year thrash in the fast lane, he returned to his home town and began to once again dabble in the dark art of motorcycle sales. A serious motorcycle accident leaves our author disabled and unable to ride at present though hopefully in the not too distant future there may be a chance of one last blast!

The Motorcycle Undertaker

CHAPTER 1 Childhood Shenanigans I suppose it was inevitable that I would somehow enter the world of ‘tinkering’ around with oily, noisy and unpredictable machines. My father was an occasional tinkerer. I have many happy and vivid memories of him with his upper body buried in the engine compartments of various vehicles during my childhood. I can clearly recall the beautiful, shiny black Morris 1000, registration number 2058UB (well remembered even if I say so myself) complete with cracked red vinyl seats and giving off that amazing musty pungent aroma that all late 60’s cars seem to emit. I can even drag from the recesses of my boyhood memory the 1970 Vauxhall Viva, sorry simply cannot remember the exact registration number other than it ended in the letter J.

Whilst my Father was adept at the minor tasks, engine rebuilds or welding were the two repairs that either he hadn’t the necessary tools to perform or were plain and simply beyond his capabilities. Either way, should the major tasks be required then the offending vehicle would be promptly dispatched (usually towed with a frayed length of rope by the neighbour’s Ford Zodiac) to Keith Knowles Garage up on the A1079 just a couple of miles up the road. I used to look forward to travelling in the towed vehicle and standing in Mr Knowles garage in front of a big old smoky diesel salamander heater that would threaten to ignite anyone within a 4-foot radius turning them into a fireball, there were days when you could barely see your hand in front of you in that dingy workshop and I was never quite sure if it was the death ray heater or my Father and Keith smoking rolled up cigarettes, I bet they didn’t know that in the Nineteenth century tobacco was used for ‘rectal inflation’: blowing smoke up the anus to resuscitate the drowned. I do though.

Both my Mother and Father had motorcycles and I suppose in the 1950’s it would be considered quite novel to see ladies on bikes, my Mother looked fantastic and quite the part stride her Ariel 650 whilst my Father used an AJS to terrorize the highways and byways of with. I still have a dog eared black and white photograph of Mother on her steed and one of Father but alas none of them together. Eric Keld never lost the enthusiasm for his bike but unfortunately in 1961 when their first and only son was produced (me) the bike had to be traded in for a ‘sensible’ car. As far as I can remember it was a big black old Austin A40 and I am sure that if he had his way it would have been a Watsonian on the AJS! As a child, he used to thrill me with tales of ton up races between Holme upon Spalding Moor and Market Weighton though I suspect there was some slight exaggeration on his part. I’ll never forget at the age of around 8 years old he called me downstairs one evening, now let’s get this right, the only times I EVER got called downstairs after I had been put to bed was for a right good telling off. On this occasion I racked my tiny brain trying to work out what I may or may not be in trouble for....was it for smashing Tom Hardcastle’s window with ‘Clippy’ Marshall.... No...Tom wasn’t due back for a week so that was yet to come. Could it be that I had yet again drunk all the milk leaving none for their thousandth cup of tea that day...Oh shit yes, I bet that was it, I had done my best and topped up the remainder of the milk with water to make it appear that the level was the same in the bottle (which incidentally never fooled anyone).

Anyway upon arrival in the front room, a very warm front room, in fact, a room that had a fire in the hearth that would have kept a cruise liner afloat, I was greeted by the words “sit down and watch this”, on the big old black and white TV was a magnificent beautiful shiny black (I presume it was black and not blue, remember it was a black and white TV) motorcycle, well, to be precise a beautiful black Matchless 500cc that this chap had restored. It was a half hour programme and I am sure it featured a lot of music in it but was the story of this particular machine, I never did find out the title of the program and all these years later I still wonder if I really saw it or was it wishful thinking. Now there is a task for anyone reading this (other than myself), please find me a documentary from the 1960s featuring a big old Matchless 500!!

After seeing that I made a promise to myself that one day I too would own a big shiny British motorcycle like that one. In fact, I did but never a Matchless. I don’t actually remember too many escapades with my Father but the ones I do were pretty damned memorable. Like the time he taught me to drive a tractor and straw at the age of 11 on the farm where he worked and his last words as he leapt off the footplate

Page 5 The Motorcycle Undertaker were “whatever you do DON’T shut the revs off”. So there I am trundling along chopping straw dreaming of being the big shot with my own tractor and suddenly I came across a stretch of straw that was just a little bit too much for the chopper to cope with so I had to slow down...I never thought of putting my foot on the clutch to slow down.....I just shifted the accelerator lever to stop whereupon half a ton of straw tried to get through a slowing blade promptly wrapping itself around every shaft and bearing. Two hours later, and after the obligatory bout of swearing and a major machinery strip down he miraculously gave me a second chance at fucking it up. “Off you go and this time....” well I never did and I managed to chop several acres without any major catastrophe (other than shredding a rabbit into twelve thousand tiny pieces).

Another tale involves me, my Father, and his best friend Nelson. Nelson was aptly named because he only had one eye after losing it in a motorcycle crash many years previously. As if this wasn’t bad enough Nelson was a lorry driver, a class 1 HGV driver driving artic wagons daily. He had obtained his heavy goods licence in the early days when a driving test was not required and the old ‘Grandfather rights’ played a big part in ensuring he was never required to indulge in a medical examination of any kind. But before I go into this yarn let me tell you a bit about Nelson. He and his wife Sheila and I think three children lived at South Milford near Selby, in fact in a little row of houses adjacent to the railway line that transported coal to the power stations. The house, I use the term loosely, was more akin to a storage warehouse for every conceivable piece of tat and rubbish you could find. It was a cross between Steptoe’s yard and something hidden in small town America that the American Pickers would be proud of. I used to look forward to our monthly visits with great affection for inevitably I would leave the premises armed with my Father’s car boot full of junk to store in my bedroom, things such as reel to reel tape recorders, old valve radios and anything with wheels. Incredibly, and this is the really odd part....he was the proud owner of a rather dog eared Rolls Royce Silver Shadow which had been equipped with a cassette player!! Something of a rarity in those days and I’ll never get over listening to Tom Jones wailing the Green Green Grass of Home for mile upon mile on our monthly jaunts around the countryside.

Nelson’s preferred fashion was typical 1950’s rebel; I used to always think he looked as if he belonged on the cover of an Eddie Cochran LP, slicked back hair and a white t-shirt with blue jeans only he was always caked in oil or coal dust, which brings me nicely on to the subject of coal. More specifically the coal that was nesting in the train wagons on the railway line next to his house one cold, crisp December evening. It was a Sunday and I remember being sat with Mother and Sheila and some of the kids in the front room. My Father and Nelson were nowhere to be seen, presumably sitting in the garage smoking and planning their next invention. After a while myself and the kids went out into the yard to kick a football round or something that resembles a football like a cabbage, a ball of gaffa tape or a cat, I can’t quite remember what and one of the kids, if my memory serves me well it was Timothy, turned on the outside spotlight to shed light on our ‘match’. The whole yard lit up and what seemed like half the surrounding countryside too. Immediately there was all hell let loose from on top of one of the coal wagons. “Turn that fuckin’ light off” bellowed one of the two dark figures attempting to balance themselves on a mountain of wet, slippery coal. One was holding a hessian sack and the other a large shovel both silhouetted against a moonlight sky and now with a yellow circle of a spotlight beam highlighting every detail. Heads would roll when they returned to the house with their bounty of numerous sacks of highest quality coal.

I have a tale to tell regarding the building of an earth moving diesel powered rotavator. Father and Nelson had devised this contraption to chew up the land around the rear of the house/shed. The basis of it was an existing Villiers engined rotavator with a seized up engine. The idea was to replace the dainty little Villiers 2 lump with a much bigger diesel 4 stroke engine. Unfortunately, they didn’t have a unit at hand but a farmer along the side of the A64 Leeds to Scarborough road did....for now. I was 11 years old and to be asked to go out on a Sunday evening in the Roller was too good a chance to miss. My Father and I joined Nelson in the Rolls and from my vantage point in the rear of the car I could establish that we were going on a kind of trip to collect an engine, rather odd I thought considering it was Sunday evening and all the engine shops would be shut. Nelson pulled the behemoth Rolls off the road into a recently harvested straw field. It had just turned dark by now so I guess it must have been quite late at night. The two of them armed with a fistful of spanners set off across the field in the general direction of what looked like a Lister bale elevator. I could just barely make out the shape of it and knew instantly what it was because back home in my toy box was the very same toy version....made by Britains (remember them?). As it was I was to be the lookout, boy did I feel grown

Page 6 The Motorcycle Undertaker up. My first big heist....actually that’s a lie, I was absolutely terrified in case the farmer arrived brandishing a 12 shotgun. After what seemed like an eternity and a tirade of four letter words, two figures emerged huffing and puffing, covered in grease and wheat chaff and with faces beaming like a fisherman who’s captured Jaws, promptly dumped the engine unit from the elevator into the boot of the Rolls Royce. To this day I often wonder what the farmer said when he arrived the next day to a practically useless elevator minus engine. I would have paid money to have seen his face. In fact, now I think about it he would have probably paid money to see my face....to punch it!!

A couple of years later and in a similar vein to the elevator escapade I found myself the proud owner of a 200cc single-cylinder Villiers two-stroke engine, which believe it or not would have slotted straight into my Father’s rotavator. How I came across this lump is once again very naughty. It actually belonged on a lawnmower; well to be more precise it belonged to the lawnmower that in turn belonged to Barmby Moor Cricket Club. In fact, it seems that cricket and motorcycles seem to go hand in hand....with vandalism. A quick search on the interweb reveals that almost every time the words cricket and motorcycles are linked together is when a group of ‘brainless vandals’ have left skid marks (snigger snigger) and tyre tracks all over the cricket fields of England. I was hoping to find some far flung article in which the team from Lower Sodbottom left the field 31 not out in 4000 overs on a BSA Dandy but alas no. Anyway, this particular lawnmower made its home in the ramshackle cricket pavilion in the field directly opposite our house in Holborn Estate and as kids, we used to play around it and on a Saturday when the matches were being played we used to hang around hoping for an egg and cucumber sandwich at afternoon tea. The pavilion was only around the size of two car garages placed end to end and the bulk of it was where the cricketers sat prior to going out to play and where the sandwiches were on display. At the end of it was a section devoted to housing the line marking machine and the motor mower. I knew that because I used to peer through the gap in the door and could see the mower sitting there.....waiting. The whole dilapidated wooden structure used to reek of piss in the summer as every man and his dog used to go round the back of the pavilion to have a piss or if they were brave enough a number 2. In fact, it was round the back of the piss ridden hut that Clippy Marshall used to insist I pee on his hand. We were only kids but every time we were out in the field and I was bursting for the loo he would follow me and insist I give his left hand a dowsing with my foul smelling urine. I began to think this is what everyone does, that it’s normal behaviour but the lads in the bogs at the big school soon put me right with a punch on the nose when I innocently asked “eh mate can I piss on your hand?”

However I am going off on one of my wayward rants, let’s get back to the mower, the sad, lonely, and unloved mower sat in the pavilion....well, someone had inadvertently left the padlock of the door one weekend and as luck would have it a few of us kids had been playing football on the field and as I went for the obligatory pee round the back noticed the lack of security. It was registered in my head and I would make a point of sneaking back after the kick around to have a nosey at the mower. The end of the sporting activities couldn’t come soon enough and after the lads had wandered off home (it was an early finish as I was the nominated goalkeeper and chose to let every shot pass me by thus the others were just getting a tad pissed off with me). As the light was failing I could only make out the oily greasy Villiers engine on the mower and I swear it was just whispering “take me, oh please take me”. It was now or never, I ran across to my house and grabbed a handful of old open ended spanners, and set about relieving the engine from its mounts. After what seemed like an hour and after I had suffered multiple knuckle bruises and cuts I eventually wrenched the motor free from its resting place.

I clutched the filthy oil spattered engine to my chest as if it were a bag of gold coins and headed off in the direction of home which was only a mere one hundred yards away (yes, yards, we still measured in ‘old money’ in those days). Unbeknown to me though one of the bolts I had previously undone wasn’t an engine mounting bolt but in fact the sump plug responsible for keeping the oil in its rightful place, namely inside the engine. By the time I got the heavy lump back to my parent’s house I was soaked to the skin with sticky black oil. Not only that, there was a perfect trail of oil drips on the tarmac road leading from the pavilion to our house. “Oh, shit” was the first thought that sprung to mind followed by a fear of having an extremely irate groundsman knocking on the door. I was on edge all the following few days and luck was well and truly on my side as it rained constantly over the course of the next few days virtually washing away any evidence of dirty deeds. Saturday came and went and I made a point of becoming scarce in the afternoon lest anyone might have rumbled my theft. Nothing was said but once again I do sincerely wish I could have been the proverbial

Page 7 The Motorcycle Undertaker wall fly as the groundsman and his cohorts on the committee were stood around in the piss-soaked pavilion scratching their heads in amazement at the total absence of lawnmower engines that day. I would love to be able to relate a tale of how I used that engine in a sleek smooth and streamlined go-cart that set records alight at Bonneville Salt Flats, or even using it to make the world’s first flying but unfortunately I never did make any use of it. To put it simply I just took the whole thing to bits and couldn’t work out how to put it back together again, especially after losing half the parts.

I think over the next few years I kind of drifted away from the more hands on mechanical approach to expand my knowledge of electronics. From an early age, I was always fascinated by radios and televisions. I subscribed to the magazine Practical Wireless, yes for once a genuine title and not something I made up like Soot Juggling Monthly or The Carp Gutters Digest. Every month I studied it from cover to cover and was still no bloody wiser at the end of it. I had a small boys racing bicycle fitted with a large red saddlebag full of bungee cords. I used to cycle all the way up to the top of the Yorkshire Wolds scoping out impromptu landfill sites. It was incredible what I found in these places even more incredible was how the hell I managed to cycle all the way back to Barmby Moor carrying a TV with a cracked screen and two valve radios but somehow with gritted teeth, I did it. I would then set about dismantling them all and armed with the magazine would try and solder all the components together. All I ever succeeded in doing was relentlessly blowing all the fuses in the house and starting small fires in my shed. Yes, that’s right, MY shed. I had now acquired a six foot by four foot wooden shed at the bottom of the garden to further my ‘career’ into the world of electronics. In fact for the most part it was full of my friends from the village who somehow managed to consume around 40 cigarettes in the few hours they appeared between the hours of 5 to 7 pm. On the odd occasion, my parents would reluctantly venture down to the shed just to make sure we were all safe as the smoke billowing from the windows of the shed resembled Drax power station. I loved that shed, well that is if it’s possible to love a shed. To me, it represented independence, freedom, and a sanctuary for me to make my plans to take over the world, well not quite world-beating but I had a place of my own where I could hang my meagre collections of tools on the wall. The basic toolkit consisted of a hammer, a soldering iron and one of those tins with a flip top lid full of Elastoplast plasters which was a vital part in the early days.

Page 8 The Motorcycle Undertaker

CHAPTER 2 Teenage Kicks Electronics and old radios and the like kept me busy and interested for the next couple of years but then a new boy moved into the village. Well to be exact five boys moved into the village, the eldest was what we considered grown up and past it but he had a collection of Lambretta and Vespa scooters which attracted me to the family. I became very good friends with Phillip and it soon became apparent that we both had a mutual interest in both two wheeled machines and taking things to bits. The brothers had quite a substantial garage at the house and it was always full of scooters which to us petrol heads was like heaven on Earth. It was when the elder brother was away for the weekend at some floozies’ house in that the fun started for us. Phil would take his brothers prized possession, a Lambretta TV200 Special up to the disused airfield (more of this battleground later) and he would thrash the hell out of it, leaving just enough fuel in it for his elder brother to get to the end of the drive on Monday morning before it came to an abrupt halt. I was quite happy to watch as he would rev the poor demented vehicle to within inches of its life. As he got braver the so the stunts got sillier.

Incidentally, did you know that Did you know Steve McQueen’s famous 65 foot motorcycle jump in the movie ‘The Great Escape’ was done by stand-in rider Bud Ekins and he did it in just one take? It’s incredible what everyday items can be utilised in the name of stunt riding. A solitary breeze block and an old oak door minus handle made a fantastic ramp. Even better was to add another breeze block to make the ramp higher, then higher, even higher and we ended up with four blocks and a death wish. Up to this point I had been quite content to watch and applaud as Phil hit the ramp at 40mph and took off reminiscent of Eddy Kidd or Evil Knievel. “Ere Kev, you have a bash”, Phil shouted as he came into land. What the hell I thought, may as well try it, he made it look easy enough and in the meantime, the noise of the stunt riding had attracted a rather large crowd of teenagers from the village, well a rather large crowd in Barmby Moor in the ’70s could be construed as five teenage boys, two teenage girls who relentlessly chewed gum and looked thoroughly disinterested and a 10-year old that was the brother of one of the boys, though no one was admitting ownership. I took to the controls of this mean machine and lined it up with the ramp trying all the time to look as if I actually knew what I was doing.

I sat there staring at the ramp for what seemed like all eternity and then dropped the clutch and we’re off, well er no, not exactly. I let the clutch out but forgot to rev the thing up so it stalled much to the amusement of the audience. “Bugger”, I thought. I reversed up and eventually started the damned thing again and this time revved the blighter up which in turn brought up the front wheel and as I passed the crowd I was on one wheel. Cool or what? I hit the ramp with the back wheel and took off almost bringing the bike over in a reverse somersault, I quickly leaned forward and shifted my weight to the front of the and hit the ground with a wobble but miraculously I was still on it and to make it even a tad more glorious the bike was still travelling in a straight line, in fact, a straight line towards an embankment and ploughed field.

Phil was a great mentor and I watched him countless times perform this daring death-defying event. What he had failed to show me though was how to stop the bloody thing. I could start it, I could ride it with some degree of accuracy but he never showed me where the were. Hell I was thirteen years old, I didn’t know that scooters had a footbrake pedal so I hit the embankment doing 40mph and for the second time in less than five minutes, I took off sat aboard a Lambretta. Now, a ploughed field with heavy furrows cannot be construed as a soft landing. Feathers, horse shit, and freshly cut grass clippings are what I would call a soft landing. I hit the thick brown earth at speed and came to an abrupt stop, actually no, the scooter came to an abrupt stop embedding its front end along a furrow, I carried on over the handlebars for at least another 12 feet hitting the soil with my nose and promptly emitting a shower of red blood and snot.

Everyone came striding over, except the little 10 year old who was busy eating moss from a slab of concrete on the edge of the airfield. Phil was first to arrive and I was expecting some degree of sympathy for my treacherous ordeal. Instead, the poor soul was screaming “he’s gonna effing kill me” when he gets home”. We did manage to replace the vehicle in the garage and make ourselves scarce but it must have gone badly wrong for Phil as the next time I saw him at school he was very reluctant to speak to me and was nursing a black eye.

Page 9 The Motorcycle Undertaker

I made a subconscious decision at that point to never climb aboard another vehicle that has the gear change on the twist grip and to be fair I never did. I decided that scooters and I don’t see eye to eye and I travelled the motorcycle line whilst Phil stayed firmly with his feet in the Lambretta camp, even to the point of appearing in the movie Quadrophenia. Was I jealous? Of course I was but good for him and every time I see his face on the movie poster I’ll always remember the stunt riding team we never were.

I would have to wait an agonising twelve months before I was to once more take to two wheels. This time in the shape of a very modern looking Gilera 50cc Trail gifted with the registration number RVY370M. I can clearly remember rushing away from Danby’s paper shop in the centre of Pocklington on my way to school clutching the latest copy of Motorcycle Mechanics. I still have that very copy all these years later and the very distinctive front cover has an impressive photo of a spotty faced ‘sixteener’ surrounded by a magnificent array of available on the UK market in 1977. The obligatory FS1-E was there along with the Suzuki AP50, SS50, and the incredibly speedy Fantic Caballero along with an in-depth road test of the Gilera 50. Of course, Kevin wanted to be different, set himself at a distance from the pack so chose the Gilera. I scoured the motorcycle press in search of one that might be for sale but unfortunately, they all seemed to be millions of miles away both in price and distance. One eventually appeared some three weeks later in the classified column of the Yorkshire Evening Press priced at a very reasonable £120, which upon reflection was probably 6 months wages or the price of a small house. Well, it seemed like that to me. I had saved every penny I had earned from working on the farm and at the local gun club, yes there was a clay pigeon shooting club just a couple of miles up the road and it was my job to load the traps to send the black clay discs to oblivion for a princely wage of six quid a week.

In any case, I had saved and saved and now had enough to gain my independence. My Father drove me through to York to view the bike and most of the details of what took place at the vendor’s home are pretty sketchy after all these years, suffice to say that the one vivid memory I do have is of me inadvertently traipsing a humongous amount of dog shit into their sitting room. It stunk to high heaven and it seemed as though every dog within a five mile radius had chosen their yard to shit in, it was just my solemn duty to transfer it from the backyard to their beige carpet. Even at this tender age I was something of a ‘haggler’ and would consider it the norm to barter the price down on everything I bought (I’m still rather proud of securing the LP Nursery Cryme by Genesis for a mere 10p at school).

In this case, however, the irate chap selling the Gilera declined my offer of £100 cash mumbling something about costing a fortune to have the carpet cleaned. Now here we have one of those quandaries that will appear quite a lot in this book, lack of memory. You see both my parents have passed on and I cannot for the life of me remember how the hell I got that bike back home from Foxwood Lane in Acomb. I know for a fact I didn’t ride it, my Father didn’t ride it and I am sure the previous owner never rode it the 12 miles back to our house so it’s a mystery. A mystery that will never be solved because no one else knew about it, but just in case the one time owner of a Gilera 50 Trail, reg number RVY370M, who resided in Acomb and once had a fresh faced 15 year old tramp copious amounts of dog shite all over his new carpet remembers the event then a. Please accept my apologies for the new pattern on your carpet and b. How the hell did we get the bike home? However, we did manage to get it home somehow and of course, it took pride of place at the shed at the bottom of the garden nestled amongst forty thousand cigarette ends.

I have to say it and it will probably be said a thousand times before I finish this book but “I wish I still had that bike”. It cost £120 in 1977 and at a guess probably worth a good £3000 in that condition these days. I loved that bike, well sports moped to give it its correct title and cleaned everything that could be cleaned five times over before it even saw the light of day and its maiden voyage consisted of a wobbly and very unsteady ride down the lane that runs directly past our house, well basically a farm track but the minute I was out of earshot of my parents then it was full throttle all the way down to the bottom of the lane where it promptly coughed, spluttered gave a gasp of white smoke then died. No matter how many times I pedalled it over it would not fire. I even tried running with it and jumping hard on the gear change but to no avail. There were no forthcoming offers of help as I came into view of the group of ‘adults’ standing outside our house gossiping about who was getting into bother with who around the village. Red faced with embarrassment and sorely in need of an oxygen tent, I finally got to the throng of villagers. Here we go, I thought, and sure enough, the comments poured forth, “tha muster buggered it lad”, “eee that were a waste o’ time and money”. One

Page 10 The Motorcycle Undertaker comment made me stop in my tracks, in the background of all the guffawing and giggling was “did you turn’t petrol on?”, It was my father coming down the front garden path “ Have you turned the bloody petrol tap on?”, I quickly cast my memory back to the initial launch, yes I did, didn’t I? “Yes, I did” I replied, “‘as it run on ti’ reserve?” Hang on what’s this reserve thingy, no one told me about any details about a reserve, what does that mean? Does it have a spare engine? Will it only run on nature reserves? My head was spinning with confusion when my Father marched up to the bike, turned the fuel tap to this reserve position he had been banging on about, and hey presto. “Gi’ it a go now lad’, sure enough after a couple of revolutions of pedalling the engine sparked into life. The crowd’s laughter became even louder and a tirade of pointing and comments of “silly bugger” followed, ensuring that myself and the Gilera spent the rest of the afternoon escaping the tireless mockery in the shed sulking. Well, to be fair the Gilera didn’t sulk because it’s a piece of machinery and they don’t sulk, do they? I sulked and smoked 10 Players No6 cigarettes in succession out of badness.

RVY370M was never very kind to me it insisted on breaking down virtually every time I ventured out on it. All my friends at the time had ‘proper’ sports mopeds like the AP50, the Honda SS50, and one lad had a Garelli Tiger Cross but the one I loved the most was Nigel Bean’s Flandria monkey bike. He used to come down to meet up with us and boy could he throw that bike around. Looked the part too and it was so much fun. We would all meet at the bridge over the beck in Barmby Moor to discuss the next journey and yes we would all agree to go for a carefree saunter in the countryside and yes everyone’s steed would start with the minimum of fuss, all except the Gilera. “I’ll catch you up lads” I would shout above the revving of their bikes and sure as eggs are eggs upon their return I would be still there trying to get the bloody thing started, eventually giving up and pushing the thing home swearing revenge on the bloke that sold me it. Did you know that the average person walks the equivalent of three times around the world in a lifetime and that if you are the owner of a Gilera Trail 50 that figure doubles!! If I was the laughing stock of the moped brigade with the Gilera and its reluctance to do anything I wanted, rather like owning a seriously disobedient dog, then I came to shine as the leader of the pack with my next ride. A six month old daytona yellow Yamaha FS1E-DX bought from a schoolmate for, get this, £165.00. I feel sick now when I think of what that bike would be worth these days.

Oh to have and to hold a moped that was the biggest ‘chick magnet’ this side of David Essex was in itself sheer bliss, the fact that it started and stopped when required was nothing short of mind-blowing. It looked and performed like a real motorcycle, well a real motorcycle but with pedals and I covered what seems like three quarters of our planet’s landmass in the twelve months of ownership. I would set off on a Sunday morning to and arrive there 90 minutes later with numb hands and rear end. It wasn’t the most luxurious form of transport but it was mine, mine all mine and I loved it. Of course, it impressed the girls but it also turned the rest of the lads in the village green with envy. One such friend, Mark was especially in awe of this cool stylish vehicle, so much so that he was constantly asking for a ride on the back. Yes I know it was illegal but we lived in a tiny village and rarely saw Policemen in those days, even less now I fear. I genuinely do feel bad about this now after all these years but at the time we all thought it was hilarious.

As usual, we would all congregate in a group in the centre of the village near the green and every night Mark would chirp up “can I have a ride on the bike Kev? “At first I didn’t mind, especially considering it gave me ample opportunity to show off my riding prowess to the girls. However, after a while, it became somewhat of a nuisance and the gloss was quickly wearing off the repetitive routine. To combat this I devised a cunning plan (said in my very best Tony Robinson voice) whereupon I would take Mark on the back of the bike not up and down the village green as I normally would but instead I would head off to the far side of the disused airfield adjacent to where we lived. It was a good two miles in length at least and as I approached the far end of the runway I would shout to Mark “just jump off mate while I turn round” he would obediently hop off and at this point, I would swing the bike around and give it full throttle and race off back in the direction of the village just managing to evade Mark’s desperate lunges and futile clutches.

I got back to the crowd gathered at the green and their interrogation as to my passenger’s whereabouts. I would normally answer he will be here soon, and sure enough, as he came into view looking like he had been on safari in the Congo. As he threw himself down on the grass mumbling “you bastard” we would all break into a chorus of “won’t you take me back home” the song made famous by Slade in 1972. The weirdest part of the whole story though was that Mark never learned and a few days later would ask yet again for a ride and

Page 11 The Motorcycle Undertaker once more I would dump him unceremoniously at the far end of the airfield leaving him with a marathon walk home. I think it was on the fifth time he actually said “you won’t just dump me at the end of the airfield will you?”, “Course I won’t “I lied and for the final time left him running like the clappers after me along the runway.

The year was 1977, punk rock was making a big impact on teenagers up and down the country, I think I even had a safety pin on my denim jacket. Life was looking all rosy for me, exams were finally finished and I was allowed to leave school, had a steady girlfriend who would later become wife number 1 and I had my FS1E-DX. What more could a sixteen year old wish for? Of course, that’s what was missing….a job. I was due to start my ‘career’ as a painter/decorator but fortunately, at the last minute, it was scuppered by family friend Dave Hall who took me on as an apprentice welder. Absolutely changed my life. The thought of papering walls and painting window sills sent shivers down my spine. To have to do that for the rest of my life would have been mind numbingly depressing but here I was with a chance to stick pieces of metal together and play havoc with welding rods. In the early days, I used to ride along to work with my sidekick ‘Gibbo’ who’s only mode of transport was a rather dilapidated Suzuki TS250ER. I say dilapidated but a truer description would read as absolutely knackered. It had zero braking efficiency in fact I’m sure the brakes were not even connected and his front and rear consisted of him sticking his hobnailed boots hard on the floor to act as anchors, unfortunately, all this really did was send off a vast shower of sparks which looked impressive but failed to stop him. I found this out several times at road junctions when I would look in the rearview mirror on the FS1E to see this maniac heading towards me at full speed leaving a shower of sparks as he dug his boots into the tarmac. Needless to say, he rarely managed to stop and I think I had to replace the rear light lense on my bike numerous times. Stopping distances were somewhat shortened on the odd occasions I had to take to the rear pillion seat on his Suzuki, at least we had double the boot power to try and bring the machine to a satisfactory halt. Within a matter of weeks, I upgraded from the small yellow ‘Fizzy’ to what I considered a ‘proper’ bike.

In 1969 Harley Davidson motorcycles were taken over by AMF and in the mid-seventies produced a range of two-stroke singles. The SS/SX 125, SS/SX175 and SS250, were produced in Italy and I was fortunate enough to get my hands on a great condition SS175. My God after the Fizzy it seemed like the size of a Goldwing. The speed, the power, and the street cred towered way above the other bikes I had been on but alas the Harley had the reliability of the Gilera, in fact, it was probably worse. It quickly became known as the SS Money Pit after developing a nasty habit of eating pistons at an astonishing rate. It also had an insatiable appetite for spark plugs and anywhere I travelled I had to have a pocketful of new plugs for when the bike decided to eat one. I think that bike alone must have been responsible for the success of Martin Hargreaves Motorcycles in Cleethorpes as I must have bought at least six pistons over the short period of time I owned the blasted thing. It was also the cause of my brush with the law on Pocklington Airfield, I was heading out for a night’s festivities in the town and took the short cut across the airfield with my girlfriend on the pillion. I was going at it hell for leather when I became aware of a ‘presence’ alongside me. It was what we kids used to call at the time a ‘jam sandwich’, so called because the red stripe along the side of the car represented a jam butty. The traffic Police to be precise. Oh dear I thought, I was totally legal as regards documentation but as I hadn’t completed my motorcycle driving test I was forbidden to carry passengers. The obligatory “Is this your machine Sir?” “Yes, Officer it is’ ‘ I was determined to put on my very best pleasant and good citizen voice and attitude unfortunately he was battered with a tirade of abuse from Catherine on the back. Phrases such as “haven’t you got anything better to do”. I winced, the Policeman winced as my future wife let go with a whole host of reasons why he would be better off turning his attention to other duties. For some inexplicable reason, he didn’t report me or issue a ticket choosing instead to return to the safety of his car and out of earshot of the vicious female I happened to be carrying.

The only reason I kept the Harley was because on the rare occasions that I could venture into the city it looked cool, I mean it was Steve McQueen and Peter Fonda rolled up into one cool. I used to ride it past the shop windows not taking a blind bit of notice of the traffic as I was too engrossed in my reflection in the windows. I was sure there was a hint of Billy from Easy Rider in my ghostly image. If there was it soon disappeared when the front end of the bike tried in vain to mount the back of the car in front. No damage done to either car or bike but my pride took a fall and the feeling that my wedding tackle was about to be spiralized on the spiked fuel cap on the tank brought me back to reality with a bang. The poor old Harley was fast approaching its sell by date and in only a matter of weeks it decided to eat three pistons at considerable expense to myself and a great deal of

Page 12 The Motorcycle Undertaker inconvenience to a friend of mine who offered to fit the pistons. The first time he stripped it down the rings were stuck in their grooves and no amount of scratching and scraping would release them. Eventually, my buddy says “go put the kettle on Kev” so off I traipsed indoors and returned into the garage with a tray containing a teapot full of Earl Grey and some Bourbons. “No you thicket,” he says “I meant to put the kettle on so we have boiling water to pour over the piston to unseize the rings”. I did feel every bit the uneducated apprentice at that time. After the sixth time, I felt it was a tad unreliable and so time for another change, hell it’s getting to be rather like Dr. Who with all these transformations going on. So on a bright sunny day, I set off to a tiny village just on the other side of Melbourne, no not the Australian city but a rather nondescript place in East Yorkshire armed with the Harley and a spark plug.

I pulled up on the outskirts of the village and swapped the spark plug for a brand new one. The last thing I needed was to be trying to convince the prospecting purchaser that the bloody thing would only run with a new plug fitted. I rode the bike the last 100 yards into this quaint country garden with a large workshop at the bottom. In it were several pre-unit Triumphs, a BSA, and a few other unknown makes but mostly British Iron apart from a Yamaha YDS7 which is exactly what I was intending to leave the premises with. A deal was struck whereby I took the Yamaha as a direct swap for the Harley, sounded too good to be true, and right on cue the Harley started first kick for the new owner (I would give it a few hours at most then it would be back into ‘no start’ mode). I couldn’t get out of the place fast enough, hit the road whilst the Harley was still playing ball was my idea. Just before I left to ride off into the sunset (yes it was evening by now), I noticed a massive engine partially covered on the bench, “Is that for sale” I inquired trying not to sound too interested, “Yes mate, five hundred quid to you”. I spluttered “no thanks” or words to that effect and almost losing consciousness made my way out of the workshop pretty damned quickly. Bearing in mind this was 1978 and that kind of money seemed like a small fortune for me on my pittance of £16 a week but after all, it WAS a Vincent Black Shadow engine complete.

Eh listen, whilst I’m on the subject I’m going to fast forward just a bit to the mid-’90s and I had a similar experience with another of the mega-bucks motorcycles. Back then I used to look after a chaps 750, or should I say General looked after it in the workshop. We made our way one Tuesday evening to this fellow’s house near Rotherham. A long way to go you may think but in those days we would travel for miles just to get work. If my memory serves me well we had to get this bike from upstairs in the house, no wonder no one around the Rotherham area was interested in working on it! Of course, the bloke had a shed outside full of bikes and bits and as ever I soon spotted something lurking under a tarpaulin at one end of the garage. I casually walked up to it and couldn’t make out what it was. “Is the bike under the tarp for sale mate?” I inquired ever so casually trying to sound disinterested in it. He pulled off the cover and there amongst the cobwebs and part of the ceiling was a Brough Superior SS80 in need of a total restoration. I could barely conceal my excitement, this is it I thought, the Holy Grail, and here it was within my grasp. Looking around at the tat that was in the shed it was quite clear that this bloke didn’t know what he had. How wrong I was. There was me thinking I’d found the bargain of the century and I swear I was rubbing my hands as I asked the obligatory question “how much for ‘t ord bike mate?”, expecting a figure of 500 Quid maximum I was soon put in my place when the answer came, “eleven grand will buy it if you are interested”. Talk about smacking across the face with a large wet kipper, I soon came back to Earth with a bang and had to sit down for half an hour to get over it. Like the Vincent engine, many years before that price would have been a good investment if we knew then what we know now and to those reading this book who might not be quite so informed as to motorcycle prices, then a good example was sold in 2012 by Bonhams for a princely sum of £291,200. If only I owned Doctor Who’s Tardis then I could go back clutching my eleven grand.

Anyway back to the present or more accurately back to the year 1978. The Yamaha YDS7 took pride of place at the Keld household and to be quite truthful about the poor thing it never really made much of an impact. It carried no street cred at all, with every 17 year old at the time favouring the much sportier RD250DX and in later years the 250/350LC. I tried in vain to make it stand out but failed miserably when the aerosol I was using to spray the gave up the ghost. I could have made a better job of it had I drunk a pint of purple metal flake paint and pissed on it. The side panels didn’t match either; one had a 250 badge on it and the other a YR5 which was the 350 version. It was a damp squib all round. I’d love to be able to relate a tale of how I wheelied it at 60mph through the town picking up girls as I did it but alas no it would be a big fat lie. The most exciting thing that involved the YDS7 was when I sold it!

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I vaguely recall placing an ad in the local newspaper selling the infernal thing. Someone from York expressed interest and would buy it if I were prepared to drop it off in York. He in return would give me a ride home on his Honda CB750K, I would have been quite foolish to refuse such an offer. The dirty deal was duly done (should make a song out of that line) and as the prospective new owner went into his house I stood admiring the 750 Honda. It seemed massive after toddling about the past few years on 250cc and below. I should have read the warning signs though, the heavily scraped footrests, scraped handlebar ends, and dents and scratches everywhere. “C’mon lad, let’s go,” said Mike Hailwood as he threw me an open face helmet that stunk of cat pee. We set off from Acomb at 10.30 am and hit Barmby Moor at 10.45 am. Words cannot describe that journey, never have I felt so close to death. I could almost feel the devil’s breath on my face (or was that cat pee?). At one point I seriously considered leaping off the machine, the problem was that he never slowed down until we got home. The worst part and it still makes me shudder to this day was when we were on the long straight piece of the road adjacent to the village of . I could see, even with blurred vision, that we were about to overtake a large articulated lorry approximately 150 yards in front, but wait, there was another lorry, an artic tanker coming the other way, surely not. Surely yes, he bloody well did it. I could feel the vacuum as we passed between the two lorries with what must have been less than an inch of space on either side. For a split second I thought that was it, I felt sick, I felt dizzy and I’m sure I wet myself. To this day I can’t remember who it was who took me on that frightful journey but if it’s you and you are reading this, You Bastard!

The next event on the Keld calendar was the passing of the motorcycle test. None of your theory tests, part one and two, and all the jumping through hoops that the novice has to contend with in these modern times, no by gum, it was a quick ride around the block near the test centre at Heworth in York. It cost all of £7.10 and I passed the first time but this being the story of the Keld family it goes without saying that it would have been…. er….eventful. At that particular time, I found myself between steeds. That is to say, I didn’t have a motorcycle to take my test on. So a good friend at the time came to my rescue by offering to loan me his Yamaha RD200. Almost new and in lovely metallic silver it certainly looked and felt the part as I set off that morning to the test centre. Incredible as it may seem I did pass with flying colours and as I left the test centre gave the Yamaha a hand full of throttle and sat the machine up on its rear wheel, I remained in this position for most of the journey out of the city, simply because I was overjoyed at my passing into the world of a full licence holder. It wasn’t until I got home that I noticed the front wheel was sitting at an odd angle. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that one of the wheel clamps had long since disappeared and there was only one nut on the remaining clamp. Once again I felt sick at the thought that whilst I had been busy celebrating my success by popping wheelies all over York, at any one time the front wheel was close to parting company with the rest of the bike. The images it conjures up are somewhat distressing, to say the least. Still, I made it home in one piece and live to fight another day, or ride another bike should I say.

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CHAPTER 3 The Lindrick Years

The CZ175 Probably the less said the better about this one. It certainly ranks up in the top five disasters of all my biking years. When I bought the blasted thing from a very good friend of mine, Mark Timbs it was in good condition, well it was at least roadworthy albeit looking rather worse for wear. I paid something in the region of £75 for this bike and it was the ‘trial’ model so was a little bit better looking than the ordinary road going version, having said that it wouldn’t be difficult to find anything better than that. A Bex Bissell carpet cleaner was an improvement on the lines of the road going CZ. It’s a shame that CZ’s have such a poor reputation for their designs as they were once a force to be reckoned with on the GP circuit and CZ was the first company to use expansion chambers in an exhaust pipe. Not that it made one iota of a difference when it came to the upkeep and the actual riding of my bike. It was still a CZ, and not a very reliable one at that. It was a revolting mustard colour, not unlike babies vomit and it smelt of iron filings, don’t ask, I haven’t a clue why it smelt like that, it just did.

I wanted to chop the thing, yes you heard right, chop it as in extended forks rigid frame and all the extras but unfortunately, the closest I got to building a show winning custom was to make my own set of ape hangers from old water pipes. I have to say at this point in my defence that I was only just starting out on my career at this point so the finer details of what is legal and what is downright dangerous didn’t figure very much in my design prowess. The fact that the front brake cable was so stretched and tight with the addition of the ape hangers that the front wheel moved up and down when the front brake was applied hardly seemed to bother me. The CZ was also used as a transporter for bags of logs too, in fact, it could have qualified as ‘CZ’s Small Van of the Year’ award. It would rival a Ford Escort van when it came to payload and on one occasion I distinctly recall carrying 4 bags of logs on it. No mean feat when you consider the bags of logs were each the same size as a 4 stone sack of potatoes. I had three bags on the back seat and one on the front mudguard must have looked as though I were driving across Bangkok city centre loaded up like that. I think the Policeman that finally pulled me over was quite impressed too, or should that say quite appalled?

He did however gesture me to pull over on the A1079 between Pocklington Airfield and my home village of Barmby Moor. After giving the bike and its heavy load the once over he quite firmly said that there was no way on God’s Earth he was going to allow me to continue and rang for the Vehicle Inspection Branch to come and recover the vehicle to the Police workshops for ‘further investigations’. I’m not sure how on Earth he thought I could make my way home carrying the four bags of wood so as soon as the bike had been collected and the ‘kind’ Policeman had disappeared I just threw the bags over the hedge and left them, I’m sure some of the wood is still there after 30 years. I was told by the PC that I would hear from them in due course and true to his word I did indeed hear from them, with a court summons for a construction and use violation. The inspectors at the station had found over thirty dangerous faults such as inoperative brake front AND rear, front forks inoperative, chain guard missing, no speedometer, dangerous handlebars, no lights, bald tyres, excessive smoke, no damping in rear shocks amongst others. Lucky for me then that they pooled all the faults together and just came up with one offence and fined me thirty quid. It also meant that I had to borrow a van to collect it as they were not prepared to let me ride it on the road, can’t say I blame them. So I borrowed a van from work, collected the bike, and took it to the workshop where I promptly drained all the oil from the two- stroke tank and started it. I revved and revved the bike full throttle for five minutes at a time to try destroy it but it just wouldn’t die. It took over an hour or so revving it for it to finally seize up and breathe its last breath. Poor little mite, with little regret I eventually heaved it with the aid of the works forklift into the skip.

The Honda CB550F’S Time to seek out another mode of transport I thought. At that time I was working as an apprentice engineer at Lindrick Engineers, A friend’s engineering company based on the old airfield at Pocklington. It

Page 15 The Motorcycle Undertaker was stable and varied employment and I loved it especially considering the foreman had a Triumph T150 Trident and would take great pleasure in relating motorcycle antics from his past at any given opportunity. I soon found that to engage him in this mode I could waste half an hour, very handy if it was one of those days that seemed to drag on forever. Quite a few of the employees at that company had motorcycles. Ones that spring to mind include various T140 Bonneville’s, a Suzuki GS750, a Norton Commando 750, and a fantastic Kawasaki Z750 twin with wedge shaped in brilliant white with which we had regular competitions to see how many bodies we could get in the sidecar. I think 12 was the unbeaten record. I seem to recall my very dear friend Paul ‘ginger’ Brookes taking delivery of a brand new Triumph Bonneville T140D, the one with cast mag wheels which set it apart from the crowd as ‘alloy’ wheels were still something of a luxury on road going bikes.

He must have only owned it for a few weeks when one day as I was supposed to be hunter/gathering nuts and bolts from the stores, I stood admiring it in the sunshine outside the workshop. I was just about to resume my journey to the stores when I noticed a small wisp of smoke emanating from under the seat of his bike. Upon closer inspection, it was indeed smoke accompanied by that dreadful odour of burnt wires. Off I ran (I could actually run in those days) in search of Ginger and when I eventually caught up with him I managed to blurt out “Ginger your bike is on fire”, he looked me up and down with a look on his face that smacked of someone about to be made a fool of. “No way, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” he chuckled. “Seriously it’s on fire, come quickly” but unfortunately Ginger had been the butt end of many pranks for far too long and simply thought this was another plot to ridicule him. I grabbed his arm and started to drag him to the bike when he realised I might just not be kidding on this occasion. Once outside the flames had taken hold of the underside of the seat and it looked like it could be a call to the fire brigade but with copious amounts of sand thrown on the flames, it was extinguished relatively easily.

As far as I am aware the bike was repaired free of charge by the dealership he bought it from so all ended well for once though it never really performed as well as it should have done, we eventually put it down to it been either built by a disgruntled apprentice or a Friday afternoon bike.

Well going back to the original story, I had money in my pocket and once again I turned to Motorcycle Mechanics magazine for divine inspiration and ideas of what I could spend my wages on next. I did like the idea of a but unfortunately, although the wages at Lindrick’s were good, they weren’t in the Z900 league. I visualized myself on a myriad of different Japanese machines but nothing really hit me between the eyes with a kipper until I was flicking through a back copy of MCN and happened upon a road test on the Honda CB550F1. At once I was captivated by the sporty looks, the fuel consumption but mostly the top speed. Catherine backed up my plan by kindly informing me that if I refrained from putting half of my wages in the fruit machine in the local pub I would be able to afford a used 550. So one Saturday morning as I was taking the bus journey into York for a grand tour of the record shops I spied through the window on Dixon’s forecourt on Hull Road a beautiful metallic blue Honda CB 550F. It was a 1976 model so it was only two years old. I sacrificed the bus ride on the way back and walked to the edge of York where the bike was.

Dixon’s was a car dealership and had several shops throughout Yorkshire and they were not too savvy with two-wheelers so they had underpriced it a little. I stood for what must have been an hour just staring at its beauty. The paint was truly stunning, a beautiful deep metallic blue, unmarked, you could lose yourself in that paintwork so very easily. The chrome work was impeccable and it had plenty of it. The bike sported a sleek streamlined four into one exhaust system. I was sold on it. They could have hung a price tag of whatever they wanted on it and I was still going to buy it. The salesman appeared and tried to give me the rundown on its finer points but I was already sold. His presence was not required in this case. The price tag was a very reasonable £650 and was within reach with a little help from the finance company. I almost ran into the office to sell my soul or whatever it would take to sign the machine over to me. All they needed was a deposit of twenty pounds, very reasonable however I didn’t have any more than my bus fare in my pocket so I had to convince Dixons to hold the bike until I got back with a deposit. Fortunately upon my return seven days later they had kept their word and it was there with half a tank of fuel all ready for me to ride off into the wide blue yonder, well ride off down the A1079 at any rate. I never did play the fruit machines in the pub ever again.

Page 16 The Motorcycle Undertaker

The first ever chopper pictured with a flat tyre at North Dalton.

The rather boring but immaculate GS1000 bought in Idle, Bradford.

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The Triumph and Kawasaki hybrid in its completed form.

Moto Martin Honda CB900F pictured at Harwood Dale near Scarborough. This must have been a later picture as the bike is sporting a new tinted fairing screen.

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That was it, my life was complete. I had my bike, I had my bird and I had cash in my pocket, the world was my oyster or perhaps shrimp in my case. That bike took me and the vicious tongued girlfriend for miles on journeys at weekends. Being something of a show-off it was always a pleasure to ride up and down Scarborough promenade for hours on end posing. Alternatively, Squire’s coffee bar at Sherburn in Elmet was a regular Sunday afternoon haunt. Gathered together with hundreds of bikes it was sheer heaven arming ourselves with mugs of coffee and bacon sandwiches the size of a dinner plate and sitting outside the front door of the cafe watching the endless procession of hooligans wheelieing their bikes past the cafe, their flared trousers flapping in the wind with the Police in hot pursuit. For weeks on end we would attend Squires, it was almost a ritual and the music of the time was legendary. In the backroom, we used to dance to Rainbow, Quo, and Whitesnake. British heavy metal was having a makeover and the new bands were shaking the music business to the core.

Meanwhile out at the front of the cafe the bikes were what we now call legendary, row upon row of Kawasaki Z900’S and Z650’s, Honda CB750’s, and the Yamaha RD400 to name but a few. You would find a group of blokes aged 50+ standing round an old BSA Thunderbolt, sneering at the youngsters with their new- fangled Japanese machines. Nowadays when we visit the modern Squires cafe it is us that are the fifty-somethings extolling the virtues of the old Japanese bikes, frequently heard is the age-old phrase “they don’t make ‘em like they used to” and indeed they don’t.

After a couple of years riding the Honda around most of England’s green and pleasant I decided on a change. A strange occurrence in the fact it isn’t so much of a change as duplication. I saw an ad in the local Auto Trader advertising a Honda CB550F with king and queen seat and rear carrier for sale for a very reasonable £300. Too good a bargain to miss I thought and so one bright and sunny Saturday morning David Nash and I set off to Barnsley to view the machine. It was the most disgusting lemon yellow colour and the rack on the rear was so large it looked like it could have been used to transport small families, 4 gas bottles, and a sack of potatoes through the streets of Hanoi. However, the rest of the bike was in tip-top condition so hard earned money was parted with and I found myself racing with David all the way back to Pocklington.

Quite why I decided to buy another bike exactly the same as the first is a mystery and it wasn’t long before ideas were afoot to change its looks dramatically. First on the agenda was the paint. Out went the horrible lemon yellow to be replaced by an equally dodgy orange colour. Motorcycles and the colour orange just don’t mix and this one was no exception, so it was relatively short lived. Within weeks the orange was replaced by that good old firm favourite, black. Black fuel tank and side panels and red frame to be exact and it gave the bike a rather shabby appearance. I was now in the fortunate position of having two identical motorcycles apart from colours that is and of course me being somewhat of a frugal type I considered it would be quite legal to only pay road tax on one of them at any one time, after all, I only have one arse. The same theory went for the MOT and insurance too. Yes I know it was naughty but at the time I was having to pay my boss for the privilege of being one of his employees and I lived in a two up two down milk churn in the middle of the M62 near Bridlington. This of course is all utter bollocks, I was just too tight to pay for two lots of documentation when both bikes were identical. All I did was swap the registration plate over onto whichever bike took my fancy on any particular day. I would use the red and black bike for work but on weekends out came the posh metallic blue machine for the obligatory trip to Squires. I paid the price for my greed and left the courthouse in Pocklington thirty quid lighter in my wallet. It was a lesson learned the hard way and needless to say it was never repeated. After deciding that owning two identical bikes was a bit on the extravagant side I thought it time to let one go, but decisions, decisions, which one? That was the million-dollar question. Being the mechanical minded soul that I am, I plumbed for parting with the blue one and converting the other into a chopper, I would of course sell the blue one when the chopper was finally constructed. . After all I was now able to weld in a straight line having thrown myself into my welding apprenticeship at Lindrick Engineers.

It would be good practice for me, wouldn’t it? So with a pocket full of enthusiasm and welding rods I set about the Honda with great gusto. On reflection, I suppose I should have read up on the subject of motorcycle geometry before I attacked the frame with a nine inch angle grinder. I hacked away at the frame rails below the seat to accommodate a large stepped chopper style seat. I also remounted the rear shock absorbers to lower the back end and to clear the 400x16 chromed rear wheel. In doing all this I omitted to alter the rake of the front end so when the extra long ten inches over forks tubes were fitted the whole bike looked as if it were willing to tip the rider straight off the rear. It perhaps would have done had it not been for the super-duper chrome sissy bar that I

Page 19 The Motorcycle Undertaker managed to knock up in my lunchtime at work one day. I seemed to spend a lot of lunchtimes in the workshop, in fact, I probably shed a considerable amount of weight over those few months by not eating my lunch. Also manufactured in the ‘lunchtime sessions’ as they had now become known as were: ignition coil covers, side panels, sissy bar, forward footrests, and the natty chrome cooling fin covers. Once they had all been lovingly made by my fair hands I boxed the lot up along with the rear wheel hub along with an assortment of nuts, bolts, and washers and delivered them to an electroplating company based in Strickland Street in Hull.

I can’t recall the name of this establishment but I will declare they made a fantastic job of chroming my bits, no not those bits, the chopper parts...oh I give up. So it was with great excitement and enthusiasm that I set forth from home one foggy Saturday morning to collect my newly plated parts. I used the blue Honda as everyday transport and this was fitted with a Rickman carrier on the rear which proved useful on more than one occasion. I strapped the large box of parts to the Rickman carrier and set off in the direction of home. It was still foggy and visibility was down to two elephant lengths, as I approached the grassy at the junction of the A1079 and the road, I could barely recognize the road sign informing me that York was to my left and Beverley to my right. I was only travelling at 50mph and no sooner had I seen the sign but the bike was making its way up the grassy hill of the roundabout. I still swear that the person who erected that road sign got his measurements wrong and placed it ON the roundabout as it was only milliseconds after I had seen the warning that I was trying to take off over it.

The Honda went one way, spewing the contents of the cardboard box all over the grass and I went the other and it’s only my lucky nature and good looks that saved me from being flattened by oncoming traffic. It was awesome, the plated parts were scattered to the four winds all over the grass verge but no damage was suffered, luckily. After the initial shock I jumped up and dusted myself down picking brightly coloured flowers from my person, the blue Honda and I limped home at a sedate thirty mph with our tails between our legs.

The project was progressing just fine and at a respectable pace. I had a large battered cardboard box full of shiny things, I had the frame complete with its modified seat rails, now was the time to go and invest some real hard earned money into the venture. I needed a chopper seat, a fuel tank, and the long forks along with shiny cosmetic parts so myself and a pal from work took a trip in his rather shabby looking Reliant Robin over the newly constructed Humber bridge to Rick’s Hog and Chop Shop in sunny old Cleethorpes.

As ever this turned out to be somewhat of an adventure in as much that not only did the seat arrive in brown instead of black, the forks were 2 inches too long and the fuel tank was too small. As if that wasn’t enough of a blow then on the return journey over that masterpiece of British engineering the Humber Bridge, we ran out of fuel in the 3 wheeler. By my reckoning, if you were to run a tape measure the length of the bridge the poor sad little plastic rat would be smack bang in the centre of it. It was left to the youngest person in the car to set off in the general direction of Hull with an empty fuel can in search of assistance. I was almost to the toll booth when Craig in his ‘kangarooing’ three wheeler came trundling up. He had managed to extract another carburettor full of fuel from the petrol tank by tipping the Reliant on its side. I think we were one of the first vehicles to break down on the bridge and certainly the first three wheeler. Probably the first and only three wheeler with no tax or MOT carrying two dodgy looking characters and a plethora of parts to come to grief on the aforesaid bridge.

And whilst we are on the subject of petrol did you know that in 1949 a worker undertaking maintenance tasks on some heavy machinery was killed by the petrol he was using dropping onto a rat, which in turn ran next to the heater turning itself into a furry fireball thus igniting the fuel in the workers can and setting fire to him and the machine….so be careful with that stuff! Anyway, I was far too excited to worry about trivial matters such as seat colours, fork lengths or the lack of petrol, I was going to get that bike assembled no matter what shit was thrown in my general direction.

I had been reliably informed on a previous occasion that by far the easiest way to mate the engine with the frame was to lay the engine on the floor, on its side, and having placed foam around various frame rails, gently manoeuvre the frame around the engine and drop in the mounting bolts where deemed necessary. This way would protect the new paint on the frame and stop it from becoming scratched and scraped. What the ‘man in the pub’ failed to inform me was that this operation was normally done with two people. I was of

Page 20 The Motorcycle Undertaker course alone when I decided to attempt it. I am convinced that had I thrown the frame from a moving coal wagon onto a tarmac road at 50mph the frame paint would have survived better. I also would have not suffered two trapped fingers and a black fingernail. I was thankful therefore that I still had a little paint leftover from the respray to try and disguise my ham fisted attempt at installing an engine. Once the engine and frame were mated together the rest of the work would be a walk in the park, or so I thought.

Now look, you have to allow me a few mistakes. This was my first attempt at building a bike after all and I was still rather green in the art of customizing. Actually, that is not entirely correct; my first attempt at customizing was a Mini 850 which went so badly wrong I won’t even mention it here. The less said about that the better. Once the Honda had been re-assembled and all the shiny new bits bolted on it was time for the maiden voyage, quite an expensive maiden voyage, unfortunately. I am laying my soul bare on these pages. You are seeing all the mistakes and blunders and I am making no attempt at a cover up so please, have a little sympathy for my stupid clumsiness. I thought it would be a simple task to bolt the brown chopper seat on to the bike. One bolt at the front and one bolt at the rear. What I hadn’t taken into consideration was the M6 rear mounting bolt protruding through the rear mudguard by half an inch….towards the tyre! This in itself posed little or no problem, until you hit a bump in the road and the bolt turned itself into a makeshift tyre tread cutter carving an extra line in the surface of the tyre. It was a brand new tyre and had to be consigned to the bin after the maiden voyage to be replaced with another and this time the bolt was turned the other way round. I’m afraid that wasn’t the only time the rear tyre was to prove problematic. On a bright and sunny Sunday morning, Catherine and I set off on the chop to visit Bridlington and had only managed to travel ten miles through the leafy Yorkshire Wolds to North Dalton when the bike started to handle even more erratic than it normally did. As sure as hell, I looked around and the rear tyre was gasping its last dying breath. Bearing in mind these were the days before mobile phones and even if I had a phone I had no idea who to ring but a good Samaritan in the form of a local builder came to the rescue with his van and gave us both and the bike a much needed lift home. To this day I still have an old black and white photograph of Catherine sat on the bike with a face like thunder. Can’t understand why? On no less than three other trips to the seaside did that bloody bike attract a rogue nail or thorn bush. You just can’t get that Peter Fonda ‘Easy Rider’ look with a rear tyre that’s trying to spit it’s innards out.

It’s rather pleasing to see that just the past few years that particular style of chopper has made another appearance and it seems everyone these days wants a ‘proper chopper’. Even if I say so myself it did look the part and was a great stepping stone to get into the world of custom motorcycles. However having said that after some time I was beginning to become restless and bored with the bike, also the regularity of the punctures was starting to unnerve me somewhat. A new steed was called for. In between frantically searching the pages of Motorcycle News for a new ride I did manage to happen upon a tired looking Honda CG125 which was the perfect bike for Catherine to learn on. I spent six weeks cleaning, painting, and swearing where necessary to get the machine roadworthy. It passed the MOT first time and Catherine and I would head up to the airfield for a spot of rider training. This would be a short lived exercise and I would find myself getting irritable and bored with watching her ride up and down the runways. She was just getting the hang of it and then someone said that magic phrase, “how much for the bike mate?” and that was it. Sold to the highest bidder. It was only a matter of time before Catherine realised that she was no longer a motorcyclist in practice. In theory, she was but she was now without anything to put that theory into practice. It wasn’t until she came round to my workshop and saw a space where the CG once lived and immediately inquired as to its whereabouts. I pulled one of those innocent, gormless ‘don’t ask me’ faces but failed to impress her. Sorry, I sold it. You can only imagine the dressing down I got for that snide, underhand, and thoughtless trick (her description, not mine). To this day I am still regularly reminded of the CG that never really was. The search was on for a replacement for the Honda chopper along with a suitable 125cc for the hugely disappointed fiancée. Catherine and I used to attend the drag racing meet at New York Raceway near Melbourne, a small village in East Yorkshire and it was there where we would spend many a happy, sunny Sunday afternoon watching the likes of Pip Higham put his high performance modified bike through its paces. It was also where I hung a sad, forlorn ‘for sale’ sign on the Honda chop. I had never expected to receive any inquiries but thought I would try my luck. I was rather taken aback when I returned to the bike to find a lad waiting for me to put across a proposition. He was the owner of a tidy looking Suzuki GS750 in standard trim and would be willing to do a straight swap for the Honda. I quite fancied a Suzuki so agreed to the deal. The only problem was that the Suzuki was at his house back over in Altrincham near Manchester. Bugger! I thought, but after all, it was a clear sunny day

Page 21 The Motorcycle Undertaker and the ride out would be a hoot, wouldn’t it? The ride there was exhilarating and a pleasure. The ride back was a total nightmare. Incidentally, the guy who I did the deal with was one of a bunch of friends who put together a new magazine for bikers. He was excited about it as his other bike was to be featured in the first issue. When I went over I met them all and we had a few beers together and some of those daft cigarettes. The magazine he was talking about was Back Street Heroes and hit the shelves about a month later and the rest as they say is history. I left Cheshire at 11 pm heading home and was trundling along nicely on the GS750 through the centre of Leeds on the motorway and then I felt it. That familiar feeling of the rear end wishing to overtake the front end and everything going all ‘squidgy’. “Oh no not another one” I shouted to myself, I had only covered forty miles on the GS and here it was, my first puncture in the centre of Leeds on a Sunday night. I had now become convinced that punctures are an extension of one’s mind. You keep an array of puncture related episodes in your brain permanently and every now and again one leaks out to whatever mode of transport you might be using at the time, in this case, a Suzuki at Midnight in Leeds. I limped as slow as I could to try and get off the motorway and then the Police appeared “what’s up” he shouted through the passenger window as he sidled up alongside me. I resisted the temptation to say “just out collecting brambles to knit a cardigan with” though I suspect that had Catherine been with me she would have said that along with 14 assorted swear words! “Puncture mate” I replied safely and he said “follow me” he put on his blue light and escorted me at a steady fifteen mph to Millgarth Police Station in Leeds city centre. Once there, he escorted me to the desk sergeant where I fully expected to be charged with a wide range of offences ranging from no road tax to thinking impure thoughts about those girls in black leather skirts with legs up to their armpits hanging around the streets. What happened next simply shocked me to the core, “Ere Sarge, just let this lad sleep on the seats here until morning so he can get his bike fixed”, and that’s exactly what I did. I slept across three uncomfortable metal seats in the foyer of the Police Station and in the morning took the wheel out of the bike and unbelievably just around the corner was a tyre repair shop. I have never forgotten the kindness shown to me by that Police Officer and never got to thank him personally but he was a lifesaver. And yes I am going to say it…” it wouldn’t happen like that nowadays”. I wish I could relate some interesting and mind blowing stories regarding the GS but I’m afraid it turned out to be quite nondescript. I would go as far as to say quite boring in fact. I used it every day for work and play and aside from the initial puncture; it performed exactly how a GS750 should perform. It could perhaps have been rather mundane because of the Honda, I was unfamiliar with the concept of going on a journey with the chopper and not having to stop every few miles to either a. Pick up an assortment of parts that lay in the road or hedge bottom or b. Stop every few hundred yards to re-tighten something that was threatening to throw itself from the bike to the middle of the road or hedge bottom.

Page 22 The Motorcycle Undertaker

CHAPTER 4 More Choppers I kept hold of the 750 for around a year or so then upgraded to an equally uneventful stint on a black, near mint Suzuki GS100ET purchased privately from a chap in Idle Bradford, that’s Idle the village not a description of the work ethics of folks living in Bradford. It was a stunning bike and once catapulted me from the centre of Doncaster to the Station Hotel in Pocklington in just thirty five hair raising minutes. Just in time for the last pint before 3 pm closing time. Although nothing of significance befell the GS1000, it was whilst I had this that I suffered the second, minor motorcycle accident. Well, not exactly a full blown motorcycle accident but a moped calamity. I used to visit my dear Mother every Friday evening for a chat and cup of tea and if she was in a good mood a piece of sweet Victoria sponge cake. One Friday evening I was due to set off on the swift journey of three miles to visit and found that the Suzuki was parked right at the back of the garage but Catherine had left her Honda Caren moped just outside the door. In a fit of laziness, I just shouted to her “I’m just borrowing your moped to visit Mother”. I climbed aboard the Honda and sped off, no of course I never sped off but putt putted at a mere 30mph. As I approached the first junction I could see a car waiting to turn into the traffic from a side road. Unfortunately for me and the Honda Caren, he chose to emerge from the side road the very instant I was passing therefore hitting me side on catapulting myself and the moped over to the other side of the main road. This in itself was a bad enough experience but then as I landed I hit the edge of the kerbstones with my back. The pain was legendary; it felt as if I had been snapped in half. I vaguely recall gibbering to the crowd that had swept down from nowhere that I could not feel my back. An ambulance was on its way and I lay there looking at all the helpful faces thinking that had I taken the Suzuki this wouldn’t have happened, simply because I would have been travelling much faster, therefore, would have avoided ever seeing the murderous vehicle. As the medics scooped me up from the road and a special stretcher I glanced over to the heap of twisted metal and plastic that was once a Honda Caren and my first thoughts were “She’s going to kill me for this”. She didn’t and after a short spell in hospital, I was diagnosed with a badly bruised back and a huge dent in my pride. These days when I hear friends relating tales of derring-do regarding high speed antics on their high powered bikes I slowly slink away to a corner and keep very quiet about my brush with death….on a moped

Nothing unusual ever befell the GS, there are no stories of hell raising or silly stunts only that it (or perhaps me) used to wear through rear tyres at an alarming rate. Well, that is if you discount the tale of my cousin Simon grabbing hold of the exhaust when he was a toddler, it wouldn’t have made much of a tale ordinarily but the fact that I had just ridden the bike home from York and the pipes were red hot makes a difference. That awful smell of burning skin will haunt me for years; I surmise it will haunt Simon too. During the time I owned the GS ‘thou I came across another couple of bargains. A tatty running Triumph 350 twin, that someone had made a poor attempt at converting to a chopper, well really they hadn’t made much of an attempt, merely just hacked the frame to pieces and raked it so it looked ridiculous and out of proportion. At the same time, I bought a Kawasaki Z400 Twin sporting a lovely pair of CMA mag wheels. Bearing in mind at this time cast wheels were not quite as commonplace on the Japanese bikes and most were still fitted with the spoked variety. The wheels were probably worth more than the whole bike itself. Nonetheless, I acquired the whole bike for a very reasonable fifty quid. So the task in hand was to build a chopper using as many of the parts from the two bikes as possible. I intended to prove that you CAN build a budget bike in the garage and with only a small amount of experience can make it profitable too. Here’s what happened (at this point had this been a TV programme the screen would now go all wavy with music not dissimilar to the Twilight Zone theme tune.)

Well first of all the Triumph was stripped down to the basics and the frame tidied up which just involved dressing up the welding, re-welding certain areas then the addition of a ‘bolt-on’ hardtail. This was picked up once again at a very reasonable price at Rufforth autojumble. In fact, a considerable amount of the parts were to come from this venue. It was a relatively easy task given that my welding skills by now had improved massively. So now I had a decent looking rigid chopper frame.

Page 23 The Motorcycle Undertaker

The Triumph engine was already a worthy runner so little needed doing to it other than an overhaul of the distributor. To save on finances the wheels and the forks from the Kawasaki were grafted onto the frame this in itself was a simple job requiring only several different sized spacers making up which I managed to do at Lindricks in the lunchtime sessions. It was beginning to look something like a chopper now with those classic lines that all rigid choppers at that time had. There is something aesthetically pleasing about those lines and even today the clean angular line of a rigid rear end still does it for me. Perhaps the most striking part of the bike has to be the fuel tank. It’s what we used to term a ‘rocket’ tank. I was extremely proud of this tank because I made it at work. I first folded up two halves in steel then welded them together and cut and shaped the rest to make this wonderful looking tank. That saved me a whopping £70 which is what I was faced with paying had I not had access to the equipment at work. I was thrilled with the result and it wasn’t until I bolted the thing on that I realised I had made an error in the calculations and the tank’s capacity was a little over three quarters of a gallon of fuel. Oh, dear. I had a choice, back to the drawing board and construct a larger one or use it and hope for the best. I fell firmly in support of the latter. I also built the seat myself using the remains of an old and some offcuts of plywood. A simple but effective exercise and the results were very pleasing to the eye.

All the time this vigorous attempt at construction was going on I was also busy selling off the parts I no longer required and at one point I was actually over £100 in pocket whilst building it. I treated myself, and the bike to a brand new pair of stainless handlebars and I think that was the only item used on the chopper that was actually brand new, everything else was used. I concluded the project by manufacturing a rear mudguard bracket and fitting the mudguard and lights from the Kawasaki and there it stood, complete, all ready to roll .... So I took it to pieces! I had built it up to make sure everything fitted in its place and it ran correctly and now it was time for the paint and chrome work. I chose white for the frame and a deep metallic blue for the tank and fenders, not because I particularly like those colours it was only because I had tins of that colour paint at home in the garage. I stand by my convictions when I say that there are only two amounts of paint. Not enough or enough to paint the Forth road bridge….twice. Not enough in this case and I had to paint the wheels black due to the lack of white left curdling in the bottom of the tin. I chose to do the spraying myself at work and luckily it all came out with the bare minimum of blemishes. A week or so later it was judgment day and time to build it all back up into a finished bike once more. The result was a very clean and usable custom bike for very little money. Hard to conceive though that this bike had only cost a mere £175 having sold off the Kawasaki frame, tank, engine, etc at a profit. I just wish that I had used it on the road a little more than I did.

Within a matter of weeks of the build, I was contacted by Back Street Heroes custom bike magazine who expressed an interest in featuring the bike in their pages. How could I say no? Someone from the magazine arrived at my house and took several pictures of the bike up around the countryside where we lived at the time and interviewed me as to how it was built. I was notably excited by all this and what better advert could there be but a two-page spread in a national magazine? It had to be done, I inquired if it were possible to just drop a note in the write up that the bike is now for sale. Yes, I know what you are thinking; this bugger doesn’t miss a trick. Well, I don’t and it was a resounding success. I was contacted the very week after the article appeared (in issue 19 if you would like to view it) by a chap in Edinburgh. Would I swap the Triumph for a Kawasaki Z1000LTD? You bet your sweet boots I would. At that time the Z1100 was being advertised for £1200 so that would turn me a real tidy profit on the chop.

I was quite taken aback when he insisted on riding the Kawasaki down to me, that wasn’t a problem, it was the fact that he wanted to ride the Triumph back. Yes with a fuel tank capacity of only ¾ of a gallon it was going to be a long slow ride back. In fact, I bet he still hasn’t arrived home yet.

Now I was in possession of a very tidy example of a Z1000LTD complete with a custom painted tank. The first thing I did? Take it drag racing at Melbourne Raceway. Number B20 was my allocated identifier and I regret that I cannot remember the time I recorded that day although it was probably only marginally better than walking pace. I have never been a fast rider, more of a show-off or poser, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to open the Kawasaki up on the M62 on a return journey from one of the Kent custom bike shows. To be precise it was on the very peak of the Ouse Bridge at Howden on the M62 and as I reached a very respectable 140mph there was a loud bang accompanied by a plume of smoke that rendered the following traffic invisible. “Oh shit,” I thought and upon arrival at home after limping the bike at a steady 30mph the Kawasaki was subjected to a rigorous inspection to determine the fault.

Page 24 The Motorcycle Undertaker Apparently, cylinder number three had about as much compression as a violently punctured football so the head was lifted. There, in full view was the piston with a hole in the centre the size of a fifty pence piece. I shuddered; this was going to be expensive. I just knew it. Sure enough little change was handed over from £200 from Kawasaki for the piston, rings, and top end gasket but it was repaired and once again riding around the countryside of East Yorkshire. In fact, it was going so well...I sold it.

I’m not sure if it’s because the Suzuki/Kawasaki four-cylinder models are so reliable, or perhaps the fact that at that time nothing of any interest was happening in my life but after the last two bikes had outlived their usefulness I then invested in a smaller Suzuki GS550L. The L denotes it was the custom model with a peanut tank, stepped seat, and high handlebars. It was an impressive looking bike, quite rare in this country and very comfortable. I used it that summer to attend The Bulldog Bash in Long Marston Warwickshire. A well organised event by the Hells Angels and proved immensely popular if you enjoyed viewing hundreds of bikes, drag racing, live bands, and drinking yourself into the next world. This might be an opportunity to tell you all what happened that weekend because in the interest stakes it fares better than the GS. For starters, I needed some old rags or clothes to take with me just to keep the bike polished and looking fresh. I inadvertently took wife number one’s best black and white spotted dress from the floor of the wardrobe. How was I to know, not being very fashion savvy at the time?

Upon arrival at the rally, I immediately cracked open a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon whilst making a very feeble attempt at erecting a tent. I failed miserably. Some of the other lads had found a 45 gallon drum and pierced the sides and made an impromptu barbeque. They had foraged around for sticks and branches to fuel the drum and I thought I would contribute to the project by pouring half a gallon of petrol in it. No one else had really taken much notice of me doing this so it was a while before anyone decided to light it. One poor unfortunate soul nominated himself to light it and leaned into the drum and struck his lighter. In an instant, he was blown backward onto his rear end and a small but dense mushroom cloud, accompanied with the necessary bang emerged from the drum. The black face and lack of eyebrows said it all. It looked like it was going to be one of those weekends. As for the wife’s dress, after consuming one bottle of bourbon I then put the dress on and went staggering around the campsite posing to anyone who would show interest. Sorry folks I am wandering off again, back to the Suzuki Limited. This was purchased at a very reasonable £200 and was to be the main form of transport for the next six months.

Well, that’s not entirely the truth; while it was the main form of transport it did have a stablemate. I had managed to get my hands on a 1962 Crusader 250cc. I acquired this from a guy in Leeds. It was parked outside his house, maybe not parked, more like laid on its side in his front garden. I was by now working in Leeds at the time as a sales rep for a book company so I drove past the Enfield every day on my way to my patch. I took a pocketful of cash with me one day and stopped and knocked on the front door, the garden looked as though it had been a communal dump for old prams and children’s bicycles either that or the guy was a scrap dealer! I managed to weasel the Enfield from him for a bargain price of £80 but I was probably taking my life into my own hands trying to get the bloody thing out. Even worse was trying to shoehorn the damned thing into the rear of an immaculate Austin Maestro. Fortunately for me and any prospective hernia problems, the man insisted on helping me lift it into the Maestro. My thoughts at the time were that he was just a little too keen to help dispose of it.

What had I let myself in for? It was impossible to shut the hatch on the car and the Enfield insisted on emptying the contents of its stomach all over the seats. By the time I landed home the rear of the car looked and smelt like a small oil refinery. I’m a little sad that I haven’t, in my possession, any clear concise photos of this wonderful machine. I do have one photograph but it’s very ‘grainy’ and you cannot make out too much of the detail such as the vacuum cleaner exhaust and other home built modifications. Some bright spark in the past had connected a length of Hoover pipe to the downpipes and finished it off with the addition of a Morris Marina silencer. I am quite certain that one of the previous owners had tried to make the Enfield into a trials bike. An off-road front mudguard lifted high above the front wheel gave it away along with the trials type handlebars and the high rise exhaust.

It looked a little weird, to say the least, and yet again by today’s standards it would be quite sought after. Sunday mornings became quite a ritual for the Enfield and me. We would set off from Pocklington at 9 a.m for

Page 25 The Motorcycle Undertaker a leisurely ride to the large sprawling market at Hazelbush adjacent to the A64 Leeds to Scarborough road. It was a slow process as the top speed of the bike rarely touched 60mph and when it did it was closely followed by a sudden slowing down and a heat seizure. It was always in the same place and I could be found with amazing regularity on the same stretch of road smoking a cigarette waiting for the engine to cool so I was able to continue my trek to the market. The return journey was no different aside from the actual point the heat seizure occurred changed so once again a leisurely stint on a fence smoking a cigarette was the norm. I never did get to the bottom of the heat seizures, mainly because yet again the bike was passed on to a new owner. I did make a profit again and at this point thought that selling these bikes was proving to be rather lucrative. However, it was to be a few years yet before I realised that particular dream. For now, I had to be content with just buying the odd bike to tinker around within the garden shed.

The garden shed was soon to be dismantled and burnt on a bonfire the size of France in our back garden. Yes as unbelievable as it may seem Catherine and I decided to take the plunge and buy our own house together. The obvious criteria for fulfilling our search for a house were the size of the garage and rear garden and an amply sized house was purchased at Chapel Hill in Pocklington. It was a very large property indeed. Three bedrooms and a garden half the size of a football pitch was a deciding factor. The garage was a modest one car size but more than enough for me to fill with Snap Off tools and the accumulated junk and debris from Barmby Moor. There followed a pretty swift accumulation of motorcycles soon after moving in. At one point they had to live in the rear garden because I had used every last available space in the garage. The most notable of these bikes were the Triumph Bonneville that I took as part payment for the Z1000LTD. This was a standard UK spec bike that belonged to a very good friend of mine (though he would never openly admit it) by the name of Geordie. We made the arrangement in the car park of York’s most famous biker pub, The Grobs, one Saturday afternoon. The deal was Geordie would take the Kawasaki and give me the Triumph now and a certain amount of cash at a later date. As collateral, he handed me the gearbox from his Harley. Fair enough I thought, if he failed to raise the rest of the cash then I became the owner of a gearbox worth at least five hundred quid. I secretly kept hoping and praying that he would forget about the money and gearbox then I could sell it on for a hefty profit. Damn it, he came through on the deal and paid the cash so the gearbox was retrieved from its resting place under the marital bed in our house and returned to its rightful owner. I have to be very careful what I say about this man as I remember in the dark distant past being at a biker rally and calling him a Rottweiler and his retort to that was to bite halfway through my ear. In any case, I was now the proud owner of a Triumph T140V and jolly well pleased I was too.

It ran like a dream and my only disappointment with it was the UK spec fuel tank. The Bonneville’s always look more streamlined and a little sportier with the US spec ‘peanut’ tank fitted. So I lost very little time in searching out a US spec tank in bare metal so it was just a case of a quick prep and a respray.

I had manufactured side panels for the bike from stainless steel at work (I had by now changed occupation yet again and was dabbling with automatic pig feeding systems at Pigrigs Farm Equipment based on Pocklington Airfield) and they looked much better than the original fibreglass ones. I chose to spray the tank and panels in a crisp, bright blue. Simply because there was half a tin of it lying around at Pigrigs. Another successful paint job undertaken by me, myself and I and I was more than happy with the results. Of course, being the skinflint that I am, I only spent £100 on the Triumph all the time I owned it. A pair of straight through ‘drag pipes’ were found once again at Rufforth jumble along with a pair of Kawasaki Z250 seven spoke alloy wheels. Ah yes, the wheels, well there is a story about the wheels. I came home from the jumble on the bike with the wheels fastened securely on my back, a tad uncomfortable, and drew quite a few disapproving looks, especially from the local constabulary who pulled me over to the side of the road just outside York. Of course, the weight of the wheels on my back was constantly pulling at me so every time I took my hands from the handlebars I would fall backward and it took several attempts to retrieve my licence and insurance from my inner pockets. My paperwork for the bike was subjected to the usual inspection and found to be all in order and I suspect he had never previously been confronted with a rider with two Kawasaki wheels fastened to his back because his reaction was “I presume you don’t own a car.” His presumption was correct and at that time I didn’t own a car…..I owned an Austin Maestro 1.3L. A very peculiar vehicle that was trying its hardest to become a car, but failing miserably. Now at that time, there was a company by the name of Lester that manufactured alloy wheels for the Triumph and they were priced at a hefty £120 for the pair and they were identical to the Kawasaki wheels that I had bungeed to my back. I paid only twenty pounds for the pair so I was very proud and pleased with my purchase. The rear wheel slotted

Page 26 The Motorcycle Undertaker straight in and you would have sworn it was the standard Bonnie issue because it was so easy to fit. The front was a different matter altogether. It is at this point that I feel I must apologise profusely to the next owner of this bike or perhaps an owner a little further down the line for the inability to change the discs or wheel bearings. You see the wheel fitted into the bike just fine but the front brake disc was in the wrong position so I manufactured a spacer which was, in layman’s terms like a giant Polo mint. In this ring were eight holes, four that fastened the ring to the wheel and four that located the disc. Unfortunately for the following owners, to fasten the ring to the wheel I lay the ring in position, then screwed in for bolts, cut the heads off, and welded the threads to the ring thus fastening the ring to the wheel permanently and the only way to remove this would be with hefty use of cutting gear and a grinder. In doing this I had also blocked access to the wheel bearings. Yes I know I could have completed the task in other ways but I was eager, way too enthusiastic and I wanted to show my new wheel off to all and sundry. In any case, the bike looked superb and served me well for quite some time to come.

Over the next couple of years, there was a succession of weird and wonderful motorcycles that appeared in the garage at 12 Chapel Hill Road. The majority of which were simply ways of supplementing my income from the engineering company. A Yamaha RD350LC, a Triumph 3TA chopper with springer forks that were five feet long, and a Suzuki TS125ER amongst others but the most remarkable of these was the red Honda CB900F Moto Martin. I bought this from my dear friend Flynn who was pretty well known in our local area for having exotic bikes such as this. In those days the bike to be seen on was the Harris Magnum but alas I only earned a pauper’s wage and a Magnum was well and truly beyond my reach but a close second best was a Moto Martin so I blagged this from Flynn at a knockdown price (nothing new there I hear you cry). It had a nickel plated frame and and sported Brembo discs and brakes along with CMA compomotive mag alloy wheels but perhaps the most striking feature of this bike was the deep candy red paintwork. It was professionally done and was beautifully finished. Everywhere the bike was parked at a standstill, be it a day trip to Bridlington to pose along the seafront or to any of the countless motorcycle rallies many people complimented me on the striking paintwork and I didn’t even paint it. So to say I was a little overprotective with the bike would be an understatement. No matter how protective I was though I could not have foreseen the events that unfolded in the rear yard of the Black Bull pub one Saturday afternoon.

I had parked the bike in one of the parking bays and headed into the pub for a beer. Only a matter of minutes later when a member of staff from the pub had completed her shift and was heading home in her car she inadvertently chose to reverse her car into the bay where the Martin was parked and succeeded in knocking it over. The poor girl then had the unenviable task of informing me of her predicament. Her face was a brighter shade of white when she explained that she hadn’t checked her mirror and reversed into the bike. I rushed outside to assess the damage and a cracked screen and a scrape on the fairing was the only visible damage. In the great scheme of things, it could have been a lot worse and at least she offered to pay for the damage writing a cheque for a hundred pounds out on the spot. I never did repaint the scratch on the fairing and at one point I was tempted to give up searching for a screen to fit the fairing. There wasn’t one to be had anywhere. I tried all the local shops and even put a small ad in MCN in a last-ditch attempt at sourcing one. All attempts were in vain however success came a few months later when I was standing in a motorcycle shop near Bradford and hung up above the counter was a brand new unidentified screen in black ``.

The young lad behind the counter had no idea what it was for, apparently, it had been hung up there for years and no one had a clue what it was for. “So how much is it, considering that it’s an unknown quantity?” I inquired. If I was willing to take the bloody thing away he would let me have it for a fiver. I studied the screen in great detail and if it didn’t fit then it was going to be a close call so I gambled a fiver on it. Now I bet you are just dying to know whether it’s a yea or nay, well, I eventually got home and offered the screen up to the Martin and…..hey presto, every single hole lined up and it was a perfect fit.

I travelled all over the place on that bike but the riding position was not particularly to my liking and on long runs, it became uncomfortable so eventually, it was sold along with the XV750 chopper that had taken up residence in the garage, to fund the next major project which was my very own motorcycle shop. I think with the sale of both bikes I had bagged myself three thousand pounds to use as capital for the new business. I was on the verge of making one of the most important decisions in my life. Do I stay in comfortable, gainful employment? Or do I throw myself from the cliff edge and go it alone? Read on to find the answer.

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CHAPTER 5 A Fresh Start So there I stood one Monday morning in the damp cold workshop of Priory Engineering surrounded by slabs of heavy frozen steel. It was drab and dreary, to say the least, in fact I would have likened it to Hell but lacking the warm glowing flames. I was faced with the prospect of manufacturing another 12 chemical safes which would take two weeks of my life to produce. I could do this blindfolded now; I did try once but kept wasting too much steel. Then I suddenly realised this was not for me. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my working life doing something I wasn’t interested in. Added to my displeasure was the fact that the boss used to drive around in a Mercedes and I used my Yamaha Virago chopper for a steed. I was becoming resentful that I appeared to be running the business whilst my employer reaped all the benefits. Not that I minded using that bike, I had built the chopper from the frame upwards over the previous 18 months. It started life as they all do as a standard motorcycle just as the factory intended. It was a 1981 Yamaha XV750SE to be precise and pedantic about it. First things first, I stripped the bike down to its bare essentials with the engine and carbs just sat on the workbench, leaving me with ample room around it to start and manufacture the frame, by this time I had acquired a hydraulic pipe bender with a dodgy seal. It just meant that I had to refill the damned thing with oil after every bend and it did a fine job of waterproofing the garage floor. Piece by piece I bent the tubes into the correct shape and when it was all sat looking pretty and frame shaped I took it all apart and welded it all solid. I used the engine as a stressed part of the frame and when finished it looked completely uncluttered and refined. It was a shaft drive so various modifications were undertaken to make sure it was all in line. I must have had some real inspiration from somewhere in those days as I can distinctly recall spending almost every evening in the garage at Chapel Hill until well after midnight. The end result was definitely worth the hard work, grazed knuckles, and welding burns.

Once I had the basic bike sat on its wheels I went to town on the rest of it. It was non-stop with the pipe bender and I must have got through five gallons of hydraulic oil by the time I had finished. I hand made the exhausts, side panels, sissy bar, and forward controls too. I fitted an SU carburettor from a Hillman Hunter to it and treated it to a Mustang petrol tank. The paintwork was typical of its era namely gloss black from a Halfords aerosol can but it worked and the bike drew attention whenever it was on display. I have lost count of just how many times admirers have sidled over and whispered “what model Harley is that one then?” I could never be bothered to explain that it wasn’t a Harley but one of those nasty ‘orrible Japanese machines or Jap Crap as the US motorcycle press used to label them. “It’s a 1932 Flatster” I would lie, “very rare in this country”. I didn’t help anyone to identify it due to the fact I had glued Harley Davidson badges on the engine crankcases so it did really resemble an American V twin! In any case, the chopper was soon to be sold to raise the capital I needed to start the business.

I wanted the bright lights and big motor cars, the girls, the fun, the money but above all I wanted to play with motorcycles. So with a flick of the wrist and my notice firmly handed in I set off into the big wild yonder to worry and panic and try to run in several directions at once howling “what have I done?” In reality, I had made the best business decision of my life so far, that is if you don’t count the time I decided to sell an Austin Mini 850 only weeks before the rear end decided to part with the rest of the car.

Off I went in search of premises, now bear in mind this is a long haired scruffy biker looking for premises to rent, not some slick suited up and coming business type with a brown faux leather attaché case and bad breath. Sure enough, every company I contacted seemed enthusiastic in accommodating me until I turned up at their offices and quite oddly the buildings had just been let. Most of the time I didn’t get past the phrase repairing motorcycles and the looks on the faces of the estate agent said it all. Sheer terror at the word motorcycle, I may as well have offered to anally intrude his wife whilst strangling their pet cat with my spare hand. After trying at least four companies and all offering the same brick wall I chanced upon Mr. Seaborn. Hmmm… not sure about this as Mr. Seaborn was the local magistrate and had seen me on one occasion previously which I won’t go into here, nothing serious of course, no armed robbery or embezzling millions from Empire Stores mail-order catalogue but merely using one tax disc to cover 3 motorcycles. Ask me nicely

Page 28 The Motorcycle Undertaker and I may or may not reveal all somewhere in this book. However, the nice Mr. Seaborn was a bigger fan of money rather than the person presenting it and was able to offer me a small workshop for a very reasonable rent. I do thank him from the heart of my bottom for this and for giving me a chance to hand over my money where all the others refused. It was always something of a love/hate relationship with ‘Dick’, in as much as he loved to call on the first of the month for the rent and I hated it. I have to admit though he did look at me in a strange way when I first met him at the unit that was to become my shop for the first time. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before” he quipped, “ I think that was my brother you must have seen Mr. Seaborn”. I don’t think for one minute he believed me.

That meeting at the unit was legendary in my book. He showed me around the place, which was an old World War two barracks type affair on Pocklington Industrial Estate which I knew well as I had spent most of my working life on that estate. I can probably fill another book with all the stories from some of the other businesses I worked at from the age of 12. Size wise I would put the building at the length of one and a half double-decker buses and the width of four Honda Vision scooters. Height Wise it would be approximately two Honda CB750F2’s stood on end. The building was divided into a fairly large workshop with two large double doors, a very small office, and sink, entranceway and a large plush office at the rear with a beautiful mahogany desk and leather swivel chair with an ‘en suite’ bathroom that Dick instructed were to be ‘off limits’.

Under no circumstances was this office to be used, it wasn’t part of the rental agreement. The problem with that was that there was no lock on the door and when anyone says to me “you can’t use that” or “you are not allowed to do that” then a switch goes off in a dark corner of my brain that miraculously alter the phrases to “ you CAN do that” or you ARE allowed to do that”. That rather large office desk lent itself to one particular use which modesty prevents me from revealing all here, on three separate occasions and with three different ladies too if I remember rightly. More of that later though, the actual workspace could accommodate 12 motorcycles in comfort and my tiny office was ample enough for me to have a swivel seat of my own with a telephone and that’s pretty much it. Every now and then I would skulk off into the back office and sit in ‘his’ swivel chair and put my feet on the table and light up the biggest cigar and in any number of ridiculous voices would utter the phrase “Now look here Seaborn we on the board have decided your work is not up to the standards of this fast growing multinational corporation and added to that everyone thinks you are a wanker, so you are fired, Sonny Jim”. This was all well and good until the day I was doing it and giggling and laughing to myself and I looked up at the window to see Dick himself looking at me with a face fast turning to the colour of damson plum. The bollocking I received was reminiscent of the time at school when Mr. Glew gave me a severe dressing down for farting in history class, I think it was spattered with words such as ‘animal’ ‘filthy pig’ and ‘disgraceful’.

You would expect at this point for me to state that I never darkened the door of Mr. S’s office ever again but alas no, I was in and out of the place all the time. I found his ‘en suite’ particularly useful for washing motorcycle engines. So much so in fact that the walls soon took on a distinct oily black hue. Beyond the office and with no access from the inside was the small toilet block which consisted of three urinals, two washbasins, and a traditional sit-down bog, and next to that cubicle was another room which I eventually filled up with petrol tanks. This toilet block will feature quite often in this book in various different chapters notably for its truly disgusting state and various episodes that were to occur within its walls.

So that was the basic layout of the shop apart from it having a large concrete area out at the front and I was instructed to keep this tidy at all times, oh dear I could see what was afoot already. So now I had my building, I had a telephone line installed all I needed was a sign for the front. Considering I was rather short on the cash flow I didn’t have a large budget for the shop sign, in fact, I was rather fortunate in having a good friend who was the local bobby and a motorcycle fan too. Nigel used to pop in from time to time for a chat about bikes and life in general and I just happened to mention what a poor hard working cash strapped individual I was and luckily he knew someone who would paint me a sign for the front of the establishment for a very reasonable rate. “Go on then how much? “I expected a figure of at least twenty pounds so when he replied that a bar of Cadbury’s finest chocolate would suffice then I almost bit his arm off, see what I did there? Cadbury’s, bite, and chocolate all in the same sentence! Nigel’s wife at the time made a beautiful job of the sign and it was to hang above the entrance to the pit that was known globally as Kevin Keld Motorcycles for many years to come. Between the building and the wire fence surrounding the compound was a space of roughly four feet. That gap would prove very useful in the coming years to throw all manner of junk and rubbish.

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At the other end of the building was an ex-military lookout tower housing a large sodium lamp. It must have been forty feet high with a ladder running the full length. I made a mental note for future reference. I could foresee many adventures and high jinks involving this apparatus. In fact whilst I am on the subject, I may as well reveal some of the antics involving this tower. The first thing to expire was the light, it was destined to be destroyed, a sitting duck if there ever was one. On one of the many afternoons that the shop was empty I got bored so out came the trusty .22 rifle and as I was fast tiring of shooting the entire rabbit population of the industrial estate my attention turned towards the lamp. I started at the far side of the yard just to test the water so to speak; surely I could hit the post at least. After a dozen or so shots making the pole ‘ping’ I once again became fed up with this so moved the sights up to the exposed lamp. The first shot just deflected off the outer glass so I steadily moved closer until the inevitable happened. A perfect shot and the shattering of glass and I could see the outer glass combined with the bulb itself heading down to Earth. I hadn’t realised glass landing from a height of forty feet could make so much noise. It landed with an almighty crash and even before it had hit the floor I was heading for my workshop door. As expected a crowd gathered from the immediate local businesses and not to be outdone I too appeared to come rushing out of my sanctuary. Everyone stood around the impact zone staring intently at the broken glass on the floor and it was mutually agreed that since the lamp had been up there since World War Two its demise was probably long overdue anyway and it was put down to old age.

I even contributed to the conversation adding that it had served the community well. So that was the building sorted. The telephone was installed. I had myself a swivel seat and a toolbox. Now all I needed was some motorcycles and customers to complete the equation. Some kind of finance wouldn’t go amiss either. I was very lucky in the fact that my dear wife at the time Catherine worked at the local prison so had the power to keep us afloat with our mortgage and the other usual domestic outgoings just until I found my feet with the shop. It was the 80’s, well it was Thatcher’s 80’s and as much as folks call that woman from a cat to a dog she did me one hell of a favour. She introduced the Enterprise Allowance Scheme which I immediately signed up for and it was a mine of information, practical courses, and all kinds of assistance for would be Richard Branson’s. On top of that, I was allowed £160 per month tax-free until a period of twelve months had elapsed so it was a mighty fine springboard for the fledgling business. To receive the allowance I was required to attend various informative lectures. I was quite happy to do this as it wasn’t as if I had hordes of customers beating my door down armed with fistfuls of cash.

At the first meeting, it was reminiscent of an Alcoholics Anonymous class where each person had to stand and tell the other, mostly uninterested, classmates what business you had chosen and how you planned to put your plan into action. As usual, I expected to be viewed upon as someone with the popularity of someone who molests cats. However this time the surrounding people who were still awake seemed rather impressed by my plans of world domination via the motorcycle. After hearing some of the other ideas I soon realised I hardly had any competition. The guy who wanted to open a school to train astronauts for NASA based down Tang Hall Lane in York was a non-starter I fear. As was the girl who thought there would be a market in the wider area for a house of ill repute, obviously masquerading under the title of French Massages for the Masses. By comparison, repairing and the sales of motorcycles seemed pretty tame. So now I had the building, the telephone, and the money in place.

The next item on the shopping list was transport to collect the bikes. I was on a budget so a brand new Transit van was out of the question so I scoured the Auto Trader magazine in the bargain basement section and came up with…….A four year old FSO pickup complete with fibreglass top. I think I was actually paid to take it away, no that’s not true but it was cheap. It was cheap in every respect. Built in Poland it was typical of the tripe that flooded the UK at that time but the main priority was that it would transport motorcycles from A to B without the need to go for repairs in C. It did that magnificently too; I was pleasantly surprised at its reliability and sturdiness. I was less than impressed with the driver’s side window which would wait for extremely cold weather then all of a sudden drop to the bottom of the door and no amount of winding the handle or swearing would get it to roll back up again. In a similar vein, the window at the first sign of a hot day would flatly refuse to move so I would be trapped inside the cab gasping for fresh air.

The little FSO served its purpose and proved to be a valuable asset in the early days and could be frequently seen in the country lanes of East Yorkshire plodding along at 30mph with at least 5 scrap motorcycles stacked up on the back. The tally so far then is premises 1, transport 1, finance 1, motorcycles

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0. All I needed was a motorsickle. It wasn’t long before I was lumbered with a Suzuki TS250ER which was bent beyond all recognition. I must have had a blindfold on when I was sold that one. I bought it from some travellers doing the rounds on the industrial estate. Surprisingly it did have the V5 which was at least some kind of recompense because the rest of it was wrecked beyond belief. It was only when I had dragged it kicking and screaming into the workshop that I realised how bad it was. I had to drag it because the wheels were so bent they were not even circular. The forks were snapped, the seat was missing and the tank had a large hole in the side. The engine was leaking oil from a gaping hole in the crankcases and left a neat trail all across the yard and into the workshop. The frame was bent and the lights were smashed but other than that it was ok and I had this misguided notion that I could possibly rebuild it and sell it. Ah well, I thought at least I can break it for spares, and to the best of my knowledge, I never sold a single part from it because for some odd reason they only ever required crankcase, wheels, seats, or frames. I would get the odd phone call years later saying “do you have a petrol tank for a Suzuki TS250ER” and I would reply “let me have a look” knowing full well that the tank I did have had a hole of similar dimensions to the one in the Titanic. “Yes mate, but it does have a slight hole in it, you can have it cheap” It was always the same question that followed, asking how big the hole was. “Well mate, you can just get your fist in it”, click brrrrrr the line went dead. I did once sell the handlebar clamp from it though for a pound. Shame seeing as it cost me fifty quid in the first place.

The days were long and boring, I used to sit looking at the phone just willing it to ring with work. I busied myself for the majority of one day trying to clean up the oil slick in the yard and across the workshop floor. Then out of the blue, the phone rang with an offer of not one but a small garage full of bikes for sale. This sounds more like it I thought, my mistake was believing that they were motorcycles, they were in fact mopeds. Ten of them in all, five Suzuki FZ50,s and the rest were a mix of Honda C50’s and Honda Melodies. I would have preferred something a little more exciting than that but hey ho I needed the work. So without delay, it was into the Batcave and I emerged tyres screeching from behind a small road sign two miles down the A1079 in the trusty FSO wearing my best ever inane grin. Sorry once again I have to confess that’s a lie but I was driving the FSO and it eventually became my trusty pal. It took two journeys to Haxby to ferry back all the mopeds and at last, it was beginning to resemble a motorcycle workshop with bits of moped all over the place. I did manage two complete running mopeds out of the Suzuki’s and sold them and used the rest for spares. That’s it I was up and running even if it was mopeds at least I was now the proprietor of my very own motorcycle business. I felt as proud as punch because after all, it was quite a step to throw away a good manager’s role in an engineering company to go it alone.

This was the beginning of a beautiful and rewarding relationship with a whole horde of varied customers and sometimes unbelievable escapades. Those few mopeds were the first in what I estimated to be two thousand bikes that passed through my hands. Some were kept in my own private collection, some were broken for spares never to resurface or see the open road again and quite a modest number were sold on to new loving and caring owners. Amazingly even given that over fifteen years have passed since the shop was at its prime I still have people recognise me and often say “hey aren’t you the guy that had that motorbike scrapyard on the airfield at Pocklington”, yes I am of course and it wasn’t a scrapyard. That used to infuriate me. I used to dismantle bikes and sell spares, not old washing machines and metal fencing. I wasn’t a ‘scrap’ dealer, I was a purveyor of quality used motorcycle spares to the discerning biker, or that was my posh title.

Right then folks I have dragged you all through the trials and tribulations of my personal association with motorcycles now it’s on to the start of the business side of the story, hopefully without losing too many of you along the way. Now I hope to direct you, in a similar vein to the way Indiana Jones fends off the baddies, to the end of the tale by way of mountains of motorcycles, rallies and events, staff, and the amazing group of individual customers without who this book would be even more tedious than it is. I will spill the beans on all the ridiculous antics that have taken place within the umbrella of Kevin Keld Motorcycles over the past thirty or so years. As I sit and write these stories the world is a frightening place. It seems that no one can escape the ravages of the dreaded Covid-19 or Coronavirus to give it its common term. Countries are closed for business and whole communities are isolated. Things are indeed strange, to say the least. Through this book, I hope that some folks in adverse circumstances can at least be allowed a moment of light relief. Keep the world spinning by laughter has been a motto of mine for as long as I can remember and I can but hope that I successfully manage to put that into practice in these hard times. So come one, let’s go and have a look through the round window at….In no particular order, the bikes.

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CHAPTER 6 The Stars of the Show - The Bikes As previously stated, this section is in no particular order. This is simply because I can hardly remember the order; in fact, I sometimes find it hard to remember any kind of detail relating to my years in the biz. I wish I could say that it was down to mind altering substances or an endless succession of wild parties but I am afraid not. It’s solely down to my age as in I am getting on a bit and have become somewhat forgetful. At times this absent-mindedness can be quite selective as in when it’s called upon to furnish fellow drinkers with more ale I quite often forget where my wallet has gone. Not all bikes have a story to tell, some simply just came and went without leaving a trace but others had a whole story to tell. I will endeavour to put some kind of timescale on it but it will be mostly guesswork. Treat it as though this is one of those dreadful Dungeons and Dragons books of the ’80s that allowed you to choose different paths for the main characters therefore telling several different stories at once. I did try my best but more often than not I got mildly irritated with the books and usually threw them on the fire. This book writing malarkey is rather different from the videos that I make in that I can just shout my instructions and you will all know what I mean. Some things lend themselves better to the screen rather than the written page. For example, I am surmising that a substantial amount of the readership of this book will be around my age, therefore they will probably remember the TV programme ‘Bullseye@ with Jim Bowen. Now in that programme was the finale where the players had to throw nine darts to win prizes. You may also recall a certain Tony Green standing at the side of the prize winning dartboard describing the prizes in each number. There were nine darts and nine prizes and each time he detailed the prize (usually a fondue set or a cordless telephone the size of a small dog) he would shout iiiiiiinnnnnn one or iiiiiiiiinnnnn two all the way through the much sought after prizes. This is where my problem lies, I can easily shout “iiiiiiiiiinnnnnnn one” but the written word just does not have the same effect and I wanted to use it at the beginning of this chapter for the bikes. So please bear with me and indulge me a little while I shout (in my best Tony Green voice) “iiiiiiiiiinnnnnnn one”

The Honda CX500 trike This is a special three wheeler that is most certainly not close to my heart as it almost succeeded in flinging me from this mortal coil. Seriously, the blasted thing almost killed me and it wasn’t even up and running at the time of the attack. I believe that this trike was a long lost cousin of Stephen King’s possessed vehicle Christine. I think you could perhaps call it retribution for the way that it fell into my hands. You never know it could have been possessed by an old evil biker spirit in its past life. I’m confident a movie could be squeezed out of this one or at very least a YouTube production. Perhaps a Netflix two part drama, sponsored by Honda. Unfortunately, the trike itself could no longer be cast as the lead role as it has passed through a succession of owners and moved its way down the country. I really must check to see if the owners are still living to tell the tale, after all, it is not beyond the realms of possibility that the sodding thing has managed to murder all those who get a tad too close and personal to it.

It all began one morning in April, I recall it was around Springtime as at first, I was adamant that it was a complex April Fool’s prank devised by my staff to make a total buffoon out of me which they quite often succeeded in doing. I had a phone call from a lady over near Elvington, a satellite village just out of York. The call was taken by myself and went as follows; most incoming calls went through the same dialogue. I don’t know if it’s the way I say my name or the callers are perhaps a little deaf. Regardless I find myself continually spelling out my name. Brinnnnggg Brinnnnnggg, “Hello Kevin Keld”, then a short pause and then the caller usually struggles with the Keld part finally coaxing the response “who?”, “Kevin Keld, K-E-L-D”, “ahhhh is that the motorbike place?” At this point I refrain from shouting “FFS you must know it’s the ‘motorbike place’ because it was YOU that rang”

On this particular occasion, the lady from Elvington proceeded to tell me the life story of her son who had long since moved to sunnier climes and had left her lumbered with this ‘three wheeled motorbike’ and it was in her way and she had already cut her leg on it twice trying to get to the lawnmower in the garage.

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Personally, I would have left the lawnmower outside the shed and hidden the trike inside to avoid an altercation with it. The upshot of the call was that her son had built this Honda CX500 trike and had since joined H.M. Forcers and was currently posted overseas. She had been in contact with him and he instructed her to just dispose of it any way she could. Fed up with the leg scratching episodes she was now on the lookout for someone to rehome it. I toddled along to see her at the earliest opportunity and gave the machine a good looking over. It had been built with a reasonable amount of competence and almost everything that should work did work. It required the obligatory new battery as most bikes that have been stood for any length of time do. The paintwork was a little on the dull side but all in all, nothing that a good day in the workshop wouldn’t put right.

It was what she said next that knocked the wind out of my sails and to the best of my knowledge only ever happened once in over two thousand plus bikes purchased. “How much do you want?” she uttered, “I beg your pardon,” I said quite aghast at what I thought she had said. “How much do you want to take it away for scrap” Obviously taken aback I managed to mutter out the reply along the lines of “nothing missus I’ll dispose of it free of charge, in fact, I’ll do better I’ll pay you for it”, obviously the lady was overwhelmed by this kind gesture (after all she would be wouldn’t she? It’s not often Keldy gets his hand in his pocket!). She was almost too enthusiastic to help us load it onto the small trailer we had taken along. Trike loaded up, and with the lady paid in full and it was full steam ahead back to base, well actually down to Baul Acres where the majority of the bikes were stored and I diligently reversed the trailer into the end chicken shed and left it to deal with later on.

And that is where the trouble began. I managed to extricate myself from duties at the shop to take a ride down to the farm to unload the latest acquisition. After prodding and poking various parts of the trike and even rubbing several chromed parts with a cloth to reveal the quality of my find I turned to the multitude of straps holding it securely to the trailer. It wasn’t until I began to release the last strap that I realised my leg was between the rear of the trailer floor and the rear axle on the trike. I made a vain effort to quickly remove the leg but too late. The trike came rolling backward trapping my left leg firmly between trailer and trike. The weight of the trike had shifted to the rear thus raising the front of the trailer to a 35 degree angle and it was now impossible to roll the trike forward. After a whole barrage of swearing, including breaking up words to insert the profanities (I have now become quite adept at abso-fucking-lutley) I calmed down to take stock of the situation. It was impossible to remove my leg which was now starting to feel rather painful. I wasn’t in a position to roll the trike forward and added to that I was becoming faint. If I were to collapse at that point I would have certainly broken the leg, if I hadn’t already. I was beginning to sweat and panic and tried shouting. Shouting help seemed like a good idea at the time but unfortunately, I had picked a day when there was no one on the premises to rush to my aid. “Damn, bugger, shit and bastard eared bastard were just some of the choice words and phrases bouncing off the walls that day.

It seemed as if it was hours that I was stuck in that position but in reality, I guess it was only around 30 minutes. My life passed before me (at a very sedate 30mph). I shouted so long and hard that eventually, I lost my voice. No one came. With all the stress and turmoil I found that I was now bursting to go to the toilet, oh great I thought, the unlucky souls that will find me on Monday will have to endure the sight of me, having half chewed through my shinbone now soaked in piss. Have you ever tried to take a piss standing on one leg with the other trapped in machinery? I thought not. Take it from me, it’s very difficult. Hopping to try and keep balanced sends piss spraying everywhere. I saved some of it to spray on my trapped shin, my thoughts were that it might be rather like spreading butter on a ring that’s stuck fast on a finger. Please accept my deepest apologies for that last sentence and I know what you are all thinking, no not THAT ring. This was it, I thought it might be my last chance before slipping into unconsciousness. With a mighty heave, I succeeded in moving the trike just enough to wriggle my leg free from its jaws of death. Well at least my leg was free but it had been the only thing securing the trike to its trailer and since it had been removed the trike now rolled backwards and ran me over. I just laid out on the concrete floor soaked in piss, heart beating frantically and almost weeping with delight, and waited for thirty minutes for my body to come back into shape.

I ventured, nay staggered, up to the house at the farm and found everyone sat having a bloody barbeque. Not one of them had heard my cries for help and as if that wasn’t insulting enough, I had missed out on sausages, burgers, and wine! As for the trike, it was weeks before I could pluck up the courage to re-enter that shed where the monster lay. I sold it to my good friend Barry who put time, effort, and finance into it to make a practical and fun machine for the Summer. I never inquired what became of it and personally would not like to set eyes on it ever again.

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The Honda CB550 ‘Survival bike’ Perhaps the biggest advantage of owning a large motorcycle breakers is the vast array of used parts from a wide range of makes and models you have at your disposal. Technically it is possible to rebuild these bikes into hybrids of the originals. This is what we did with a particularly raggy-arsed Honda CB550F. It came to us as a non-runner and was in shabby condition with no indicators and missing cosmetics. It was dismantled and various parts consigned to the tea chests to be hopefully passed on to paying customers. On a particularly boring day one Spring in 199 something, I decided to assemble a vehicle from what spares I had tucked away in the tea chests.

This was the early days of the business so I didn’t have many models in stock. I guess I must have had a dozen or so mopeds, a Honda CR125 with a buggered engine and a Suzuki GS125E plus a few others I fail to remember. So armed with a head full of ideas I decided to go ahead with this radical venture. It was never about making money but simply an exercise in what could be done on a budget. In the custom bike magazines on sale at the time, there was a trend towards ‘survival’ Mad Max type machines. That is to say, bikes that had all kinds of oddities added to the chassis and then painted matt black and usually there was some kind of animal fur in the equation too. So not wanting to be left out I decided to make my own version of an apocalypse bike, ideal to make my getaways in the post nuclear wastelands of Pocklington. I began with the Honda CB550 frame and engine that was still together so none of that messing around trying to fit the frame around the engine to save scratching the paintwork, it wouldn’t matter anyway as the whole thing would be daubed in matt black paint. Scratches and scrubs would add to the authenticity! Once again the trusty old angle grinder made an appearance as I sliced through metal and plastic to make it slightly more streamlined. Any bracket or fixture that gave the impression of not contributing to the final look was instantly lopped off; unfortunately, some of these had to be re-welded back on as in my haste I had cut off something important.

The Honda CR125 front end was grafted into the frame and was a perfect fit requiring little or no adjustment. The only alteration to the front end was the addition of the obligatory rabbit fur around the fork sliders. When I tried the rear wheel from the CR in the frame to my amazement this slotted straight in with just the addition of an extra wheel spindle spacer. Now, this was unprecedented, to have things going so well, so I thought I may as well have a go at the wiring loom thinking that if things are playing ball then it’s a good time to attack the projects that I had little faith in. I have always found it easier to manufacture a wiring loom by stripping out the wires you don’t need rather than building from scratch. This was no different and after I had driven myself insane trying to work out which colour went where I was left with only a handful of colours draped over the whole bike. The moment of truth came and went like a bad smelling sock. I connected the battery, flicked the switch, and waaaay I had made my own heater.

For reasons unknown to me, the horn came on sounding not unlike a duck being strangled and wisps of smoke appeared from every part of the rolling chassis and instantly burst into flames. As I sat staring at the smouldering wires it became apparent why it had threatened to become a fireball. I had inadvertently connected a live wire that should have been powering the lights to earth. The impromptu loom was discarded and I had to start from the ground upwards using new wire. This time the live wires were all in their respective places and everything worked fine. Phew. I now had a rolling chassis but was unsure what seat, tank, and headlight to use. After playing around with an assortment of items I finally decided on a seat from a cafe racer, a fuel tank from a Suzuki GS125 along with the front fairing from the same bike. For some odd reason, I welded a chain across the length and breadth of the fuel tank. Don’t ask why, I just thought it would look good, and it did but served no purpose other than to make it extremely difficult to remove the tank fuel cap. The exhaust was the standard Honda item and had the silencer removed and a smaller aftermarket straight through item to which I welded some steel mesh for effect, to say it was nosy might just be an understatement.

The machine was now beginning to resemble something that would seem more at home in the skip, it looked awful, but that was the effect I wanted. It was now time for the easy bit, the paintwork. Normally the paintwork would have been the most time consuming and difficult part but in this case, it was a breeze. No rubbing down, no filler, no masking parts with tape to avoid overspray. It was just me, the bike, and a spray gun full of matt black paint. Everything was covered in matt black, the tyres, the tank, the seat, and even the headlamp though I did have to wipe the paint from it later. Even I took on the resemblance of Al Jolson in the small workshop. Even though I say it myself it was a champion spray job. Once painted the bike looked tremendous. Unusual to say the least. I couldn’t wait for it to dry to give it a whirl up the airfield.

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The Yamaha Virago 750 pictured in Harwood Dale too only a few months later.

My trusty FSO pick-up complete with rear fibreglass cover. It certainly saw a lot of action in the early days of Kevin Keld Motorcycles.

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An early exercise in recycling. The Honda CB500 ‘bitsa’. Note the scrap Yamaha FS1E in the background. I sold it for £120 and thought I had done well. The present value would be around £1500.

General in a playful mood sat at the back of Jarv’s Ford Transit 4x4. Don’t let the image deceive you, what this man doesn’t know about motorcycles is not worth knowing about.

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The Kawasaki Z1300 Trike pictured on the day before it was overloaded at The Farmyard Party.

The caricature for my column in AWOL magazine, brilliant artwork by the mega talented Rich King. Maybe not ethically correct these days.

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The Honda moped outfit. The most fun you can have with your clothes on. Superb fun around the yard on long boring days.

An early shot of the old building with the hand painted sign that was exchanged for a bar of chocolate.

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It ran just as well as it looked and I was even considering putting it on the road and keeping it as everyday transport but only a few days later someone was passing by the shop and saw it. Expressing a vested interest he inquired as to the price but to be truthful I hadn’t even considered what it might be worth so from out of thin air I just threw in a figure of £500, I certainly never expected him to go for it and sure enough, come the weekend, he arrived with a trailer and took my little matt black beauty away. Five hundred quid was a sizable chunk of cash in those days and considering the bike was built just using parts that were lying around it was a profitable exercise overall. Needless to say, the most of the money was just spent on other bikes though a little of it was used on a holiday to Tenerife for myself and Catherine. So it just goes to show that where there’s muck there’s brass as the old saying goes. Also, being the clever know it all beggar that I am, I even know that the expression “where there’s muck there’s brass” originates from Yorkshire in the 20th century but dates as far back as 1678 when the phrase “ muck and money go together” was used in a book by John Ray. Ha hah.

The new Hayabusa Another of my rather silly claims to fame is the fact that I was one of the first, if not the first motorcycle breaker to dismantle the all new 200mph street machine, the . My contact who supplied me with all the Italian imports rang me from Italy to say he had managed to secure one before they had been issued to the UK dealer network. Not wishing to miss out on such an exclusive I agreed on a price and it was shipped over on the very next consignment.

Now I have to say that sports bikes are not my bag, I’m not very keen on riding fast and the head down and arse up riding position always plays havoc with my wrists and my back so I wasn’t intending on blagging the ‘busa for my own transport. When it arrived, all wrapped up in shrink wrap it was almost as good as Christmas day itself. It had already been assembled in Italy by the dealer who had managed to get first dibs on it so it was simply a case of adding fuel and rider and setting off on a test ride. I have to admit the riding position did accommodate my hefty frame. If nothing else it made an excellent ‘belly rest’. Needless to say, the road test was a pretty sombre affair. Take it steady I thought, although the bike was capable of 200mph there was no way I was going anywhere remotely near that figure so it was a sedate 60mph up and down the A1079 and then back to base for a debrief. It was swiftly established by all my staff that the sooner this bike was in bits the better. Less time to grow accustomed to it and add to the treasure trove of bikes I already had stashed away for rainy days. One last ride was all I wanted and it was all I got.

It was Wednesday evening and as usual, a group of friends gathered together at my good friend Owen’s house in Cawood to sit and take the mickey out of each other all night. It was a decent Summer’s evening so I chose to take the ‘Busa for one last fling. On the return journey, I had a brief moment of madness and on Stillingfleet straight I put the pressure on the Suzuki to perform for me. It did just that and I can honestly say that you can keep all the high speed stuff, never in my life have I been so scared on a motorcycle, well perhaps the escapade with the two HGV’s and a CB750 does just pip it at the post. I successfully squeezed 180mph from that engine before I lost my bottle (and almost ran out of tarmac) and shut down the throttle. All I could think of at that speed was what if I farted at that speed. Would the sudden change in wind direction throw me off course? I could become the first casualty of high speed farting accidents. Oh and whilst we are on the subject of farts apparently if you feed curry to a sheep it reduces the amount of methane in its farts by 40%.

To make matters worse I was only wearing an open face helmet, not even an expensive open face helmet, it was bought from Aldi for £19.99. At 100mph you could have easily inserted a large but smooth cucumber up each nostril, at 150mph my mouth was now beginning to resemble a new character from the Simpsons and at 180mph I could see inside my own body and my epiglottis was standing proud like a whip aerial on a Vespa. It wasn’t like that really but believe me, I was almost strangled by the strap on the lid. I made it back home safely and amazingly with no loss of licence and the bike still in one piece. There was still more fun to be gleaned from the Suzuki though, perhaps not on the road but as a prank.

The very first item to sell was the engine as I thought it might. As far as I am aware the engine was sold to a company that fits motorcycle engines into kit cars so this seemed the ideal engine for that purpose. We hauled the bike on to the workbench and set about removing the motor to await collection. Seeing as this was the only part to have sold it was decided to bolt the fairing and exhaust back onto the chassis to protect it and

Page 39 The Motorcycle Undertaker to view at a glance what parts we had left. To all intents and purposes, it looked exactly the same as a complete bike, the large gaping hole where the engine once sat was masked by the side fairings. Now a very good friend of mine in the motorcycle trade was due to call in the next afternoon to collect various parts from us. When he arrived he was naturally inquisitive regarding the ‘busa and asked if it were possible to sit astride it. “Yes of course” I replied trying to hold back my laughter. “It’s built using a host of special parts and a new type of carbon fibre” I boasted, “Just lay it over and see how light it is.” The poor chap waved the bike from side to side and was amazed at the weight, “never seen owt like it” he eventually spluttered. I kept on filling his head with stories of aircraft type aluminium, NASA developed carbon fibre to which he was very attentive. “Try to start it if you like and give it a run up the yard” I instructed but after turning on the ignition and seeing there were no ‘idiot’ lights on his suspicions began to take hold. “You swine, there’s no bloody engine in the bugger” he shouted at last. It was fortunate for him that he realised at that point as I was on the verge of offering to push him on it to bump start it up the yard.

I have to say, it did look totally convincing when it was assembled without the engine. Within the space of a few weeks, the majority of parts were sold via mail order and eventually I turned a £3000 profit by just dismantling it. The Hayabusa wasn’t the only bike that was brand new and taken to pieces to be sold as spares. It was a profitable exercise if you had the right machines. It was relatively easy to make more of a profit on selling them in parts as opposed to complete off the showroom floor. Nothing ever beat the Suzuki for its good all round fun though.

The Ariel from Levisham These days ‘barn finds’ are quite rare occurrences. The advent of the internet and specifically Ebay has eradicated the luxury of arriving at someone’s house to search their shed for booty. The problem is that everyone knows the value of old bikes, clocks, tools, etc., etc. Nowadays if anyone has an old British bike tucked away under the years of accumulated dust, old copies of Penthouse, and large pieces of rolled-up polythene, then it’s straight to Mr Google to get an instant approximate valuation. This price will invariably be the retail price languishing at the top end of the scale and not the realistic true ‘trade’ figure. I was lucky in the early days of trading to be privy to quite a number of these barn finds and the best, never to be repeated, deal of the century will appear on these pages in a later story but for now, I would like to concentrate on one particular event. I love this story because it has all the hallmarks of a wonderfully typical English tale.

As with all good stories it began with a phone call. This was from the son of an elderly lady in York. “My mother has a couple of old motorbikes in her garden shed and the shed is on its last legs, can you go and take them away?” was the opening line from the doting son. “No problem, whereabouts in York is she?” was the obvious retort. However, it transpired that the lady was not in York but at a tiny village in the North Yorkshire Moors called Levisham. A beautiful typically English village and always worth a visit just to have a leisurely walk around and a crafty pint in the pub. Strictly speaking though, she wasn’t even in the village but at Levisham railway station which is even further into the remoteness of the moors, accessible only by a steep hill with the incline of Mount Everest. The son had no idea what the bikes were as they had belonged to his Father who had departed this circus many years previously. This was intriguing as at this point the escapade becomes somewhat of a lottery. Do we travel up to Levisham in the back and beyond only to find a rusted up Honda Camino and a Jawa 250 with a seized engine or do we risk it and find a Vincent Black Shadow with frame number 001 and a gold plated Bonneville? Let’s risk it was the decision and off we trotted in the van in search of a train station.

It must be around an hour’s journey up to the place and after we had negotiated the monstrous hill we found ourselves in the most picturesque setting possible. A beautiful station cottage and office with a single track railway running directly past. The whole place was in bloom and it looked just idyllic. It was as if we had stepped back in time to an era long forgotten. The lady we met at the door can only be described as utterly charming, polite, and almost grateful to see us which was a little unnerving as I then began to think we might have let ourselves into something we would regret. It was left to me to open the door to the place and it did appear to be waiting for someone to enter before collapsing in a heap of woodworm riddled timber and dust. Once I had forced open the door and made enough space to slide in, I could see what the urgency was all about. The roof had collapsed in at the rear of the shed but at the front where the bikes were, it was still

Page 40 The Motorcycle Undertaker relatively intact. And there they were. Are you waiting there with bated breath hoping for a winner or a loser? Are you as excited as I was about the big reveal? Well, I can tell you that behind the door and covered in a sheet of polythene (though not rolled up) was a 1957 Ariel VB 600 with a sidecar chassis connected and next to it was the Ariel VH Red Hunter but was incomplete.

What a find. I had a good scrum around the inside of the shed avoiding going too far towards the rear in case the roof gave way. The VB was intact and the lady even confirmed that her hubby had simply driven it into the shed one day and left it, never to be used again. It certainly had the appearance of a machine that only required fuel and a hefty kick to get it running. What we found most unbelievable though was that at some point in the past someone had used the sidecar chassis as a planter and there in full bloom was an assortment of colourful flowers and plants, it seemed a shame to move it. At the back of the shed was an old engine, not just any old engine but a J.A.P engine. A 1300cc V twin motor that used to be the power unit on the small carts that ran up and down the railways to move staff from one place on the line to another. My colleague Mark laid claim to that as he was already rebuilding one in his garage so it was fitting that he should have this one too. I was more interested in the Ariel’s. A price was agreed with our lady friend and the offer of a nice pot of tea on the station platform was too good an offer to refuse.

We sat there the three of us sipping tea when she announced “Oh goody, you boys will get to see the 3.34 train to Whitby very soon” Hmmm...that didn’t sound like a very interesting sight but my reservations soon faded when I saw the plume of black smoke appearing on the horizon. Of course, this line was the home to the NYMR steam service and within minutes a thundering black monster of a steam locomotive drew alongside Levisham station. Quite what the passengers thought when they viewed the platform with this dear little old lady sat with two ugly, rough looking scruffy bikers is anyone’s guess. One or two passengers departed from the train and it rattled and hissed out of the station on its journey carrying day trippers to Whitby. I have to say the obvious comment here and tell you it was just a typical scene from the magical movie The Railway Children, only this time the railway children were rough arsed bikers. We said our farewells, loaded the bikes and engine into the van and left the delicate, serene place that was Levisham, and headed up Mount Kilimanjaro before heading home.

Once back at the workshop it was all hands on deck and the main objective was to get the VB running. Alas, this was not to be on this occasion as the engine was seized solid. Oh damn, never mind I suppose we could break it for spares or use it as a planter again. Not to be beaten, General soon had the engine stripped down and sure enough, the piston was stuck in the bore. Nothing that a large hammer and a suitably sized block of wood wouldn’t cure and once the piston was released it was just a case of replacing the piston rings. A set was found by Mike at Eric Gibbs engine reconditioners in York. A set of N.O.S rings were available on the shelf. With the rings fitted it was just a simple case of replacing the top end. My pal Mark quipped “no way is that ever gonna run again, a bag of shit”, (He never was one to mince words) Within half an hour or so the engine was returned to the frame and ready for that all important first kick. Laughter from Mark on the first two kicks when all the bike did was cough. The look on his face was worth all the hard work when on the third kick General coaxed the VB into life. It ran just perfect. It looked great and it sounded even better.

Time for a test ride and a well-earned cuppa at the local cafe on the industrial estate so General manned the controls whilst Mark and I took to the sidecar. All went fine on the journey down and the bike started first kick on our exit from the cafe. Something must have gone amiss in the controls department as we headed towards the workshop because we swerved off the road at speed and straight into the perimeter fence. Luckily no damage was done to us or the outfit but I think the fence came under scrutiny from the landlord on his next visit. Quite ironic really as we sold the VB to the landlord as a restoration project. We never did confess to the hole in the fence though and I suppose technically it was HIS bike that caused it! The other bike, the VH was sold off as a project bike and made back the initial investment cash so everything earned on the VB was profit. A successful barn find and a happy ending too.

The Triumph T100 ‘Barn find’ Ok, then folks whilst we are studying and analysing the barn find then I feel I ought to throw this into the equation. Yet another of those fairy-tale discoveries that Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz from the American

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Pickers TV show would be proud of. Yet again and as with all good finds, it started with the obligatory phone call. On this occasion, it came from a gentleman who lived on a remote farm way up on the Yorkshire Wolds. A beautiful, charming, and spacious part of the country and an area where I would spend many pleasurable hours simply driving or riding around immersing myself in all the magnificent views. Countryside so diverse and a true pleasure to be around in any of the seasons, however, spring and winter are most favourable. I have a true soft spot for the Wolds and the four splendid years I lived in the centre of that rich countryside I thoroughly enjoyed every last minute of it. Even when running out of fuel on my Reliant trike, it became an adventure on a pleasant spring afternoon, but that’s another story for another day as they say.

The gist of the phone call was could I pop up to Huggate to take a peek at this old bike that had been abandoned in one of the farm sheds for a few years with a view to purchasing it. Of course, I could, I was never one to turn down the prospect of striking gold in them thar hills. So General and I struck up the Batmobile, well, in fact, the Transit van, and off to Huggate, we went, only the farm wasn’t in Huggate village itself but a few miles further along the road to Tibthorpe. This, you have to realise was long before the advent of the satellite navigation system on which we all rely so much these days. All we had was the name of the farm and the fact it was Huggate. Darkness was already approaching and the chances of finding a bystander on the top of the Wolds at that hour was verging on the ridiculous so it was a stop at the phone box in the village to call the farmer for a more descriptive route plan. Armed with further directions we set off and it wasn’t long before we were pulling into the farmyard, only he didn’t live at the farm but the cottage next door. Ah well, at least we were close. With the introductions done and dusted it was time to get right down to business. We were escorted into an old dusty building on the farm and in the dim light of one cobweb encrusted naked light bulb I could make out the jagged outline of a bike with half a dozen wooden planks laid against it. It was a Triumph T100 and at first glance, it appeared to be in reasonable condition. We eagerly rescued it from its resting place and managed to manhandle it into the light and sure enough, it was a Triumph. Could this be the goose that will endeavour to lay the golden egg? That would be determined by the price but first, the owner decided to lay a history lesson on us regarding its past life.

He bought it new in 1968 and ran it for a good few years before relegating it to the garage at the side of the house. A familiar plot with such a lot of motorcyclists in the Sixties. With the advent of the wife and children, it was forgotten about until one day some pals of his had been discussing in the local pub one Christmas the possibility of a trip over to the Isle of Man for the annual TT races held in the following June. This allowed him six months to get the Triumph into roadworthy condition for the mammoth journey. It had been in reasonable condition previous to being mothballed in the garage but time and the damp dank air had taken their toll so the paintwork and the chrome work were in a poor state. The good news was the engine was still in good serviceable condition. With six months at his disposal, he promptly dispatched the wheels to be re-chromed and re spoked. The engine was given a full service and the paintwork was restored to its former glory along with a stove enamelled frame and forks. The seat was recovered and new tyres fitted so by the time June raised its head the bike was ready to go. He related to me some of the wonderful times he had at the TT and like so many others had thoroughly enjoyed the ride across to Liverpool and back. Regrettably, the time had come for the bike to be passed on to another owner as he was failing in health and hadn’t ridden it for ten years so before it disintegrated any further he felt it best to say his farewells. I was quite impressed by the history of the bike and the past swashbuckling adventures of the owner.

After yet another cup of tea, the time had come for the vulgarities of money. How much was it going to cost to own this small piece of one man’s history? I was expecting a four figure sum to be applied to it but he had other ideas. “Look lad, I can see you are a bike fan through and through, how about £300” I spluttered, almost choked, spluttered again then my face must have revealed my inner thoughts because he added “There is a condition though” ah, I thought this is it, he’s going to allow me to buy the bike for £300 but you have to ride it through Driffield sitting on the handlebars, facing the wrong way, naked to do it. No, his condition was that I didn’t immediately sell it to the highest bidder; I had to keep it for a while and use it. I respected the man’s wishes and reliably informed him that it would be an honour to do that. And do that I did. I kept my promise and held on to the Triumph for almost twenty years before regrettably having to sell because of the move to Spain. I used it on the odd bright and sunny Sunday to explore yet more of the Yorkshire Wolds and I too was eventually reluctant to part with such a reliable and iconic machine.

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The Katana and the camper van. Now there is a title for a children’s story if I ever heard one. It sounds as if I should be relating this tale to a group of preschool children, it has that certain ring to it don’t you think? Well, this is a tale that could be described as a fairy-tale. It’s a story almost unbelievable but as with all the fables in this book, it is a hundred per cent true. The story involves a 1982 Suzuki GSX750 Katana, a Nissan Urvan camper, and a lovely couple whose names I shall disguise to preserve their dignity. Let’s be jovial regarding this and call them Mr X and Miss Y. It was Mr X that owned, nurtured, and rode the Katana. He was obsessed with it and I have never seen such a beautifully well preserved example of this machine which was quite a rare beast at the time. The bike was in a striking off white metallic paint with gold painted frame and the odd parts of the engine coated in gold paint. The sleek sophisticated lines of the bodywork were stunning, to say the least, and even these days can still draw masses of appreciation. It was the American ‘pop up’ headlight version and in its prime, it was something of a novelty on a motorcycle. A flick of the right hand handlebar switch would set the headlight motor whirring and the lamp would appear from within the depths of the front fairing.

The styling of the Katana was unlike any other motorcycle of its era. It was clearly a love it or hate it motorcycle. Personally, I was captivated by all the Katana styled models, even the Japanese import 250cc which was a scaled down version of the 750. Mr. X was head over heels in love with his 750 and after every ride out he would spend hours cleaning it and rejuvenating it back to pristine condition. It was at this time too that he became involved with a lady who was twenty years his senior and she was soon to become the love of his life though I suspect not enough of a love to replace the Katana in the focus of his attention. He would bring the Katana along to the shop and have it fully serviced every six months or if any parts were required it was us that he contacted first so we saw the machine regularly.

The doting couple soon decided on a rather more practical form of transport so invested in a Nissan Urvan. It was a very clean and tidy 1988 model and had been converted into a day camper. Whoever had made the conversion had done so with great attention to detail and had every available labour saving device installed. The one disadvantage I thought personally was the awful paint colour. It was almost the colour of a dog’s shit after suffering severe stomach problems. It was a cross between a very pale ill looking brown and mustard yellow so you got the impression that the original owner was either colour blind or perhaps an interior designer in the Eastern Bloc. They used the van on a few sojourns into the green and pleasant land but after a few months had passed by and things were not looking well on the romantic front. I have never been the kind of person to pry into people’s private lives so I am not entirely sure what went wrong and the first I knew of any impending doom was when Mr. X called in at the shop one morning with a glum expression on his face offering me the Suzuki. My goodness things must have been drastic if he was prepared to wave bon voyage to the Katana. It wasn’t the fact that he had decided to part with it that surprised me as much as the price. “Give us a grand and it’s yours” I had to ask him again because I was sure he had just said, “Give us a grand and it’s yours”. Yes, indeed he had. Now I know a bargain when it slaps you across the face, and this was face slapping to the highest degree. I genuinely felt a modicum of pity for the poor guy as I handed over the cash and said I would be along later to collect the machine, though not enough pity to offer any extra cash I might add.

It may sound a little harsh but I’m afraid that’s business. That evening I collected the Katana from his heated garage and curiosity got the better of me and I just had to ask why he was finally letting go but he only muttered something about having to pay the ex (Miss Y) a chunk of cash. I didn’t pry any further and headed for home with my new toy safely strapped in the rear of the van. The Suzuki wasn’t standing in the showroom long before someone came along and offered a hefty profit on the thousand pound investment so considering I had now grown tired of the pop-up headlight it moved to pastures new. In the meantime, I had received a call from Miss Y asking if I knew of anyone interested in a camper van. I didn’t, well apart from me I didn’t. I’m not one to pass up on any chance of a deal on anything. I was a complete novice when it comes to cars, vans, or revolting coloured Nissan Urvan’s but what the hell I thought and headed off to take a look at it.

I was in unknown territory here. I had no idea of the prices on these vehicles so it was going to be just a case of playing it by ear. I walked around the van pretending to know what the hell I was looking at and to me, it seemed all ok but equally, a written off, stolen, battered van with no engine would too. “Ok then Madam, How much?” I inquired trying to sound like a professional. “Make me an offer” was the reply and I hated that because I just hadn’t a clue where to price it. The first figure off the top of my head was a grand. I offered her £1000 cash

Page 43 The Motorcycle Undertaker there and then and the reply was a resounding yes. Damn I thought, I have pitched this too high but it was too late now. I had taken my buddy Vince along with me as moral support and to drive my van back whilst I had the pleasure of driving the camper back. Before I left I asked her the same question I had inquired of Mr X, “why are you selling it?” and once again it was a mumbled retort concerning having to pay the ex off. This was intriguing; perhaps it might have been worth placing an ad in the local paper looking for recently divorced or separated couples just to bargains to be found amongst the remains of their once happy relationships.

Vince sped off home in my van and left me to negotiate my way through York in the camper. I had only managed to wind my way through the city when I was struck immobile via the lack of air in the offside rear tyre. Bugger I thought and upon searching for the spare wheel I stumbled upon a large open space where the spare wheel should have been sitting. Double bugger I thought and phoned the workshop to have someone come along to rescue me, they did, three hours later. Eventually, I made it back to the workshop just as the local Auto Trader rep was leaving. I told him of the hotly made purchase, explaining that I knew absolutely nothing regarding these vehicles. “It’s a good job I do then” was his reply. “Advertise it in our mag for five thousand and I bet you get it” I was stunned, surely not considering the revolting colour but on his recommendation, he took a photo and the ad was to appear in next week’s mag for £5000. The following Thursday I was inundated with inquiries regarding the camper. I sold it to the first person that came along to view it. A rather jovial character who wished to export it abroad as he had a place in Spain and wanted the camper to venture around the Spanish countryside. He offered £4500 along with a Spanish registered Fiat Panda in good clean condition but no MOT. Hell yeah, I was more than happy to accept the deal, he was over the moon with his purchase so it was a win-win situation and I still had a tidy Fiat to run around in.

I never had the chance to use the Fiat as it was parked outside the workshop one day when a couple of dubious looking Russians began to inspect it with great interest. It was at this point I expected to be offered 3 mountain goats and a Kalashnikov rifle in exchange for it but no would I sell it for a thousand pounds. I did not need to be asked twice and within minutes they were heading off to Russia in their new machine. In reality, it was exported to Russia where apparently the Fiat Panda has a huge following. I had expected to realise around three hundred for it I was not particularly concerned what figure it brought as I had made ample profit on the camper. So to recap this whole Mr X and Miss Y escapade had netted me £5500 profit. For many years to come that would have been at the number one slot for the best deals, I have ever negotiated, however, a few years later it was to be knocked from that prime position by the purchase of a van full of British motorcycles, more of which later.

Free money-the Honda CBX1000 and Yamaha XS650 Now call me old fashioned but I do have a soft spot for money. I do love a bit of the folding green stuff and nothing could improve on free cash, well other than more free cash I suppose. It might come as no surprise to you all but I have been on the receiving end of free money and believe it or not it’s happened in more than one instance. If I were to knock on your door and shout congratulations, indulge in a generous bout of ‘whoop whooping’ then proceed to attempt a foolish dance routine whilst wearing an awfully loud red jacket you would no doubt be pleased. You would be pleased if that sum was £500 no doubt. Well, imagine how I felt when I was handed that same amount, only it was twenty years ago and worth a hell of a lot more than it is now. In those days five hundred big ones would net you a decent motorsickle with all the bells and whistles, these days you are more likely to end up with a Chinese scooter and a few bob left over for toilet rolls and pasta.

The first time I was the recipient was when I finally decided to part with my beautiful Honda CBX1000 Pro link. I had kept the bike in pristine condition for the past five years and quite frankly I just wasn’t giving it the attention it deserved out on the road, so it sat waiting patiently in my garage awaiting someone who would use it to the best of its capabilities. It was a silver grey model with the top fairing and single mono shock. I would have preferred to have been the owner of the metallic red CBX10000Z twin shock model but alas I could ill afford to have two six cylinder bikes living in the garage. The bike was very versatile and handled incredibly well given its bulky stature and weight. It was never designed to be a knee scratcher but was the wolf in sheep’s clothing when it came to sports touring. Well, that was my opinion of it and no doubt other CBX owners will tell of a totally opposed account. In due course I treated it to a full service and a day was well spent cleaning every nook and cranny, and believe me, there are a lot of nooks and crannies on the CBX, and each

Page 44 The Motorcycle Undertaker one determined to take the very skin from your hands. After twelve hours cleaning and polishing that bike, my hands felt as if I had been performing open heart surgery on a rotovator just as someone flicked the on switch. It looked magnificent with its acres of polished chrome and metallic paintwork; it looked so damned good I almost had second thoughts concerning its impending journey into the depths of the showroom.

I had to stay strong, I had to follow this through and after all, I could always buy another one in the future should I suddenly find the spare time to actually use one. Into the showroom it went with a price tag of only two and a half thousand pounds, it makes me wince when I say that figure because if I had decided to keep it I would now be expecting to realise at least eight thousand pounds for a machine in this condition. Hindsight is a wonderful thing as they say eh? The Honda looked like a rose amongst thorns in the showroom and as soon as you entered the place was totally dominated by its presence. I had one or two dreamers as might be expected with a bike of this nature. What I have termed ‘the wifey brigade’ are folks who fall in love with one of the bikes, waste an hour of my time with a test ride and inspection then drop the old “I’ll just have to run it by the missus “line. The moment those words find their way to my ears then I know instantly it’s a nonstarter. The wife usually has better ideas of what to spend the spare cash on such as a newly fitted kitchen or a pony for Vanessa. I really am not intending to be sexist here but merely pointing out a realistic observation and yes I fully appreciate times have changed but twenty years ago there weren’t the number of understanding lady riders out there.

In any case, the CBX drew its fair share of attention and one chap, in particular, came along on two separate occasions and was extremely interested. Unfortunately at the time, he hadn’t the full amount but kindly asked if I would accept a deposit of five hundred pounds to hang on to it until the end of the month. I almost refused but the sight of a fist full of twenty pound notes was too much of a temptation. I took the cash and he agreed to call in with the balance in three weeks. As the end of the month drew closer I began to mentally spend the money that was about to be deposited in my lap and so when the weekend finally came and the customer never appeared I was just a little disappointed but waiting a few more days would hardly make much difference. Another week passed and still no show from the prospective buyer and strangely enough, there was no phone call to explain the non-attendance.

No problem I thought, at least I have a deposit so I was certain he would be back. Well, one week turned into a month then a year and up to press some twenty or so years later I still haven’t heard from him. Unfortunately, he never left his address when he left the deposit so I had no chance of contacting him. I have thought of many theories over the years, could he be dead, prison maybe, jetted off overseas to live in a kibbutz in some isolated village or was he just eager to give wads of money away. However, you look at it I gained five hundred quid and I sold the bike to another buyer.

The second instance of money for nothing (sounds like a good title for a song) was the strange and curious case of the Yamaha XS650 chopper. Normally we would steer clear of building choppers for the average customer simply because the amount of time and labour involved is not cost effective. For example, I can spend a month building a classy, usable and practical chopper and expect to generate a profit of perhaps a thousand pounds if that. If I spend the same amount of time and a lot less energy breaking a bike for spares I can double that figure. So when a chap visited us one dreary afternoon in December requesting our services to build him a show winning chopper I had pretty much made up my mind to refuse the offer. The lad was adamant, by that I mean he was enthusiastic and not Adam Ant, and related a whole host of reasons why we should undertake this project.

I on the other hand could immediately think of one reason we should refrain from undertaking this task, money or not enough of it. However, it was after all the middle of winter and not exactly the busiest time of the motorcycle calendar and any thoughts of showing him to the door were blighted when he slapped down five hundred pounds cash as an advance on the build. He had done his homework and even came armed with a back issue of BSH the UK’s premier custom motorcycle magazine showing a simple but effective rigid framed chopper utilising Yamaha’s XS650 twin engine unit. It looked simple enough to recreate and having relegated the cash bundle to my arse pocket I agreed to make a start that very week. I already had the engine and ancillaries in stock because buried in one of the chicken sheds was a bike I had imported from America to be broken for spares.

Page 45 The Motorcycle Undertaker

After the customer had left I began to make a few preliminary sketches of how I would like to construct the frame. I built this from the ground upwards using the pipe bender, lots of tubing and my trusty old welder. It took no more than four to five weeks to have a semi constructed machine resembling the one in the magazine stood in the workshop. The excited customer paid us another visit on the weekend to view the progress. He was impressed, to say the least, and added that he would drop in the following weekend with yet another lump of cash to aid progress. Upon reflection, I should have learned from the CBX experience to insist on taking the customer’s contact details on such profound matters. Alas, yet again I omitted to note any details relating to the whereabouts of our budding Peter Fonda and when the following weekend came and went as all good weekends do there was still no contact from him. In fact, after two months I was still awaiting a top up to my cash fund, so all work ceased on the chopper and after twelve months I decided to complete the build and offer it for sale on the open market. You can probably guess the ending to this story and yes you would be correct in assuming that I never saw or heard from the customer again. So I had once more gained five hundred pounds free of charge though in this case, I did have to work a small amount for it.

The bike was finished in beautiful electric blue paint and sporting stainless steel exhausts. I am sure matey boy would have been as proud of it as I was had he taken the time to visit just one more time.

The BSA Bantam and the house clearance. Whatever you do, never make the mistake of inviting me round to value your motorcycle then drop the bombshell that you are in the complicated, heart wrenching process of divorcing your childhood sweetheart. I will instantaneously morph into the human form of a whirlwind and diligently sweep through your house and garage with a fine tooth comb sniffing out bargains whether you like it or not. This was the case one evening in York where General and I were summoned to view a rather tidy looking BSA Bantam 125. It was just after 6pm and about to turn dark when we drew up outside the vendor’s house and it would be three long hours before he eventually managed to escort us from the premises clutching several household items to our chests.

We had utilised the theatre bus for the collection. Please allow me to explain in detail about the theatre bus. It was a bright yellow 1988 Ford Transit crew cab short wheelbase pickup and was given its rather unusual name because the rear seat arrangements were reminiscent of the exclusive private viewing box at York Theatre Royal. It was indeed a very comfortable vehicle and with a capacity of six seats, it was the ideal vehicle for travelling long distances, collecting motorcycles and hosting wild parties in. On numerous occasions, we had used the Ford to shoot down to Guildford to have a snoop around the Harley Davidson auto jumbles that were held there. I had originally purchased the vehicle for use within my other company at that time, the hugely successful KJ Construction which was responsible for several cable laying operations and civil engineering projects throughout East Yorkshire. The theatre bus was used for ferrying staff from one site to another and occasionally a team would load a large capacity water bowser on the rear bed and make a half-hearted attempt to remove the accumulated muck and filth from the road signs on the main A1079 road.

On arrival at the designated address, we were invited into the garage to assess the Bantam and it sure was a quaint little bike. He had spent month after month rebuilding and restoring it. It wasn’t pristine by any stretch of the imagination but he had turned a rusty wreck into a cheap usable classic. It was one of those 99.9% finished bikes lacking only a new set of contact breakers to take it to the hundred per cent mark so consequently it wouldn’t start so we had to take his word for it that engine was a ‘good un’. The advantage of it being a non-runner was that this would be of course reflected in the price. It gave me ample ammunition to negotiate a better deal. However, in fairness, all he was asking for the bike was £100 and at that figure, I wasn’t even going to risk the deal by negotiating a better price. He then went on to explain that his wife had left him and there was much talk of divorce on the horizon. Perfect, I offered my condolences and a sympathetic ear and inquired did he by any chance have other items he may wish to part with before the soon to be ex-wife took the lot? “Er, well you had better come and have a look in the house” he stuttered. I didn’t need to be asked twice and made a beeline for the TV set and hifi along with other household goods, after virtually buying everything in the front room our attentions were turned to the once joyous marital suite.

If space on the theatre van had allowed then I am confident we would have been taking their large pine double bed home with us too. No stone or knicker drawer was left unturned and we soon emerged from the

Page 46 The Motorcycle Undertaker house armed with yet more goodies. We were fast running out of space on the pickup but managed to use every available space we could find, even stacking goods on the rear seats.

It wasn’t long before we had the BSA running and up for sale on the open market. It was quite a while before it finally sold and I was surprised at that given that it was such a wonderful looking example. The accumulated tripe we had rescued from the hands of his wife however proved to be a better seller and the profit earned from that caper netted more than double the BSA’s profit.

The Honda CB250N Boomerang Profit margins can be highly unpredictable, to say the least, and although there is a trade book that goes some way to defining the profit on many of the most popular machines, it is only a guide and not to be relied upon. We had one particular machine that defied all logic and the profit margin was staggering bordering on the ludicrous so it became known as the boomerang bike due to its insistence on coming back. The profit was all made legitimately and at no point was anyone overcharged or taken advantage of. I don’t think we have ever had a bike appear so many times in the shop like this one. You are going to have to bear with me on this one and trust my judgement. It’s a complicated story with lots of characters and even more incidents of money changing hands and I may lose some of you along the way but stick with me and I really will show you diamonds or cash to the value of! It all began when General and Little Timmy were speeding through Cawood on the rear wheel of a Suzuki Katana and lost control (forgive me officer that should read ‘proceeding in an orderly manner at a speed of 20mph’).

The Katana made a valiant effort to enter a house via the front window but failed miserably leaving Timmy and General rolling around in the centre of the road. The bike was a write off though the boys fared much better with only severe bruising to their pride and a dozen scrapes to Timmy’s headgear. Luckily the mishap occurred in Cawood where another of our pals Owen was living at the time and his services were called upon to return the bike and its riders back to Pocklington. It was late at night and the only available vehicle back at base was an old Suzuki 50cc moped so General leapt aboard and made the traumatic journey back to York on impulse decided to stop off for a coffee at Frenchie’s house. Frenchie is another character in this complex and intriguing tale and I will try and explain a bit more about him in another story because quite frankly it’s….complicated. Over coffee and no doubt one of those silly cigarettes that make you all giggly, elated and able to remember facts such as if all the salt in the sea were spread evenly over the land then it would be five hundred feet thick, General related the evening’s events.

It was one of those chance meetings that became a catalyst for an incredible story, at the house was a friend of Frenchie’s, a fellow archaeologist hailing from London and he mentioned that if a replacement vehicle was needed then he had at home a metallic blue Honda CB250N that he no longer used. For a meagre fifty pounds he would not only part with it to General but the following weekend he would be more than happy to ride it all the way up to York on the proviso that he could have a lift back as far as Sheffield to collect his new motorcycle. It was a ‘no brainer’ as they say these days and as promised the next Saturday a rather cold and weary young man arrived on the Honda. It was in very good condition apart from having an oil leak from the top end. This is not detrimental to the running of the machine and General immediately put it to good use and turned up for work every day on it for a few months to come. It was the ideal work vehicle, quite robust and a large bike physically it served our man well over the thirty miles round trip to and from the shop. Eventually, another more exotic bike was sourced as a replacement and the Honda was then fixed and offered for sale with a price tag of £800.

Within a matter of days, a buyer was found and it was delivered to a chap in Scarborough who also was looking for cheap, everyday transport to and from his place of work. Ideal bike for the job however he must have either changed jobs or joined the ranks of the unemployed as twelve months later General received a phone call, the bike was stood in the back of the shed, now surplus to requirements and did he want to buy it back at a very reasonable price? “What do you call a reasonable price?” General inquired of our vendor. The moment the sum of fifty pounds was mentioned then it was a pretty fair bet it would be heading back over to York area and indeed it did where it was given a service, an MOT and a good clean and polish then put up for sale once again at the asking price of, yes you guessed, £800 again. This time I am afraid we cannot remember

Page 47 The Motorcycle Undertaker who bought the bike suffice to say it ended up with a new caring and loving owner for all of eight months then one day in walks a lad to the shop asking for spare parts for a Honda CB250N that he was in the process of fixing up to advertise it for sale in the local paper.

Naturally, I asked if he was willing to sell the bike before he set a spanner to nut therefore saving him a lot of work and expense. He actually agreed and details of his address were noted and later that evening on a detour from our twice weekly visit to the KFC we called to collect the bike. The moment I saw it I knew which bike it was, he had bought it from a friend of his brothers and just wanted to practice his mechanical prowess on it but wasn’t too enthusiastic as no matter what he did he could not get the damned thing to start. So for yet another investment of fifty pounds, the Superdream now belonged to me. Once back at the workshop it became apparent what the non-starting problem was, a broken wire to the starter solenoid so a two minute repair later and the bike started and was yet again running as sweet as the proverbial nut. It was then sent through the workshop and had all the work done to enable it to pass the MOT and a good clean yet again and for the umpteenth time was put on the open market. It wasn’t long before we had another buyer. Enter Mike, who parted with eight hundred pounds to be part of the tireless parade of owners who were searching for everyday transport. I’ll say this though, the Superdream in 250 or 400cc form was always regarded as one the most versatile workhorses on the market in the early Eighties. Well, Mike was elated with his purchase and over the following couple of years returned it to us for servicing, MOT or just general wear and tear repairs. Over those two years, the bike had served Mike well and he had been more than happy with its performance and reliability but all good things come to an end and after a while, he decided he was moving away from the area and the bike had to also move to pastures new. “Would you be interested Kev?” Mike asked one afternoon. Yes, of course, I would if the price was right, it was right and yet again that Superdream had found itself back in my arms, or my workshop to be precise for the ridiculous sum of twenty five pounds.

This time though the alternator had given up the ghost so it actually cost me more to repair it than I paid for the full bike. Once again the reconditioned bike stood in the showroom awaiting a new owner. Are you all still with me on this one, I did say it was rather complicated. After a few weeks, a prospective buyer expressed interest in the Honda, yet again he was looking for a workhorse for travelling to and from his place of employment. The only difficulty he had was raising the seven hundred pounds asking price but he did have a bike he would p/x. Tell me more I thought, always willing to negotiate and take other bikes, cars, wives in part exchange. The part ex this time was of considerable interest though; it was a rare and sought after low mileage Ural 650 with sidecar. It had MOT but was proving just too cumbersome for the daily work trip so he would be glad to pass it on and have something a little more manageable. The deal was stupendous, he would give the Ural AND two hundred quid for the Honda. Yes please, I thought (places hands together and mutters “Thank you, God”). I was now in charge of a Russian combination which looked and ran very well and was even tested to its limits by my fellow motorcycle shop owner Will Bratley on one of his visits to the shop, only choosing to open the throttle to the max whilst in reverse gear. A strange and surreal sight for anyone to comprehend. A lot of fun was to be had on that combo but almost every time it involved reverse gear, five people aboard and a range of silly hats. Having become bored of the combo it was time for it too to find a new owner and this was then sold for £1200 never to resurface again. I also had confidence that we had seen the last of the boomerang bike too, this was proved unfounded when after only a few months the latest owner was back on the phone offering it back for sale. Unfortunately for him, the waste bin driver hadn’t seen it as he was reversing the lorry along the side of his house one morning and now the Honda was not so much bike shaped more a squashed assortment of metals and plastics shaped. It was quite clearly beyond repair but would be suitable for breaking for spares so I bought it for the final time, for twenty five pounds and laid it finally to rest. It was cleaned, dismantled and shelved away but still, it continued to earn me money. The first week I sold the generator for forty five pounds and it went on to net around two hundred pounds altogether in spares. So to recap, after all the equations have been completed the blue Honda boomerang bike earned General a tidy sum of £1500 profit whilst I managed to squeeze a healthy £1400 from it plus the price of the repairs over the years. Now if every bike was as profitable as that one I could now be sat on my own island in the sun sipping Margarita surrounded by a bevvy of bronzed beauties instead of sat in my cold damp flat swigging lukewarm tea surrounded by a bevvy of imaginary bronzed beauties.

Page 48 The Motorcycle Undertaker

A free Harley Davidson FXS1200 Yes indeed a free Harley, it’s not every day you hear that statement but as ever it’s all present and correct and aside from perhaps a few minor details, it is the genuine account of how it came to be. The tale began with a chance meeting between General and the vendor at the mobile cafe that Fred used to run on the industrial Estate, well he used to run it until some weasel hooked it up to a Transit van one afternoon and cleared off with it. The conversation between Gen and the stranger was undoubtedly on the subject of motorcycles and after a hefty bacon sandwich and a coffee that resembled toffee he was invited over to the workshop to take a look around. He was instantly captivated by our set up and began to tell of a journey he had made over to the States and had fallen in love with a low mileage Harley Davidson 1200 FXS and had shipped it back home to Skipton in North Yorkshire. He was in the process of giving it a minor overhaul, the clutch needed tweaking and the fuel tanks were in a box with other miscellaneous parts. Time was in short supply in his life at present and he was far too busy with his work at the water treatment plant so was looking for someone to complete the job and present him with a running and registered bike so he could ride forth into the North Yorkshire sunset.

Of course, we offered to undertake this work and a date was arranged for us to pop over to Skipton and collect the partially dismantled Harley. So, one evening later in the week Gen and I headed over to his house, via the KFC in York, of course, to collect it. It was a rather strange looking house with the large, spacious garage/workshop underneath with a large concrete driveway leading down to it. It was quite reminiscent of a nuclear bunker. Once inside sure enough there it stood, with accumulated dust and the obligatory roll of polythene on top. The tanks, clutch cover and a million nuts and bolts were all in a box beside it. After a cursory sweep round the remains of the bike making mental notes of what work would need to be completed, we all retired upstairs for the usual coffee and chat.

I hadn’t even considered the prospect of buying the bike but when I first glanced at it I was instantly whisked back to my early teenage years when I had a small colour picture from the box of an Airfix type model of the very same Harley in all its glory pinned to my bedroom wall. I used to often say to myself, usually aloud and out of my parent’s earshot “One day I will own one of those”. On this occasion, although I had not been actively looking for yet another bike for my collection if the opportunity arose well…. Who knows? But when the chap threw in the comment “I don’t mind selling it in this condition if I can find a buyer” then the thought of that cardboard picture once more popped into my mind. The moment he said the price then it was a done deal. I would have been foolish to even take time to consider it. Strike now I thought and only moments later I was the proud owner of a 1980 FXS Lowrider. It came with conditions though but at the price of £2000, I wasn’t unduly concerned providing the conditions weren’t along the lines of running naked through the centre of York wearing nothing but a toothy grin and hair gelled with smegma. I do love that word and did you know it’s Latin for detergent? Regardless, the conditions were simple. The first being that once the bike had been reassembled, registered and running he wanted the very first ride on it and the second was that he wouldn’t accept payment for it until I had it all running to make sure it was exactly as I wanted it. I wasn’t going to argue with either of those conditions and a very happy Kevin left Skipton that evening with a new toy.

The very next day the first job on the agenda was to get it running, the tanks were refitted, the clutch rebuilt and reset and by the close of business that day we had a running and rideable Harley. Within the space of two weeks, we not only had a running Harley but one that was registered had passed an MOT test and was road legal. All that was required now was the previous owner to give it his seal of approval, I must confess though I was a little concerned that he may test ride the machine and change his mind, after all, I hadn’t paid him yet! I made sure that I handed over the payment and took receipt of the V5 before he undertook the test ride just in case. The smile across his face as he rode the Harley back into the yard spoke volumes. He was more than impressed with it but was a man of his word and he was content to have been allowed the maiden voyage on it. So that is how I became the owner of a Harley Davidson FXS1200, but that’s not free I hear you shout, and you are correct, read on for how it became not only free but gave me a tidy profit too. I kept the bike and squirrelled it away in my collection using it to attend parties and rallies for a couple of years and loved every minute of it. It was a sheer pleasure to ride once I had become used to the weight of it and the relative lack of braking power. Eventually, I became bored with it and decided to stand it inline in the showroom in the hope of attracting a prospective buyer.

It hadn’t been standing there long before I had someone expressing an interest in it, it was a regular customer who quite fancied a change from the smaller British bikes he had been used to so he parted with five

Page 49 The Motorcycle Undertaker thousand pounds to become yet another owner of the bike. He too was suitably impressed with its performance and completed a few minor improvements to it over the two years it was in his ownership, adding some extra chrome and cosmetic embellishments. It was difficult saying goodbye to the machine but I could ill afford to have too many bikes lying around the place doing nothing so off it went. Mark loved and cherished the bike for a couple of years before we got the phone call informing us that he and his wife had parted company so all the bikes had to go. Oh aye, sounds familiar this one, so once again it was time to leap into the van and take a trip to Haxby and see exactly what was on offer. By the time we left later that night I had in my possession the Harley, a BSA C15 trials bike, a Honda CM125, a Honda XL125 and a Honda RS250 for spares.

The most incredible event of the evening was the handing over of £2000 cash for the whole lot. Five bikes for two grand, it’s the kind of deal dreams are made of. It was heart-warming to have the Harley back in the stable and this time I was determined to hang on to it as I had always regretted selling it in the first place. The wheeler dealer in me was working overtime on this one and within a month I had sold the BSA for just over half the initial outlay with the rest of the bikes netting a reasonable eight hundred pounds, therefore, making the Harley free, gratis, and complementary and all mine yet again. I took great pleasure in riding it around the countryside with a smile from ear to ear knowing that it was a freebie of titanic proportions. I was sorely tempted to ride into the city and just stop any passer-by to boast of the free Harley Davidson but thought perhaps that was taking things to the extreme. Well, it stayed in my possession for another few years before once more being offered for sale and yet another story could be related of the details of the sale but that is perhaps for another time and place suffice to say the man just walked into the showroom picked out the two most expensive bikes in the place and announced he would return the next day with the cash amount. He kept to his part of the bargain and did indeed return the following morning and threw ten thousand pounds cash on the showroom counter. That will do nicely Sir and I am quite positive that evening I spent writhing naked on my bed with the ten grand giving the whole new concept to ‘dirty money’. That was the perfect example of how to get it right; the next one, unfortunately, is how to get it wrong.

The Laverda Mirage Maybe not totally wrong because I still managed to make a hefty profit but had I not been quite so greedy and impulsive I could have walked away with at least five times that figure. Although in my defence when you are offered such a grand profit it’s all so easy to take the easy option and stick with the bird in the hand. In previous experiences, I have held out for the better money only to be let down dramatically and still only achieve minimum profit. The Laverda Mirage came to us from out of our normal catchment area and although we did cover most of the country with regards to buying bikes, it was generally within a sixty mile radius. This one made its nest in Grantham, Lincs and it was left in the capable hands of Gen to brave the elements one evening and drive down and take a peek at it. I have no idea why I wasn’t with him on that particular journey and it’s a very rare occurrence indeed but try as I might I cannot recall what I was doing that evening. Whatever it was it must’ve been something extremely important such as the birth of a child or the local ladies partaking in the over 50’s coleslaw wrestling competition finals. Gen arrived at the designated habitation and it soon became clear that the reason the Mirage was being offered for sale was the fact that its owner was no longer of this Earth. He had passed away some time previously and now his widow felt that it might be time to pass the machine on. The family of the deceased had got their heads together and produced a figure of £600 for the bike which of course was very reasonable considering it was being sold with a personal registration number ADA 80V, however several of the parts were in a cardboard box in the garage and the carbs were completely dismantled. Even considering all this it was still a bargain and after lots of notes changed hands it was bundled into the rear of the van and whisked back up to Yorkshire.

At first, I was more than a little concerned when I saw the condition of it the following day. My worries increased dramatically when we tried to spin the bike over with a new battery and all it wanted to do was emit a loud annoying click from the solenoid. That was it, throw a wobbly time, I envisaged the engine being seized solid and I had become the owner of a Laverda Mirage paperweight. I was still panicking and shouting torrents of obscenities when Gen traced and rectified the problem. It was all down to a pesky loose cable on the starter motor and once nipped up it spun over like a ‘reet good un’.Within the space of a few weeks, the ‘black beauty’ had been re-assembled and was now a running and very rideable machine. It was nicknamed black beauty because of the jet black paintwork and whilst a lot of folks are impressed by its looks I’m afraid

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I cannot be counted as one of them. Personally, I found it to be an ugly looking beast and after I had taken it for an initial ride around the airfield thought it was akin to riding a Jawa 350 combination. The gears were clunky and hard to select and it was a heavy, numb ride. But, I was in the business of selling motorcycles not evaluating them for others or buying them for my personal use so providing it was mechanically sound and roadworthy it was not for me to judge. Let it be known that I am acquainted with a pair of lads from just outside Hull whose appearance makes you stop in your tracks and do a double take. They are brothers and one of them is a tall well-built lad who has the appearance of someone who would be quite at home in the farm workshop, dressed in overalls and with straw stuck in his hair wrestling with the rear end of a John Deere tractor. His brother is very different in that the image of an extra in The Lord of the Rings springs instantly to mind. Very long hair that almost covers his eyes he has a certain aura surrounding him so that you never can tell if he is pleased to see you or just thinks you are a tosspot of the first order.

The one thing they both have in common is their love of the Laverda motorcycle; unofficially I named them the Laverda Brothers. What those two don’t know regarding the Laverda marque is not worth knowing about. True experts in their field and a great pair of lads too so on one of their trips to the workshop they happened upon the Mirage standing outside the shop. They were all over it and could tell me every last detail regarding the model history, its faults, strange habits and the areas where it excelled over similar Japanese machines. It was after what seemed like an hour observing and carefully inspecting the bike that the obvious question arose. The taller of the brothers entered the workshop asking “Is it for sale then?”, I informed him that yes it was indeed for sale and not something I would normally admit to but I also told him that I hadn’t much of an idea what price to put on it. I made the mistake of valuing it in my mind by how my feelings towards it were; it was not really on the top of my Christmas card list so I hadn’t given it the price that it would be worth to someone who had a passion for that type of bike. So when the brother offered two thousand pounds for it I was taken aback and accepted the offer without delay lest he changes his mind. A twelve hundred pounds profit on a bike in those days was unheard of so I believed that I had been immensely successful with the Laverda. Whilst it’s true to say that, had I kept it for only six months longer that profit could have been a hell of a lot more.

The brothers had bundled the bike into their van and headed back to their workshop where over the next few months it was given a total reconditioning and it appeared on a Laverda Owners Club display stand at the following October’s Stafford Classic Bike Show, a show we regularly used to attend with our large stall containing a vast array of machines and parts. The Mirage looked stunning and stood head and shoulders (or should that be front fork and handlebars) above the competition. It had been resprayed from the drab black paint to a beautiful metallic green, the chrome work had been refurbished and overall the restoration had been completed by the boys to a very high standard. So high a standard in fact that throughout the weekend they were offered by a fellow Laverda aficionado the truly mind blowing sum of ten thousand pounds for it, and they promptly refused. The exorbitant price they were offered though lays testament to the quality and high standard of their workmanship. The Laverda is still in their possession to this day and has now been joined by a stablemate, another Mirage with registration number ADA 79V. Makes me think of the two saddest words in existence ‘if only’.

The Z1300 trike. Another one of those vehicles that I still regret parting company with. The one major attribute with any trike is the smile factor. It’s as much fun you can have with your clothes on or even having yourself baked inside a giant pork pie and being handed a fork to eat your way out. It was what I termed a ‘proper’ trike as it was motorcycle based so had the chance to show off that big beautiful six cylinder behemoth of an engine. It was built to go as well as show and the moment it was fired into life the six potted monster roared through the six straight through exhaust pipes. Cacophonous enough to make birds instantly flee from the trees and young mothers scoop up their offspring afraid that all hell was, in fact, wiggling loose.

The one thing the Kawasaki demanded was attention, on every journey I ever made it would leave a myriad of bewildered onlookers scratching their heads unsure as to what had passed before their very eyes. Was it a bird? Was it a plane? No, it was a Kawasaki Z1300, six cylinders with straight through pipes. It was a truly impressive sight to behold with lustrous black paintwork with the edges shaded in red with wheels

Page 51 The Motorcycle Undertaker elaborately finished with the same colour. The tyres were General Grabbers and even they exuded the ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude with the raised white lettering so often seen on hot rods and drag race cars of that era. The driver sat atop a comfortable single seat with integral backrest whilst the passengers, all three of them or perhaps four, if they were under the age of 10 or from China, sat enveloped a luxurious bench seat on the rear. Behind the passengers at the rear of the trike sat the dog box. The dog box was a pine chest approximately 48 inches long by 20 inches in width and complete with tonneau cover with ample space for a small to medium sized dog or a small child if you prefer.

All the time I was in the ownership of the trike this box was put to good use as a beer and spirits store for the rallies I attended. I first encountered the machine when my buddy Butch owned it. It had been sat forlorn and looking mighty sorry for itself in his front garden requiring a new and someone to offer it the care and attention it so desperately needed. A trike fanatic and still is to this day Butch had found himself in a position where he needed a cash injection pretty quickly so I made an investment and became the latest owner of the beast. What the hell I thought; it will be a whole ton of fun if nothing else. It was purchased for a bargain price and although we did have to fit a new crankshaft it was in good shape and pretty soon afterwards the Kawasaki Z1300 was welcomed to the stable. The first major outing was taken one summer’s evening when Gen took to the driving seat whilst me, Jarv and Frenchie made ourselves as uncomfortable as it was possible to get on the rear. The plan was to visit the KFC down Blossom Street in York, stuff ourselves into next week with crispy chicken then a grand tour of the sights of York before departing home via Stamford Bridge. I should have known it would end in tears when we had to call a halt to the trip before we had even left the yard because I was falling into the rear wheels. Not only were three ample sized adults squeezed on to the less than generous seating but I had the assignment of filming the whole thing whilst holding the latest state of the art video camera which in those pre smartphone days consisted of a hunk of metal and plastic the size of a tumble drier. After a bout of “ouch”, “argghhhh” and “move your fucking leg will ya” type phrases we were finally on our way and wreaking havoc along the A1079 and as the trike thundered past I was busy filming Joe Public’s reaction to it. It was a delight to see the expressions on the faces of the innocent bystanders along the pavements as we thundered past.

The video recording of their bewildered and confused looks said it all. I am convinced they were expecting to view a jet bomber screech past instead of the four scruffy, howling hooligans who gave the impression of a rampaging mob having just escaped from an institution of the criminally deranged. By the time we had reached our first destination, the KFC, we were in serious need of a leg stretch and possibly a two hour session on a torture rack just to get the feeling back into our bodies but the bargain buckets quickly revitalised our weary bones. After an hour long discussion with members of the public answering the barrage of “how fast is it mister” questions we were once more on our merry way through the streets of York and the next port of call simply had to be the road tunnel down Leeman Road. Anyone who owns a motorcycle in the York area with loud pipes will instantly recognise this venue. It’s only around 200 metres in length but by hell can you make some real noise in there. Many a clutch will have been burnt out by slipping it from one end to the other in an effort to make as much noise as possible. You were allowed extra points if you managed to screech through it whilst a family of four were walking along the footpath inside. As we emerged from the exit of the tunnel it must have been reminiscent of Leeds Bradford airport in high season, it was loud to the point of being painful to the ears. Having wreaked havoc around the streets of York and scared more youngsters it was time to head for home and before long we were speeding (not literally of course officer) along the open road towards Stamford Bridge. It was at this point that Frenchie became somewhat agitated, waving his arms around and pushing his body against the rest of us.

As General pulled into the side of the road, Frenchie leapt off immediately and it became apparent what all the fuss was about. His left leg had somehow got pushed on to the rear wheel; it had worn a large hole in his jeans and was now starting work on removing the skin from his left leg. After the smell of burning flesh had dissipated we all mounted up and made the final leg of the journey back to base, haha see what I did there? Once back in the sanctuary of the workshop the video recording was scrutinized for York city’s resident’s reactions to our visit. It made excellent viewing and these days would have been worthy of a YouTube position. For reasons unknown I lost the recording some years later though it’s possible that I recorded dubious bedroom scenes with the missus over the top of it. On another journey, the trike was treated to a weekend away at The Farmyard Party held within the grounds of Cat Babbleton Farm at the village of Foxholes on the

Page 52 The Motorcycle Undertaker way to Scarborough. The Farmyard as it became affectionately known wasn’t so much of a rally to me than a weekend spent trying to consume the Western hemisphere’s allowance of Jack Daniels. On this particular jaunt, I had travelled alone on Friday evening and met up with a few likeminded chums down in the valley firstly having to negotiate the rough dirt track down to the steep hill that led to the camping area. After much merriment and beer drinking exercises, a whole group of us decided to wave farewell to the campsite and head up the hill to partake in the festivities such as even more heavy drinking pursuits and the stuffing of faces with as much greasy fast food as we could muster. “Why don’t I give you all a lift up on the trike?” I mistakenly announced, immediately regretting the decision as nine people proceeded to climb aboard the poor old trike. Well, at least we made it halfway up the hill before the clutch burnt out and came to an abrupt standstill amid cries of laughter from the passengers who thought it hilarious but their laughter soon turned to misery as they realised they had to walk the rest of the journey up the hill carrying crates of beer too. If my memory serves me well, that was also the weekend that one of the lads that used to work on the construction business came along and spent most of the weekend imitating farmyard implements after indulging in far too many mind altering substances. I am sure I still have a photograph of him leaning against the wall doing his best to emulate a potato sippet. The trike remained in its place of rest all weekend and with a push and pull on Sunday evening I managed to negotiate the remainder of the hill and come to rest on the tarmac where it was from there onwards a very slow and steady journey home. The Kawasaki was eventually repaired and sold on and as far as I am aware ended up somewhere near Bridlington. It was fun on a grand scale and even though I have owned several trikes since none of them ever came close to having the energy and vigour that this one had. It was the ultimate in street credibility and just plain good old fashioned, honest fun.

The bargain priced Triumph Speed Triple. By the time you have reached the end of this book, you will be aware of just how fortunate and downright lucky I have been in the years I had the shop. It appears that once you have firmly set yourself on the bottom rung of the ladder and are busy heaving yourself heavenwards then the bargains just keep on coming. They seem to have a knack of finding you, probably since I was always high profile and the first port of call for many people who had a bike to dispose of. To them, it would have failed its MOT and they would consider it not viable to pursue any further but to me, having all the spares at hand and a fully equipped workshop housing the best motorcycle engineer in the business it would be just a case of shoving the cast off motorcycle through the workshop for a day to fettle it up. That said, it wasn’t always the case and some of the bikes would simply have the few remaining usable parts stripped off then thrown in the skip. I was in the right place at the right time concerning the Triumph Triple. Had I chosen to leave the shop five minutes earlier I would have missed the crucial phone call that set the wheels in motion. I was just about to lock the outer door one early evening on my way out and the phone rang. I had already locked the inner doors and I stood pondering, do I unlock it or is it ‘fuck it’ time and leave it ‘til morning. Luckily I had the good sense to return to the counter and lift the receiver on the last ring; I knew it was the last ring as the caller said: “Oh I didn’t think you were in I was just about to hang up”. The caller was speaking from Singapore and it was probably costing him a fortune regardless. He continued, “I am going to offer you the deal of the century if you are interested”, Yes I thought, I have heard that one before.

When someone says they are offering me the buy of a lifetime it usually turns out to be a moth eaten Jawa 350 dumped in the back of their shed and they are only asking five hundred quid when they are only a little more for a new one. So I was apprehensive at first, but instead of it being something nondescript it was a three year old Triumph Speed Triple. I was expecting him to be throwing the figure of four to five thousand into the centre of the ring but when he announced that he wanted only one thousand I started to believe his deal of the century spiel. Hang on a minute though, it might only be a grand but that could even be a lot of money if it was bent double and smashed to pieces or had lived in the local canal for twelve months. Well it wasn’t, it was in very good condition and possibly only needing a new chain otherwise it was all in order. It was finished in that striking metallic light green colour with a silver frame. This was getting better by the minute and all the time I was on the phone to him it was at the back of my mind that there just had to be a catch in all this. Ah yes I thought, he’s calling from Singapore and I probably have to collect it from there, that would be a suitable reason for the super low price. He might only be asking a low figure but it would set me back three times the amount to have it collected and shipped from the Far East. But no, the bike was in his heated garage locally and the only stipulation was that I would have to collect the bike from Market Weighton and pay one

Page 53 The Motorcycle Undertaker thousand pounds cash this evening, in fact as soon as humanly possible. So without delay, the phone call was terminated and I shot off pretty damn quickly to the chap’s house at Market Weighton and I was greeted by his very amiable wife who explained further that her husband was in the forces posted overseas and she needed instant cash to pay for the mortgage due to a mix up with wages that month so the bike was being sold to raise the necessary funds. I wasn’t going to argue with her on this one. She added that the relevant documentation would be dropped off at mine in three weeks when he returned home on leave.

I could sure cope with that however it would make it slower to sell on as the next owner would be expecting a V5 if they were investing good money in the bike. It was loaded into the back of the van and even if I say so myself it was in excellent condition and had been perfectly described by the owner. The asking price normally on this would have been three to four thousand so that gave me plenty of space to price it to sell quickly. I didn’t have to wait long before our good friends the Laverda Brothers paid a visit to the shop and on spying the Triumph for the first time Rob showed a definite interest in becoming the next owner. The story was related to him and the fact that the documentation would be along in three weeks but this didn’t deter him from offering a sizable profit on my investment. I was more than impressed with that figure as it also meant the bike would be sold ‘as is’ so he would have to be responsible for renewing the drive chain and perhaps a service. I walked away with a healthy profit of fifteen hundred pounds for simply driving eight miles and collecting the bike. That will do very nicely thank you very much. The previous owner kept his word too and sure enough, when he returned to the UK on leave he stopped by the shop and presented me with the full documentation for the Triumph along with a stamped service history book too. If only transactions like that one materialised every day.

The job lot of British bikes. There is always one, isn’t there? Well, realistically I suppose no matter how you even the playing field out, there will always be one deal that sits head and shoulders above the rest. One case history that sticks in the gut and the wallet! In my lifetime so far, this is that deal, it’s a story almost too unbelievable to be true but as with all the tales in this book it is true down to the very last nut and bolt with little or no embellishments along the way. It was another one of those arrangements that could have so easily have been overlooked and missed altogether, in fact, it was on the third and final attempt that the vendor managed to contact me. It all began when I decided to insert a small lineage advertisement in the Yorkshire Evening Press newspaper. I was living at Monkton Road in York in a spacious three bedroomed semi and at the time and thought it would be an ideal base and an easy way of viewing and collecting bikes on an evening then shipping them over to the workshop the next day. It was a short and to the point basic ad and read: Motorcycles wanted, any condition. Cash waiting. It was as simple as that. No picture of semi-naked ladies draped over a throbbing and pulsating Harley Davidson just a plain and simple affair. It was working too and before long I was receiving at least one call most evenings prompting me to head into the city to view a wide range of motorcycles, mostly on their last legs (or should perhaps that be tyres?) I had one or two bargains from the ad but nothing on Earth could have prepared me for the big one. It was Suzi that originally took the initial call and when I arrived home that evening I was presented with an oily notepad containing only a phone number and the words lots of British bikes emblazoned across it. I didn’t take too much notice of it as I wasn’t really interested in buying anything other than Japanese bikes and the prices of the English machinery was starting to skyrocket so thought it best to leave it for the time being. Perhaps file it away under the heading ‘take a leisurely trip out and view when nothing else better to do’.

As expected the episode was forgotten about until one Thursday evening a few weeks later the notepad was once more thrust at me with the same telephone number and the words ‘Please call ASAP’ scrawled underneath. I made a mental note to contact the somewhat desperate person the following week. I was too preoccupied with loading up the vans and trailers for the Stafford Classic Bike Show being held that weekend guess where? Stafford. Sorry, I am just making sure you are all still with me on this one. The show was an eventful three days, to say the least, and we arrived back to base on Sunday evening totally shattered and yes I completely forgot to ring the British bike man. On that following Friday, I was yet again offered the notepad this time with a stern instruction from Suzi to call the man and at least tell him that I wasn’t interested. So like every obedient and loving husband I picked up the phone and called the number. It transpired that he had a shed full of British bikes in all different states of repair and approximately a small van load of spares and he

Page 54 The Motorcycle Undertaker

Another early shot featuring General, Martin and Timmy playing on a Honda XL250, Timmy later fell off the bike and slightly damaged it and felt compelled to buy it. I wasn’t going to argue at that.

The Toyota Hilux stolen from almost that position some weeks later. I really loved that vehicle and ended up owning another two in the following years.

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The Triumph T100 that was procured from Huggate and was to be in my private collection for many years afterwards.

Just a fraction of the spares and bikes bought from the Waggy’s deal over at Scunthorpe. The photo was taken by me hanging from the HIAB crane on the back of Jarv’s wagon. The row of bikes on the left of the pic contains a rare Suzuki GT380J which I went and sold for £100.

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Found in a dilapidated barn at Levisham railway station this Ariel single went on to propel three of us into a fence!

A true bargain if there ever was one. The Harley FXS Lowrider bought for a pittance then sold for a fortune, then bought for a pittance again and…well the story goes on and on.

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An interesting view of Nat Fazzari’s warehouse full of bikes. We were regular customers searching through the never ending supply.

The Norton ES2 that came free with the hoard of British bikes in Acomb. Here it is pictured in Spain.

Page 58 The Motorcycle Undertaker was looking to get rid of the lot. So whilst I was still in an assertive frame of mind I opted to go along to his house at the other side of York and take a look tout suite.

Upon arrival, I was greeted by a short elderly gentleman who quite frankly didn’t look as if he was remotely connected to bikes but just goes to show how looks can be so deceiving. The reason he was so keen to dispose of the bikes was only that due to ill health and that old enemy, age, he was unable to use the kick-start so his idea was to sell the bikes and replace them with one bike with an electric start. Sounded like a reasonable thing to do given his stature and age. I probably would have gone one step further and bought a trike, but that’s me, anything for an easy life. So we had a cuppa and a chat and it was simply fascinating hearing the stories of all the bikes he had lovingly rebuilt and the adventures he had been involved in over his long and varied motorcycling career. The first few bikes were covered over with a blue tarpaulin out in the rear garden and as he drew the cover back I could see the remains of a Norton ES2 along with an incomplete BSA B31 and a shabby BSA Bantam. I could easily see that those bikes would be a project for the very determined or the criminally insane to take on board. With too many parts missing and the remainder that was left intact probably as much use as a braille speedometer I was once more beginning to wish I had given this journey into Acomb a wide berth. I tried the best I could to appear enthusiastic but the vendor must have sensed my disappointment as he announced we would leave them there for now and look at the others. I thought the three leant against the back wall of the house was what I had come over to take a peek at but no there was more in the garage. I wasn’t holding my breath after having seen the state of the last three and if I could have made a suitable excuse such as my wife is in the last throes of pregnancy or our house is on fire or both then I would have left at that point.

Once in the garage, he flicked the light switch and there appeared to be four or five bikes all in differing conditions. The light wasn’t the brightest and was as much use as a jam cardigan but better than trying to identify the damned things in the dark. First up was a black 1965 Triumph 500 twin, in reasonable condition but with exhaust missing. It, along with its stablemates hadn’t moved in quite some time and it was showing the first signs of neglect. Immediately to the right of it stood an off green looking Francis Barnett 250cc in restored and running condition. He refused to kick start the thing and allowed me to do the honours and bless it, it started first kick. The only chore that would have to be attempted would be a damned good wash and brush up with a bucket of hot water and a sponge. At this point I could already see I was out of my depth and the price for this shed load of beauties would be way above my budget but I decided to press on and perhaps there would be one that I could afford without breaking the bank. Leant against the garage wall were the remnants of a 1966 BSA A7 that would be touch and go whether it would fall into the category of spares or repair.

Someone with access to plenty of parts and a bucketful of determination would be at home with this one. The seat was missing along with the exhaust and instrument panel but what was there was in very good condition. The chrome was good and the engine polished and complete. Our man commented that it was the BSA that he had been working on before he was taken ill and never got the chance to complete the mission. The sadness in his eyes spoke volumes, this had been a labour of love for him and now the cruelty of age had started to get the better of him. After we had studied and discussed the A7 our attention turned to a very clean example of another BSA Bantam in red. Once again this had been restored, not to a show winning condition but to what I would term a rideable roadworthy state. It was all present and correct and even the chrome work was still in good condition. The bike was built in 1969 and had weathered the years very well and he assured me that this one was also a good runner though I refused his offer of trying to spark it into life as it looked as if I would do myself an injury climbing over the rest of the bikes to get to it. This was what I would term a Sunday afternoon in the pub bike, the kind of machine that would transport your carcass to and from the pub with the minimum of fuss.

At the rear of the shed was another small room approximately the size of an outside toilet that was stacked to the ceiling with boxes of new and used parts and a four foot high pile of service manuals for just about every British bike in existence. From the Raleigh Wisp to the mighty Ariel Square Four, they were all in that heap of dusty moth eaten manuals. Apparently, all that had to be moved too though it would be a performance actually getting the vast amount of accumulated junk out as the entrance was just about blocked with all the remains of other bikes. Just when I was starting to think it was all over the man announced that

Page 59 The Motorcycle Undertaker there was yet another small garden shed at the bottom of the lawn with yet more goodies hidden away. So off we tramped down to the last shed and contained therein lay an old green 1961 James Captain which appeared by torchlight to be in good condition and once again it was wearing years of accumulated dust that a good wash would see off. It was the 197cc Villiers engine unit and apparently, it had been restored quite a few years previously but would benefit from another coat of looking at to make mint. At the other side of the James stood a beautiful Norton ES2, the same model as one of the wrecks that were lying at the rear of the house but this one was in excellent condition. Silver and grey with a black seat and chrome side panels it was the definition of a classic British bike in my eyes and still is. I was completely captivated by this bike and even if I couldn’t afford the rest of them it would be interesting to see if I could finish the evening by loading this beauty into the back of the van. I could see that Norton had my name on it and I would have to utilise my very best negotiating skills to obtain it at an affordable figure.

We retired back to the kitchen and the kettle was once again thrust into action and just as I was about to ask the dreaded question of how much for the Norton he presented me with a copy of Motorcycle News with an advert for the new Triumph Daytona. That was the bike he was after; no kick start just with a button on the bars to fire the beast into life. Well, the price of that Daytona was well out of my reach so I thought that was that. I would be leaving empty handed after all. “Look lad, I can see you are interested in the Norton and one or two others, how about £1500,” I thought that was stretching it a bit really for the Norton, not that it wasn’t worth that, it was and much more besides but I had to justify spending that amount on one bike just for my own use. Ok, I thought let’s get the others sorted before the Norton, “how much for the other bikes then?” I asked expecting to pay at least three thousand for the rest, probably more. “It’s £1500 for all the lot he laughed, the Norton, the James, all the spares, everything I have shown you” He explained that he had a large quantity of cash saved for the Daytona and was just £1500 short of his target so he would be happy with that figure. Needless to say, I was more than happy with that figure. I was ecstatic over that figure and so I paid him a cash deposit whilst I went across York back home to get the balance. I phoned Gen and asked him to meet me at the man’s house with his van as it all wouldn’t fit into mine and I was already thinking that we could attend the Rufforth auto jumble the following morning if we were quick off the mark. By the time both vans were loaded to the max, it must have been 10 pm and Gen and I arranged to meet at Rufforth Park to try to offload some of the project bits and pieces I had bought so it was less to have to unload back at the shop and the autojumble was the perfect shop window for bikes of that ilk.

The popular phrase “flies round warm shit” springs to mind when our two vans arrived at the jumble and we began to offload the valuable and very sought after stock. It was almost impossible to spread the items out because people were milling around all over the stall. Now don’t get me wrong I am not complaining about it I couldn’t have been happier especially considering folks were thrusting piles of cash into my grubby little mitts. Well, let me tell you this, in the first hour of being there I had made back the initial investment I had paid to the gentleman the previous evening so in the back of the van I had myself a Norton ES2, a BSA Bantam, a Francis Barnett 250, a BSA B31 and a Triumph 500 and the beauty of it was that they were all free. Not bad going for a few hours work. Over the course of the next few months, the bulk of these bikes were sold off to various buyers for a substantial amount and I ended up keeping the Norton and taking it with me when I eventually moved to Spain. I used to ride around the little Spanish villages on it and it always drew a crowd of elderly Spanish gents admiring it and always commenting on how they would have loved something like this in their younger years.

Over the years that I have been buying and selling motorcycles, the day I collected all those British bikes will still be regarded as the best deal I ever negotiated. The most interesting and most rewarding too. I am tempted to say it will never happen again but you never know.

The 50cc Racing outfit. Now, this little baby has to rank way up in the top five list of both most fun whilst clothed and the motorcycle most likely to send you to an early grave, smiling. The basis of the outfit was a Suzuki FR50 commuter moped that had been seriously modified and condensed into a small home built chassis, basically utilising the engine and front forks which had been radically altered to suit the short wheelbase. The standard Suzuki wheels were disposed of to be replaced with the smaller FZ50 type with a wheel nabbed from a

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Honda vision providing the support for the sidecar. The whole thing was protected from the elements with a fibreglass seat cowling and a home fabricated steel cover over the third wheel to prevent any stray digits finding themselves into the workings at speed. It was a conspicuous looking machine finished in bright yellow with a blue frame with the appropriate sponsor stickers breaking up the colour. However, the paintwork was second only to the radical performance of the outfit. Perhaps it was because the rider was in such proximity to the tarmac that it appeared much quicker than it was but by goodness at times you would be forgiven for thinking that you were travelling upwards of seventy miles per hour.

It was terrifying but at the same time exhilarating tearing around the yard and up the long straight of the industrial estate avoiding oncoming traffic and pedestrians. The tiny two-stroke motor was surprisingly torquey and would propel me and Gen up to what seemed like breakneck speeds with little or no effort. A combined weight of thirty stone plus did little to dampen the Suzuki’s spirits when the throttle was twisted to the max. I happened upon the outfit purely by chance at the local car boot sale at Wigginton one bright and breezy Sunday morning. It was a Honda Vision with a private registration plate standing on the vendor’s stall for a trifling forty pounds that initially enticed me over and never one to miss a bargain I snapped it up almost immediately. The conversation soon found its way round to other machines and he confessed to having a few more bikes back at his garage which as luck would have it was only a mile away. I agreed to accompany him after he had completed his assignment of trying to dispose of twenty years of accumulated junk from the aforementioned garage. I could predict he would be stood there quite some time with his pasting table slowly buckling in the middle searching for someone who required a foot spa and a box of scart leads. I lurked around in my best Sunday morning lurking pose, invested in a tasty bacon butty and coffee went for a wee then another butty and more coffee then slowly ambled back over to his pitch to find him throwing the scart leads and foot spa into the back of his van in disgust.

Once back at his garage I was shown some of the other vehicles on offer including a very rare grey import Suzuki GSXR50 a tiny scale replica of the mighty Gixer and this bright yellow kneeler outfit. The GSXR was out of my price range but the outfit could be bought for a hundred pounds. It sure looked fun and at that price, I would have been foolish not to give it a go, so it was loaded into the rear of my van to join the recently purchased Honda Vision and taken back to the workshop for evaluation. He had explained to me that it was a non-runner but he felt sure it would be something easy to repair. It was easy to repair and I am baffled by how he missed such an obvious fault, it was out of fuel. After filling with petrol we soon had the blighter revving and raring to go. Gen was the first to give it the introductory launching along the yard and the smile on his face upon his return said it all, normally termed the Cheshire cat grin. We had tremendous fun and games on the yellow peril and even converted it into an impromptu public service vehicle. Well not exactly, an eight foot long chain was affixed to the rear of the frame and at the other end was an upturned bonnet from a Ford Fiesta in which several people would reluctantly sit and make a vain attempt at staying on the bonnet as it was towed behind the outfit at speeds of up to forty miles per hour.

That speed is truly frightening given that the only thing between your knees and the concrete in the yard is a two millimetre thick hunk of metal. Many tried and almost all failed to master the two-stroke equivalent of a bucking bronco combined with water skiing and were usually thrown off the bonnet at the first corner only to spend the next ten minutes picking out gravel that had become embedded in their skin. As with all unique and unusual machines the novelty eventually wore off and the outfit took its place in the corner of the building to impersonate a large ornament. The time had arrived to move on and allow someone else enjoy the fun so it was offered for sale on the very popular Yahoo auctions. This was in the days before eBay and it was free to list and no final value fees so I had nothing to lose.

Imagine my surprise when it sold almost immediately, and then imagine my surprise when I discovered that it sold for ten times what I had initially paid for it. The final price was one thousand pounds and within a few days, the buyer had deposited the money into my account. This was on the proviso that I would deliver it to his workshop. The lucky winning bid was from a buyer who was also in the motorcycle trade, a fellow purveyor of quality motorcycles based down in the Midlands. Only he was specialising in the Russian combination motorcycles. They had been relaunched and were available in a variety of guises. It sure would be an eye opener getting to have a snoop around some of these unusual machines. A date was set then Gen and I loaded up the outfit and headed south. Upon arrival, we were greeted by a posse of staff eager to see what the boss had bought

Page 61 The Motorcycle Undertaker as the new company toy. I wasn’t initially too impressed by the disapproving looks they were giving the outfit but once one of the lads had put it through its paces around their yard he too arrived back with the same grinning expression that had adorned Gen’s face on his inaugural trip. That was it, the lads were fighting for a go on the latest addition to the workshop and we left them disappearing in a blaze of blue smoke as they had the time of their lives on that little outfit. Just proving yet again that size doesn’t matter does it, girls?

The Cagiva 350 Trail bike. This bike was a pig from day one. It looked terrific and was in quite remarkable cosmetic condition for its age, tipping the scales at just short of fifteen years old. It had only covered a meagre three thousand kilometres from new and I was surprised that it had ended up in the shop. It was far too good for breaking and I made the easy decision to MOT and register it for road use. Upon reflection, I would have been better throwing it from the cliffs at Flamborough rather than endure the heartache and stress that came with it. I had bought it from our Italian expert Nat amongst a small job lot of around ten bikes. I should have questioned why it came with a bargain price tag instead of brushing it off in case Nat had made a mistake on his pricing. I paid three hundred pounds for it and could easily foresee a thousand pounds profit on the horizon. Alas, this wasn’t to be and even as we were unloading the bikes from the back of the truck that was the one that lost its footing and fell ten feet with a landing with an expensive sounding crash. The front indicator had absorbed most of the damage so it wasn’t as drastic as it had sounded. Trying to find a replacement part was an ordeal in itself and try as I may I could not locate the necessary part so it was left to good old ingenuity and a used Honda C90 indicator to do the trick. The bike was a nightmare to start, it lacked the benefit of an electric start button and I had to rely on brute force and ignorance jumping on the kick start pedal as if I were starting an elephant...the mammal not the Cagiva Elefant! I put this down to the fact it probably needed a good run to blow the cobwebs off everything. Well, I gave it a good thrashing the length of the industrial estate and it hadn’t improved.

Once it was running it ran perfectly so I surmised it was just one of those machines that enjoy being awkward to start, like the Yamaha XT500 etc. so I left it as it was. It was steam cleaned and rigorously polished and stood head and shoulders above the rest of the machines lurking in the relatively crowded showroom. Within a matter of weeks, a plucky young lad took one look and immediately fell in love with the Cagiva and visited twice to have a test ride before committing to purchase at the asking price of £1200. All the paperwork completed it was only the simple matter of delivery and later that evening I returned home nursing a bulge in my trousers, no not that but a nice wedge of 60 twenty pound notes. My rejoicing was to be short lived as within two days he was on the phone claiming that it wasn’t running as it should and was difficult to start. I vowed to return at the weekend and collect the naughty bike and sort it for him. The next day he was back on the phone again claiming it was making the most God Awful racket and wouldn’t make it past 20mph. I advised him to leave it alone until my arrival at the weekend for fear of causing even more damage to the engine. I’m not sure if he took notice of this advice or not but when I arrived to collect it the engine sounded as if it were about to breathe its last breath and disappear up its own exhaust pipe.

First thing Monday morning the offending machine was wheeled into General’s domain and stripped to find the cause of such grief. After the barrel and piston had been removed it was immediately apparent what the noise was, the big end bearing had failed miserably and had around a quarter of an inch play in it. Damn, that’s all I needed, however, there was enough mark-up on the sales price to allow us to rectify the situation. This was where the problems began; it would have been easier to locate a Dalek with the personality of Dale Winton than find spares for this thing. No one had a conrod kit either in the UK or in Italy. Used spares were virtually non-existent and if I did manage to find a used engine it would have always had a knackered bottom end. So after three weeks of unsuccessful searching, bearing in mind this was pre-internet days, I was left with a bike that was quite frankly as much use as a pair of false teeth made from soap. I had no alternative but to refund the hapless lad which really went against the grain but being a man of my word I had no choice. I was seriously considering pushing it into the centre of the yard and setting fire to it then performing a reverse stunt with it, namely, I would leap over the flaming bike holding a hoop. I tried once again in vain to locate the parts and eventually gave up in a fit of temper and frustration and leant the bike against the skip outside subconsciously hoping someone would throw it in. It was long forgotten then a few months later York Motor Auctions rang to inquire as to if we had anything to send through their upcoming motorcycle auction.

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This was a chance to recoup some of the wasted finance on the Cagiva. It was once again sent into the workshops with strict instructions to make it look saleable. This is where it gets rather unethical but what the hell, the previous week some outfit in Wales had sold General a fuel tank and when it arrived it leaked like a sieve. No matter how many times he called them they dodged their responsibilities and under no circumstances would they refund him. This was quite distressing as it was for quite a lot of money. A plan was hatched to gain retribution for this act and we had one of their business cards in the office so on the rear of the card I wrote the following line ‘Fancy buying a bike from an auction that you cannot hear running, you silly fucker’ and signed it with the name of the proprietor from the shop on the card. This was then placed inside a sealed polythene bag and located in the bottom of the crankcase. The engine was then painstakingly rebuilt and the kick start disposed of so it could not be tried. I entered the bike in the auction and it did considerably well with the hammer finally falling at three hundred and fifty pounds. I didn’t hang around after the sale and I didn’t manage to see who it was that bought it but I would have murdered to have been a fly on the wall when they got it home and stripped it down.

Ashley’s chopper. With my own radical Harley chop having been completed I thought it only fitting to build something resembling the Harley for my eldest son Ashley. He was only five at the time and I guess cruising the streets on a chopper looking mean and cool was probably the last thing on his mind but as any doting father knows it’s always a moment to feel proud if the children share the same interests or hobbies. So I set about constructing a hardtail chopper that would doff its cap at my Harley for the boy. Don’t forget this was long before the Chinese started to flood the UK market with a wide range of affordable custom machinery aimed at the youngsters. In those days it was a case of make do and mend or spend a small fortune having something shipped over from Holland or the US. There were no ‘off the shelf’ custom parts for something this size so it was all handmade or swiped from other sources.

The frame itself was easy to make by just utilising the headstock from a standard Suzuki TS50ER trail bike and I then just once more attacked the pipe bender with several lengths of steel tubing, welded the finished bends together and hey presto, with a flick of the wrist I had before me a scaled-down version of a custom rigid frame. The small but perfectly formed engine was a 50cc unit from another Suzuki we had lying around which was rebuilt and given a repaint in heat resistant silver and whilst we are on the subject of the donor Suzuki it also offered up the front forks for use on the mini chop. The wheels and brakes came straight out of a 1980 Honda Lead 80 scooter and heavens above they fit straight in the bike leaving only a spacer to machine up for a perfect fit. A rare occurrence indeed.

The fuel tank was pinched from an old NSU Quickly 50cc moped that had been discarded somewhat unceremoniously round the back of the skip and the addition of a new fuel tap and chrome filler cap made it look just as effective as any purpose made item. Now, my friends, this is where it gets interesting as some of the other parts were lovingly handcrafted from material snaffled (another of my favourite words) from some rather odd and unusual places. For example, the handlebars were carefully cut, bent and welded by myself using a length of half-inch steel water pipe which used to supply water to the toilet block. I couldn’t help myself, it was exactly the right size and I took it upon myself to retrieve it one night in a fit of madness. I did eventually replace the pipe with a flexible piece therefore recommissioning the toilets sometime later that week. The rear sissy bar and the rear brake control rod both started life as a pram canopy, well to be more precise it was the canopy from my daughter Charlotte’s pram, I figured that at the age of seven she would probably have no further use for it so it was donated to me by me. I constructed the billet footrests and the neat and basic slab yokes from the various blocks of waste aluminium that seem to have accumulated along the rear of the building. It was a relatively simple operation as only that very week a new toy had been delivered to the workshop. It was the latest in Chinese technology, a lathe/milling machine that was about as accurate as a sundial at midnight. However, it was close enough to mill out the yokes and the footrests then give me some much needed practice in the dark art of machining.

The exhaust pipe had already been formed whilst I had the pipe bender out on the bench building the frame rails so that just left the seat and rear mudguard or fender if you are American. The seat was easy, two pieces of plywood cut to shape following the lines of the frame then the addition of a sturdy lump of foam covered with leather that I cut from one of wife number one’s leather skirts. Yes, I did get into trouble too for

Page 63 The Motorcycle Undertaker that, especially so because I had taken the skirt to the workshop, carefully cut out the shape of the seat base then returned it to the confines of the wardrobe at home. The first I knew of it was one Saturday evening just before us going out for a drink in the local town. I heard a fit of swearing and commotion coming from the bedroom, so I instantly ran upstairs to see her standing with her back to me, wearing the skirt and exposing her bottom through the seat shaped hole contained in it. So I did what all loving, courteous husbands do and blamed Ashley for it. My comments on it perhaps being a new trend in sexy fashion appeared to fall on deaf ears. The rear mudguard was a ready-made item that originally was destined for a small car trailer. It was to fit ten inch Mini wheels but cut in half it was the perfect fit for the Honda Lead wheels. As with all good choppers I left off the front mudguard in the name of beauty. After all the dots were joined I then dismantled the mini bike and shipped the whole lot off to NB Coatings to have it powder coated in a wonderfully bloody red. As a tongue in cheek touch, I added the registration plate and used the letters ‘BAD BOY 1’ and this was often the ice breaker at the many shows the bike attended. I had one very proud son the day we had shown the bikes at Barnsley Custom Show where I scooped up a prize for my Harley and Ashley came away with a trophy of his own for the ‘best junior’ category. Ashley still has the bike and though many have offered to buy it he refuses to part with it on the grounds of sentimentality. He was even featured within the hallowed pages of AWOL custom bike magazine, something that I don’t think his school chums were ever allowed to forget in a hurry and come to think of it neither will his mother after the leather skirt escapade.

The Martek 1200 I have always been quite a ‘hefty’ bloke, blessed with more than my fair share of timber but never in a million years did I think it would affect which bikes I could or could not ride. Obviously trying to fit my frame aboard a mini moto was always destined to be a non-starter, and would probably have fared better tying one to each foot to use as makeshift roller skates. I thought that a 1260cc nitrous turbo Kawasaki might be able to withstand even my portly chassis and excessive weight. Sadly not, though it wasn’t the weight that was at fault but the sheer girth and size.

Who on earth do the manufacturers of the special make these bikes for? I swear that only a ten year old South Korean would fit on the less than comfortable seat and touch the floor. However, that was the least of my problems concerning this monster of a machine. I first laid eyes on the Martek down at the Universal Salvage closed breaker auctions held in Sandy, Bedfordshire. I was privy to the closed breaker auctions held every few months at the Sandy site. Being in the dismantling business gave me exclusive access to those bikes that were not allowed back on the road, usually termed ‘category b’ these were spares only machines and could range in condition from suffering a hammering to the plastics to a total burn out. The bikes were sold at no reserve and it was not unknown for me to leave the site with ten machines and only have spent a mere two hundred pounds. The Martek was laid on its side on a pallet and had spewed its oil all over the concrete yard. The headstock had broken away from the frame altogether and was still attached to the fork yokes which were also strapped to the pallet, apart from that the damage was minimal with just the expected scratches and scrapes on the deep blue metallic paintwork. Luckily the beautifully crafted aluminium tubular frame had survived the impact showing no visible dents or scratches.

I could see instantly that the owner or should I say the builder had spent a serious amount of money on this bike and the front forks alone would fleece the wallet to the tune of a thousand pounds as they were White Power upside-down forks. A few other folks seemed to be taking an interest in the bike though I suspect they hadn’t the faintest idea of its true value. The bidding started at a meagre fifty pounds progressed very slowly and for a fleeting moment, I genuinely thought I had a chance of walking away with it for less than a couple of hundred quid. As each of the bidders fell by the wayside others took their places and I was the constant in the equation and when the price rose to a thousand pounds I was the only one left and I looked the auctioneer straight in the eye with a look of sheer desperation for him to drop the hammer, “sold, to Snap-On for eleven hundred pounds”, the auctioneers always called me Snap-On due to me wearing a bright red cap bearing the words of the famous tool company emblazoned across the front. A hat that I treasured for many years and still have to this day.

At the hammer price, it was a little more than I had expected to pay but even as a breaker I would be well in profit with some of the trick parts that had been fitted. Once the bike was home it was shipped up to Malton to have the headstock re-welded back on to the chassis and whilst it was there I had a beautiful

Page 64 The Motorcycle Undertaker stainless exhaust system manufactured by the highly talented, mad as a hatter, Will Bratley of Weab Motors. The engine had been bored out to 1260cc and had a nitrous oxide kit fitted along with a turbo unit. This was no slouch of a bike and I could visualize it being able to pull wheelies at 140mph plus. The Campagnolo front and rear wheels were also undamaged in the accident and it was a good job too at over a thousand pounds each. I’m afraid it would have been using GSXR wheels had they suffered as no way would I be replacing those. The bike was blessed with immense power and stability but would it stop as well as it goes? The short answer is yes. The long answer, yes it would thanks to having been fitted with Brembo discs all round and sporting a pair of Harrison Billet six-pot front brake callipers up front and one on the rear for good measure.

After six months working on and off the bike, it was almost ready for that all important trial run. The inaugural blast up the centre of the industrial estate to see how the beast performed with all its performance parts and go faster goodies correctly installed. And that was where the first problem lay, Gen was too short in the leg to keep his trotters on terra firma and I was long enough in the leg department but just too damned fat. The tiny seat hadn’t been built with someone like me or Gen in mind and try as I may I could barely squeeze my arse into the narrow gap between the rear of the aluminium fuel tank and the rear tail hump. Damn, I thought, this was a major concern as I had bought the bike intending to use it on the road myself and now I was too fat to even sit on it. Drastic measures would have to be employed if I was to make this my next mode of transport, this would have to include rearranging the seating and altering the footrest height. I, therefore, decided to abandon any hope of using the bike to the best of its ability and put it up for sale with a price tag to suit the amount of work and money that had already been spent. I had spent just over two thousand pounds including the initial outlay for the bike and I was perhaps being a bit optimistic putting a figure of six thousand on it. As an unfinished project, this was maybe just a tad on the high side but my reservations were unfounded when after only a week the phone brought forth a customer eager to own the bike. He was very pleased with his purchase, I was very pleased with his purchase too and next time I consider buying myself a speed machine I had better make sure it fits me first.

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CHAPTER 7 The Wholesalers

The U.S. Imports Over the many years that I have been involved with the buying and selling of motorcycles I have always found that the better deals are to be had from the general public. The guy who used to roar around on a Z650 in his younger days but the advent of the wife, mortgage and then children meant that the bike would be relegated to the darkest depths of the garage only to be stood as a dust collector until one day he finally decides to part with it after being hounded by that very same love of his life. Or perhaps the young lad that bought a moped at the age of sixteen to thrash to and from work and gain a little independence from the parents but now at the tender age of seventeen a Vauxhall Corsa sport seems a much safer and practical idea so the poor old moped would be stood around the back of the house with a half-hearted attempt at sheeting it down.

These are the best type of deals because the owners couldn’t give a damn what price they get as the money is more often than not already spent on a new kitchen or a spoiler for a Corsa. The problem with these bikes though is that there just aren’t enough of them. They are not a regular daily supply so to supplement these bargains I often found it necessary to turn towards the trade to pad out the stock. It’s always difficult buying from within the trade as let’s face it they have a living to make too so you find more often than not that the prices from the trade suppliers are considerably higher than those of Joe Public. In the later years, I would often gain extra stock by visiting any one of the Universal Salvage auctions held around the South of England. I would frequently spend a day in the company of the auctioneer and complete the day by returning home with another forty bikes to dismantle.

One of the earliest ventures into bulk buying began when I happened upon a lively character in Hull who was importing sports cars from San Diego in California and he was considering venturing into the lucrative motorcycle market. I am not going to name him here or even say anything derogatory about him or the way he conducts business, suffice to say we had a major disagreement a few years down the line. That said, in the early days the relationship between us both was more than amiable and working well for both of us. This gentleman would spend his days searching through the salvage yards around San Diego picking out suitable bikes.

A container full of bikes in varying conditions would arrive at the docks in Hull and I would be on hand to collect them in the Toyota HiLux 4x4 with a very long car transporter trailer. This was always an impressive sight to behold and I recall one journey in particular when I had no less than sixteen imported bikes on board this vehicle and was pulled over by the traffic Police on the A63 just outside Hull. Sure enough, he was having a thorough inspection of all the bikes on the trailer and then came that question that all Police Officers start their interrogations with, “Are all these bikes yours, Sir?” I told him the story, yes they were and that I had just collected them from the docks and was now heading for the workshop where they would be dismantled for spares. “Ahh, is that right? I don’t suppose you would consider selling me the exhaust from off that Kawasaki Z650 would you?” Damn right I would I thought to myself and sure enough, he turned up later in the week at the shop and grabbed himself a cut-price exhaust system for turning a blind eye to the fact that the trailer was carrying nearly twice the recommended weight that day. Phew, a close call indeed.

I had an arrangement in the early days where every bike that was in the container was purchased for £350 whether it was a mint condition Goldwing or a burnt out wreck of a CX500. It was an agreement that worked well for both of us and there was a balanced mix of quality bikes and wrecks. The makes and models were varied but some of the more notable machines were a Suzuki GS1000L in pristine condition along with Yamaha XS1100 Midnight Special needing only paintwork to make into an excellent and saleable machine. These bikes were mostly at the top end of the condition scale and some of the machines that were down in the bottom of the barrel were still good enough for spares as well as being rare. Kawasaki Z900’s, H2’s, H1A

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500’s along with a whole host of CB750 SOHC Honda’s to name but a few. It was not unusual to find a heap of engines in the containers too, Z1300, CBX1000 and more CB750 engines than you could shake a stick at. These of course never went amiss and sometimes the profit on a complete running engine would outstrip the margins on a complete machine.

At one particular time, we were getting that many imports requiring paintwork that I hired someone willing to paint each bike as it came in and it wouldn’t be unusual for me to have to deliver twelve complete sets of tanks and side panels to the spray shop at Elvington to await paint, this relationship came to a sudden demise when I left him an Escort van to respray for me. Both he and the van disappeared neither to be seen again. Quite a substantial amount of the bikes had ‘scorched’ paint because the bikes were sourced from an outdoor compound near to the military bases around San Diego and that fierce Californian sun did some terrible damage to paintwork and seats.

One machine that was always popular with the Americans was the Honda VF750 Magna and we had our fair share of those shipped over. These were typical of the factory custom style bikes of the period and the semi chopper styling always proved popular with my customers once we had registered them and made them roadworthy. I recall selling one to a chap who hadn’t owned or ridden a bike for several years and was busying himself in his spare time by taking and passing the motorcycle test and he was looking forward to once more feeling the wind in his face and all those awful clichés. He visited the shop and was instantly mesmerized by the Magna, it was finished in a dark metallic blue with plenty of chrome and the large vee four engine unit was more than ample to transport him and his wife to lands far away.

On the day he arrived to collect it, I had informed him that it might be a good idea to stop at the nearest filling station as it was just about to hit the reserve tank and I didn’t want him to become stranded halfway home with no fuel. He was truly ecstatic about the condition of the Honda as we had given it a final polish and it was looking at its very best and I wasn’t sure if he had heard a word that I had said. Off he went wobbling a little precariously out of the yard and I was very happy as the till in the office was overflowing with cash and we had added another satisfied customer to add to our list. This was miraculously short lived though because only five minutes after he had left the shop he was on the phone a trifle concerned that it wouldn’t start. He had stopped for fuel at the local garage and he was about to continue on the journey home and it fired into life, ran for thirty seconds then cut out and it had been impossible to start ever since. “No problem sir, I shall pop down with the van and we will soon have you on your way” I tried to convince him that it wasn’t a terminal problem.

I found him sitting astride the bike on the forecourt with a deeply despondent expression on his face. “I’ve filled it up and it won’t start, look ‘’, he turned on the ignition, pressed the button and sure enough the engine spun over but there wasn’t even the faintest chance of it firing. I checked the kill switch first as you would be surprised just how many folks put themselves through ten minutes of torture only to find the kill switch is in the off position. It was as it should be so I moved on to the fuel tap and it was still on the reserve position, I made a swift visual inspection of the plug caps and they were all in situ. Hmmm, this was beginning to look a little more serious. I don’t know what made me do it, perhaps some misguided intuition but I flipped the fuel cap to check the level and it was instantly apparent what the fault was. That familiar sickly sweet smell of diesel wafted up to my nostrils and therein laid the fault. I did try to explain to him in a light hearted manner that diesel engined bikes were very few and far between these days. After swearing and displaying a rosy red face he realised he had filled the Magna with diesel. So it was back to the workshop with the bike in the van and he was forced to continue his journey home with the wife who had brought him along in the car. Try again tomorrow I told him and we would drain the tank and carburettors and have it ready for collection at teatime.

Over the space of three years we imported somewhere in the region of four hundred bikes from the good old US of A and would have gladly continued with this venture had it not been for a major disagreement with the importer. Looking back it may have been advantageous for the pair of us to settle our differences and continue trading but alas it wasn’t to be. The resulting demise of the relationship meant I had to search in other directions for bulk buying motorcycles.

Page 67 The Motorcycle Undertaker West Coast Motorcycles With the supply from the American importer slowing to a mere trickle then an abrupt halt it was time to broaden the search for another slightly more reliable supplier. I had enjoyed considerable success at a local auction house that had regular sales of imported machines and ironically it was my ex business colleague that supplied the majority of the stock for the auction sales, stock that would have normally found its way to me regardless. After that source dried up I was put into contact with Mr Nick Culton, a larger than life character who ran the highly successful West Coast Motorcycles shop in Southport. Nick would probably be best remembered for his street clothing brand using the same name. It was a very lucrative diversification for the company and I can recall seeing a whole host of customers wearing either a hoodie or t-shirt bearing the West Coast logo.

I had once considered launching my own brand of clothing on the fashion market but decided that perhaps the demand for t-shirts reeking of dog piss and Castrol R wasn’t going to be a mover and shaker in the fashion world yet. Nick used to import bikes from the auction rooms in Japan and dealt with the ‘grey bike’ imports. To anyone unsure as to the concept of this, these were slightly different models to the usual stifled range that was supplied to the UK through the official channels. On a guided tour around the storage facility at Southport, you would be faced with such exotic machinery as the Honda VFR400, Honda CBR400 and Suzuki GSXR400 amongst many others. These proved extraordinarily popular with the youngsters and the sporty modern styling drew in the boy racer brigade. The grey bike market really took off in the UK and enjoyed a substantial enough following to justify a glossy monthly colour magazine from the Plan Z publishing company called, oddly enough Grey Bike Magazine. It was a very interesting and informative read and dealt specifically with the unofficial Japanese imports that were becoming increasingly available at the time.

I penned several articles for this title and perhaps the most popular one was the detailed coverage of the Japanese monkey bike scene. The vast range of aftermarket, ‘go faster’ accessories were impressive, to say the least and it was even possible to have your standard Honda monkey transformed into a miniature replica of the Kawasaki Z900 or Suzuki Katana. The mini bike following was hugely successful both here in the UK and Japan with countless shops springing up all over the UK to service the demand. That was just one area of the grey bike phenomenon; the others included the already mentioned 400cc sports bike market and the style following too. If the novice rider fancied something a little unusual to set himself apart from the crowd then the grey bike market was the place to be. Of course, I wasted no time in becoming involved with this and would regularly travel over to Southport with a van and trailer to collect my own fair share of this market returning home with a balance of cruisers and sports bikes. Being the frugal cheapskate that I am, the bikes I was interested in buying were ones that perhaps just required a minimum of time spent refurbishing so they could be sent more or less straight into the showroom or if the demand was high I would be prepared to part with some of these as projects for buyers who wished to tinker in the garage rather than suffer the indignation of endless hours of Coronation Street on TV.

I had some unusual and exciting machines pass through my hands courtesy of West Coast. One of the more notable motorcycles was a super rare Yamaha FZR250. This was a very clean and sprightly looking machine and had only covered a ridiculously low mileage of 567 kilometres from new. I seriously thought I was on to a winner here; I was backing the first horse past the post by a mile. It looked a hundred miles per hour stood still, it was sporty, it was fast and would surely appeal to any youngster looking for a mean machine with that all important quality, street cred. That was all very good theoretically but in practice, it transformed into one of the worst bikes I had ever had the misfortune to set eyes on. Upon reflection, I think I paid over the odds for it when all the faults came to light, no one’s fault but mine. It came with a price tag of a thousand pounds and I was under the impression that a bike in this pristine condition would easily surpass the two thousand pound mark.

How drastically wrong I was, it appeared to have been possessed by an evil spirit going by the name of Non-profit. Right from the word go that damned bike was problematic. It had been standing idle for some time and the fuel had morphed into some kind of sticky gooey substance that gave off the most revolting stench akin to ratshit mixed with turps. It took Gen a complete day to remove the carbs and flush this appalling material out and even then it didn’t appear to be running at its best. It would require a further three stripdowns to solve the problem of its erratic running.

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When it was all running to the best of its abilities the FZR stood in line in the showroom to await a prospective buyer, and there it stood for over two years. No one wanted a bike of this size. A plethora of youngsters came to view it and take it for a test ride but it was either too physically small for them or they had recently passed their motorcycle test and wished to graduate to something in the larger capacity bracket. Everyone agreed the Yamaha sure was a looker and performed well but it failed to find that one special person who would take it home and love it like a brother/ mother/Alsatian * delete as appropriate. That is until one day a young lad arrived in the shop, took one look at it and slapped fifteen hundred pounds on the counter. It was a five hundred pound drop on the asking price but by this time I was desperate to see the back of the Yamaha so his offer was accepted. Thank goodness for that I thought as I waved bye bye to the ill-fated black Yam. My rejoicings were short lived however as two weeks later I had the owner on the phone complaining that the bike had seized up solid. Oh dear, that is not good, it was a phrase I dreaded to hear but was even more alarming given the spares situation for the FZR. I had little alternative but to offer the lad a refund on his purchase and yet again I became the owner of the demonic Yamaha.

After a strip down in the workshop, it was indeed seized solid, this was due to the oilways that had become clogged with ancient oil, something that we hadn’t considered when the bike was put through its paces in the workshop. Although we had changed the oil and filter, the existing oil had become partially solidified within the oilways therefore blocking off the feed. A high revving performance engine such as that cannot live on bread alone and needs a regular supply of good quality oil to its heart. It was almost impossible to source spares for the engine and so with a heavy heart, I decided to break it for spares. Not one of my best decisions simply because there were so few of them on the roads the demand for used spares was non-existent. So I was lumbered with it, like a millstone around the neck. I took the majority of parts to various auto jumbles up and down the country but only sold the bare minimum of items.

This, my friends, was the perfect exercise on how to get it wrong proving that even those within the motorcycle trade still get things wrong and lose money. Now if anyone dare ask me if I have any parts for a Yamaha FZR250 I usually turn a savage shade of purple before racing up and down the street swearing loudly. I eventually ceased trading with the guys at West Coast, not for any reason involving the FZR but simply because I had found another supplier who was shipping a broader range from Italy. Some dark, eerie nights when the wind is in the right direction I swear I can hear that Yamaha revving its engine in the far distance taunting me.

The Italian Job Over the thirty or so years that I have been selling motorcycles, I have never met anyone who had the talent of selling motorcycles, classic cars, or antiques better than Nat Fazzari. The man is a legend when it comes to sourcing, shipping, and trading motorcycles. Our first meeting was at the fabled Newark Autojumble on the showground adjacent to the A1. General and I had been walking up and down the rows and rows of junk, treasure and tripe, (*delete as appropriate), when we found a lad selling around twenty or so bikes on his stall with a large removal wagon containing another batch. We perused the stock in hand and four or five bikes drew our attention. “How much for this?” I inquired; “ah you will have to have a word with my Father about that, he’s asleep in the front of the truck “was the nervous reply.

The sleepy driver awoke half an hour later and was directed to our stall, we were selling bikes on our stall elsewhere on the site. The driver was Nat and he was catching up on some much needed sleep as he had just driven the wagon to Newark from Milan in Italy. Good God, that’s a long way to come I thought. We complained about the eighty mile trip from Yorkshire. His house was in Whittington near Lichfield but he had just returned from Italy after his fortnightly trip collecting antiques only this time someone had sold him a lorry full of old motorcycles instead so he thought perhaps the best place to sell would be the autojumble. Indeed he was correct as punters were all over the machines on display, especially when the prices were reeled off. Well at the end of the afternoon’s trading, when it looked as if no one else was going to part with cash we went over to his wagon again for another peek at his stock. We bought five bikes from him which earned us a trip down to Lichfield to collect them as there wasn’t space in the rear of our van to transport them back home from Newark.

The following week I was as excited as a newly born puppy and looking forward to viewing just what other bikes Nat had lying around his place. I arrived early morning at his beautiful cottage, bursting

Page 69 The Motorcycle Undertaker at the seams with quality unusual antique furniture just outside the village of Whittington. I was introduced to his beautiful wife Jackie who was as excited to see me as I was. After a guided tour of the place and a most welcome industrial strength mug of coffee, we leaped into my van and headed to his unit situated only a couple of miles down the road. It was a large portal framed agricultural unit with enough storage space for at least 150 motorcycles, perhaps more if you were to line them up in neat and orderly rows. Initially, I had agreed to collect five of the bikes but after viewing the stock this figure soon leaped to ten.

I managed to shoehorn eight into the van and trailer and agreed to call back down to the Midlands in a fortnight to collect the remainder plus view the new stock. This was the beginning of a great working relationship between Nat and myself and over the following years, I would make several journeys to Whittington to collect stock and could be seen regularly towing a large trailer loaded to the hilt with motorcycles along the A36 through Derbyshire. The key to Nat’s success was his consistent quality and price of stock. He always left enough profit margin in the buying price to make a decent profit and the quality was pretty much the same across the board. As the relationship progressed I would often receive a phone call from him just as he was heading back into England from yet another Italian run and we would arrange to rendezvous at the storage unit where we would quite often assist in unloading all the stock from the lorry in the middle of the night. This gave me the first chance to purchase the new bikes that had arrived. So quite often the bikes would never even make it to his storage building, they would be loaded straight on to my trailer.

On one occasion he had called ahead as normal and had just alighted from the Calais to Dover ferry. He had collected a basket of food from a delicatessen in Calais and should be arriving home for tea so his instructions were don’t eat before we get there. Sure enough, he arrived in the yard at 4.30 pm prompt and before unloading the new batch of bikes we were treated to a continental style tea consisting of half a baguette stuffed with warm brie cheese direct from France, the cheese had been kept warm and oozy by storing it on the wagon dashboard all the way home. On another beautiful summer’s day, we were all treated to an impromptu lunch in the glorious settings of the Whittington Arms pub. A stifling hot afternoon when the prospect of heaving heavy bikes off the lorry was outdone by the attraction of a prawn salad and a pint of icy cold beer.

Every now and again the list of motorcycles that I bought from Nat would top twenty or more and he would be quite happy to deliver to Pocklington in the massive removals truck where the hospitality would be reciprocated. I have found it very unusual to find someone as amiable and easy to strike deals with as Nat Fazzari. Every time I visited the storage facility he was more than happy to spend time chatting and entertaining whether it was one bike I bought or twenty. The guarantee was the same across the board, in as much as if any of the bikes bought turned out to be beyond repair then just return them on the next run. How could I lose? In all the time we dealt bikes and over the hundreds that I purchased, I think I only had to return one. Nat’s first love, besides his adorable wife Jackie, was antiques. Antiques of all description would arrive in the truck with the top deck devoted to motorcycles and the bottom deck packed to the gunnels with pieces of furniture from years gone by.

I can easily remember seeing a piece of light wood furniture not unlike a Welsh dresser and was quite intrigued by it. It was obviously very old with a fair share of battered panels and a dose of woodworm but I thought if it was cheap enough I might consider putting it in the showroom as a talking point. At this point, I am the first to admit that I am neither a budding David Dickinson nor Arthur Negus so the prices on anything older than last week’s Sunday Times are somewhat of a mystery. I inquired as to how much Nat wanted for the ‘tatty old cabinet’ and had the wind well and truly taken from my sails when he revealed that it could be purchased for a mere fourteen thousand pounds. I think he must have observed my deflated expression and he felt the need to explain the extortionate price so he leaped from the rear of the truck and disappeared into the cab only to return seconds later with a large book listing realised auction prices over the past few years and sure enough there on page 36 was the very same piece of furniture. This one had sold at Bonham’s for a staggering twenty four grand and it wasn’t in much better condition than the one in the back of the truck with stacks of other assorted antiquities. Mind you it was a 17th century Louis XIV cabinet.

Over the course of five years, Nat had successfully supplied us with hundreds of good quality used motorcycles and was instrumental in the formation of another company under the Kevin Keld Motorcycles umbrella. That company was the East Yorkshire Centre which catered for the increasing popularity of large capacity off-road bikes such as the Yamaha XT500 Tenere, the Kawasaki KLR650 and Honda XLV750.

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Eventually, the source of the inexpensive motorcycles requiring little work became unpredictable and it would appear we had reached the point where the bikes coming in were not up to the normal standard so I decided to look for alternative supplies. As for the man himself, the last I heard he had gone back full time into what he knows best, antique furniture though I really must contact him for a chat about old times, now where’s that phone?

Waggy’s of Scunthorpe I have always believed that in some instances Lady Luck is really stood behind you breathing over your shoulder. Being in the right place at the right time does apply itself to certain situations, or it could be that it is YOUR turn to receive the parcel of good fortune on that particular day. However you perceive it, my turn was the day I received a phone call from Rod Hornsby proprietor of Waggy’s, the largest motorcycle breaker in North Lincolnshire and self-confessed Vincent motorcycle fanatic. I must have been in a romantic embrace with Lady Luck. It was one of those once in a lifetime deals that placed my business on the motorcycle salvage map. I was to become one of the major players in the bike trade but didn’t realise that at the time of the call. Rod rang just to inquire if I would be interested in purchasing all his stock. He had spent ten years accumulating all manner of motorcycles and parts and now it was time for a change. The man had grown disillusioned with the motorcycle trade and wanted out as soon as humanly possible. I had heard mention of Waggy’s and I am convinced I once ordered parts from them in the past. I knew that this wasn’t some tin pot organisation but a rather larger established concern.

This made me somewhat apprehensive and my initial thoughts were that this was going to be out of my league. In time I forgot about the call and then a few weeks later Rod was on the phone again trying his hardest to entice me over the bridge to Scunthorpe. Lucky for me I wasn’t busy in the shop that day so thought I may as well sneak out, have a day’s rest and recreation and meet up with Rod to see what all the fuss was about. It was quite an ordeal trying to find the place. Situated in a rundown part of an industrial estate only a girders throw from the overwhelming steelworks his premises was a large block building nestling in amongst a car repair business and a storage facility for redundant road sweeping machines. The first task of the day was the obligatory coffee and a bacon sandwich at the local cafe before getting down to the business, after all, we must get our priorities right! It was a large building split into two levels and one wall was dedicated to a lengthy rack of motorcycle wheels in all shapes and styles with a row of complete engines sat at the bottom along the floor. From every available space on the ceiling hung assorted bodywork panels and fairings, so much in fact that it was almost impossible to navigate from one end of the shed to the other without being battered around the head by a rogue panel.

The other wall was furnished with yet more racks containing hundreds of sets of front forks all neatly labelled with make, model and year. It was all in all quite claustrophobic as every space available had been utilised to store as many parts in as little space as possible. The counter area was awash with new parts and aftermarket accessories that were all to be included too. Upstairs was no different revealing a long large racking system containing hundreds of black plastic water tanks each containing the remnants of the bikes that had been dismantled. Items that were left after the bulk of the spares were distributed to their respective resting places. In these bins could be found brake parts, handlebar switches and all the smaller items even down to the nuts and bolts from the bike. It was a comprehensive and easily managed system that worked very well and for many years afterwards I employed the same organisational system in my own shop. All the time I was ambling around making mental notes of the stock I kept thinking to myself that no way under God’s sun would I be able to finance this lot let alone accommodate it all. After a long session searching indoors we ventured around the rear of the premises and I was staggered to see yet more bikes awaiting the chop. A long line of machines including 2 Honda CB500T’S, an early Suzuki GT380J with drum front brake, a few Honda CB175’S, 2 Yamaha YDS7’S and much much more accompanied by a long line of bare motorcycle frames.

This was, I decided well out of my financial reach but resigned myself to just enjoying the day and treated it as a pleasant walk round in good company. Another coffee followed the guided tour and then it was down to business to thrash out a price. I even commented to my tour guide that I thought it would be almost impossible to afford this amount of stock. “How much do you think it’s worth then?” Rod hit me with a question that I had been frantically searching the answer to for the past hour or so. With slight hesitation I gave an estimate on the higher side, my reason being that it would give me a suitable excuse to decline the offer. I shot a figure of fourteen

Page 71 The Motorcycle Undertaker thousand pounds at him. “Really?” he seemed quite surprised by this figure and I instantly began to wish I had priced it a lot lower. “Well, how does a grand sound?” Sounded great to me but for which part, the bikes, the wheels, or the black tanks. “I will take one thousand pounds cash for the whole lot, everything you have seen on this tour of the premises, the lot, every last nut and bolt” I was in shock, I actually for once in my life had no words to say. Eventually, after carefully studying Rod’s facial expressions for a hint of a smile and confirmation this was a wind-up, I blurted out “yes, that’s a deal” My mind was racing ahead of me, where the hell was I going to put all this?, how on Earth am I going to transport it all?

One firm handshake later and I had gained more stock in an hour than I had for many years previously. Well considering I was in my Transit van I thought rather than heading for home empty handed we filled the van to maximum capacity with parts from the counter area including a couple of engines resting on the passenger seats (one of which insisted on throwing itself forth into the floor well with amazing regularity). Incredible as it may seem by the time I had steered the van into the yard I had a buyer for one of the engines, unfortunately not the one impersonating a superball (remember those?). That netted me a quarter of the initial stake in the stock and as a matter of interest I actually earned back the full investment of a thousand pounds before the rest of the stock had been transported back to my shop. Not bad going even if I say so myself, especially from a deal that I was reluctant to become involved with. Once back to base I had the gargantuan task of locating someone willing to shift the stock. I enlisted the help of numerous friends and hired a ten-ton truck from a friend’s father to help with the move.

To give a perspective of the quantity of stock that was to be moved, the truck and two large vans made a total of six journeys to Scunthorpe. The next obstacle was where to store the parts where they would be easily accessible and it had to be somewhere where there was a large open space. The knight in shining armour was Jarv, a long time close friend and all round good egg who announced that yes it would be fine to store the parts on his land... temporarily! That was providing he could have a search through the bins to find any choice looking parts for his own bike. I was more than ok with that and it was a practical arrangement that worked well for both of us.

After twelve months had elapsed I had just about managed to house all the parts in the shop even though I had to construct a mezzanine floor to accommodate everything. It took an awfully long time to memorise the parts on stock and I quite often lost a sale by simply not realising I had the parts at hand. Time was the only answer and over the following months, I became aware of just exactly what was available. Upon reflection, that day spent in Scunthorpe initially viewing the mass of parts resulted in a much needed injection into my business. I always look upon it as a once in a lifetime event. I will always be indebted to Rod for his kind and generous gesture though I suspect he also breathed a sigh of relief when he realised he wouldn’t have to endure the colossal chore of shifting ten tons of motorcycle parts.

The thieving bastards Being such a high profile business does have its distinct disadvantages too, the criminal element of society quickly finds novel ways to relieve you of your precious stock. The major problem with being involved with motorcycles is that they are such a stealable commodity. An attractive proposition to the serious thief wishing to alter the identities of the stolen bikes then sell onwards at a huge profit. Also, they are a beacon for the casual thief just wanting to joyride around a patch of wasteland for fun then set fire to the machine to destroy any potential evidence. Over a period of ten years, I lost somewhere in the region of twenty five thousand pounds worth of vehicles. It’s a bitter pill to swallow and it left even more of a nasty taste in the mouth when in certain cases it was orchestrated by people I actually knew or could count as friends.

Such was the instance of the amazing disappearing briefcase. I used the case as my mobile office, it contained all the usual items you would expect to find in a black attaché case belonging to a sole trader, VAT returns, pens, credit cards, Filofax with crucial business contacts, latest copies of assorted glossy adult publications and over a thousand pounds in cash. I wasn’t normally as mindless as to keep that amount of cash inside the case but I was due to set forth to collect a bike in the local area so had the cash at the ready. The case was just standing by the door to the office and was in such a prominent location it would be impossible not to see it on my way out. I was fully aware of this as several times I had run out of the premises in a desperate

Page 72 The Motorcycle Undertaker hurry, only to trip over the case and end up spread-eagled on the tarmac road outside the door. It was only a matter of time before I would perform such tomfoolery in front of a heavy goods vehicle.

I regularly advertised the motorcycles for sale in the local Auto Trader magazine and each Monday the local rep, Frank, would call to discuss any modifications to the advertising copy, he would then submit these to head office for publication. Frank was a jovial, middle aged larger than life character and always had a repertoire of stories to relate to any interested audience. He usually stayed until the tea urn was dry before heading to his next stop but on this occasion, he was out of the door pretty quickly and vowed to call the following week and stay for a chat. It was after he had left that I became aware that the case had also done a bunk. I searched every nook and cranny of those premises to no avail. It had simply disappeared. My initial thoughts were that someone had sneaked in whilst I was in conversation with Frank and took it for a prank. I quickly approached all the local businesses in the yard and no one was freely admitting to it. It could have been possible for a would be thief to walk into the shop and walk straight out with it and this is the scenario I eventually decided had happened.

Over the following weeks, thoughts of the case were put on the back burner and it was only when after three weeks I had to ring the Auto Trader office that I realised that Frank had not been for the advertising copy. I asked the kind young girl in the office to ask him to pay us a visit at the earliest opportunity. The following Monday I received a call from Frank informing me that he would be calling in that day for the changes. I confronted him during that call regarding the missing case and happened to mention that I wasn’t particularly bothered about the cash; it was the Filofax with my family photographs that had upset me most about the theft. When he arrived I was amazed to see that he had found the case at the side of the road up near Fridaythorpe that very morning. A truly amazing coincidence I thought. What are the chances of someone seeing that case after it’s been missing for three weeks on a road he travels every single day? I opened it and found that everything was still in its place minus the cash of course. I can’t say for certain that Frank took the case that day because I have no hard evidence but he was never the same with me again after that incident.

I knew it was not beyond him to steal as he regularly used to boast about the expensive items he had stolen from head office, this was from work colleagues so if he was prepared to do that then it would be within the realms of possibility to up the ante with a larger catch. Running and maintaining your own busy shop would often mean I hadn’t time for such trivialities as removing the keys from the vehicles as I disembarked to busy myself with something more important in the workshop. It was, however, to be my downfall the day someone decided that they would prefer to be the owner of my Toyota HiLux 4x4 pickup.

I had bought the vehicle only a few months previous and had undertaken several modifications such as the obligatory bull bars, sidesteps and roll bar in the rear. It looked fantastic and was a functional vehicle too. The type of vehicle you could take the wife to a swanky eaterie or collect a dozen scrap motorcycles from Hull docks not necessarily at the same time though. I had parked the Toyota just outside the shop door and raced into the workshop to continue with some work and it was only after the space an hour I went outside for something I had left in the pickup and there was a large blank space full of nothing where the vehicle had once stood. I immediately turned my attention to Vince who was employed over the road at the car repair shop thinking he was having a prank on me but no he hadn’t seen it or anyone suspicious outside. Panic began to set in and after a short while it became apparent that it had been stolen so reluctantly I called the Police only to be issued with a crime number and little else. Later that day I received a phone call from a friend who had seen someone driving it towards Market Weighton, he realised it wasn’t me and called to make sure it hadn’t been stolen.

It had indeed been stolen, and now I had a direction so I decided to make my own door to door inquiries. My talents were really wasted on being in the motorcycle trade. I should have signed up for the Sweeney where I could have drunk large amounts of whiskey on duty and sworn a lot. Inside the pick up was my mobile phone, I use the term mobile loosely as it was the size of a small garden shed. One of the old house brick Motorola phones that came with a shoulder bag and foolishly I had left a thousand pounds cash under the seat along with a Colt 45 blank firing pistol. The pistol was staggeringly authentic and only a week previous I had been travelling to Scarborough with Jarv in his van and had been playing around with it and it had accidentally fired resulting in the passenger window shattering and leaving a ringing in our ears that

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I still have to this day. At the time Wife number 1 had a red Ford Escort which I borrowed to help with my inquiries. I enlisted the help of Jarv, Frenchie and Gen and we scoured the areas around and district leaving no stone unturned in the search for the vehicle. The fool that stole it had rung his friend on the way home and I was fortunate enough to acquire that number from the phone company. I rang it myself under the pretence of being a BT engineer conducting routine maintenance. I stated that I needed to send someone round to check the connections and could I have the address? The voice at the end of the line must have smelt a rat and gave an address that didn’t exist but at least it was in the same area as we were searching so it was apparent we were searching in the right area. I do have a margin of sympathy for some of the people we scared on those missions.

One, in particular, was at an address in Goole and when we surrounded the house and knocked rather aggressively on the front door, there was a lot of running around and curtain twitching inside the two up two down and eventually a rough looking middle-aged woman answered the door. Her first words were “Are you the Police?” I am not sure what kind of drugs she had been taking but I don’t think four mismatched scruffy urchins carrying baseball bats resemble anything like the South Yorkshire Constabulary. She then became quite irate when I informed her that I was simply looking for a particular person who was known to work on Toyota off-road vehicles and was a friend of her son’s. It transpired that her son was convinced it was the drug squad and had flushed his entire stock of illicit substances down the toilet before running off to hide in the loft. When he was eventually coaxed from his hiding place he gave us an address where it might be worth taking a closer look.

After numerous dead ends, I eventually traced the Toyota to a car repairing outfit in Doncaster and I actually walked in and touched the machine itself. It had been cut up into pieces to blend with a Ford Cortina to make some monstrous oddity by some tin pot customizer. I knew the remains were mine due to the extra hole in the tow bar mounting on the rear. I had drilled this wrong when trying to install the tow bar and there in plain sight was the extra hole. I immediately made my excuses and left the garage and contacted South Yorkshire Police immediately who assured me they would visit the premises and apprehend the culprits. I handed over all the paperwork containing the names and addresses of the folks who had helped along the way. Needless to say, nothing was ever done about it and no one was prosecuted. To add insult to injury and the small print being far too small for any human being to view on my insurance policy the vehicle wasn’t covered whilst it was stood outside my premises. Had it been two metres to the left it would have been acceptable and I would have received the full amount. I was left over ten thousand pounds out of pocket thanks to that foresight. Previous to the Toyota disappearing I had an episode of thefts that although wasn’t involving a vast amount of cash it was still theft. It became apparent that someone had been helping themselves to parts from the bikes lined up outside the building waiting to be dismantled. As luck would have it a friend from a neighbouring business had seen the thief at work and took his reg plate and a good description of the offender. It was unbelievable as it was a regular customer to the shop that was doing it. Had he said to me that he was short of cash and needed the parts I would have preferred to have given them free rather than him lower himself to stealing them. Later that week Kenny the young apprentice and I had to collect yet another scrap bike in York and it just so happened it was not too far from where the thief lived so I made a detour.

Kenny was unaware of all this and turned a whiter shade of pale as he saw me tuck the Colt 45 blank firing pistol into the rear pocket of my jeans. I knocked on the door and was immediately taken aback. I had not expected the thief’s wife to answer the door and I had to quickly rethink the speech that I had prepared in my head all the way to York. I had considered admitting to being a Jehovah’s Witness but dressed like I was I don’t think I would have been very convincing. I eventually asked if I could speak with her husband, his face turned to sheer terror when he approached and saw me standing on the doorstep. I can tell you I am not a violent person but when someone takes the Michael out of my good nature it will be repaid with a punch on the nose, which is exactly what I did on this visit and I left the house with him nursing a squashed proboscis. I jumped back into the waiting pick up where Kenny was still visibly shaken and we headed off in the direction of home.

We hadn’t got very far before the police pulled us over to the side of the road, the officer had spied the bike, stood in the rear of the pickup and was concerned we might be motorcycle thieves. We on the other hand thought the poor man nursing a bruised nose had called them after we had left his house. Fortunately, it was

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My eldest son and my daughter in selling mode at an autojumble held at Elvington airfield.

A typical shot of the showroom in the later day featuring a neat row of machines including a super rare gold Yamaha TX750.

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Oh dear, the ill-fated Cagiva sold in the auctions with a surprise for the next owner lurking withing the engine cases.

Rob Peel’s Suzuki, a credit to him and Owen who slaved for weeks to get this result.

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A trailer full of bikes and mopeds just arrived at ‘Baul Acres’ from Universal Salvage auctions.

A tired looking General rests across his Kawasaki Z650. Note the Rottweiler ‘Marvin’ in the background looking for trouble.

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Jarv decides to haul a mates bike back to his place in an unconventional manner. The man himself can be seen in the bottom right of the picture operating the crane.

The bike that keeps on giving. The Honda CBX1000 Pro link that attracted a ‘free’ deposit of £500. The little imp in front is the author’s daughter.

Page 78 The Motorcycle Undertaker a policeman I knew well and as soon as I leapt from the pickup he recognised me and apologised profusely saying he hadn’t seen it was me driving. By this time poor Kenny was a bag of nerves, he was convinced the Police were going to arrest the pair of us and we would be spending the next ten years behind bars.

The loss of funds and vehicles is not confined to in and around the workshop as was to be proved when Gen and I made the mammoth trek up to the Scottish Motorcycle Show at The Royal Highland Centre just outside Edinburgh. The event was the usual array of new machines and accessories from all the major importers and suppliers. To keep the underdogs happy a token autojumble was arranged outside the show hall and we had attended the previous year and even in the thick snow we had managed to leave Scotland with a decent profit, despite the horrendous snowstorm, Suzi losing a much loved bracelet in ten inches of snow and the gazebo collapsing into a heap of fabric and metal then spending the rest of the weekend in a bin.

We arrived on Friday morning to delightful weather, the sun was shining, blue sky everywhere and everyone in an uplifted mood. What could possibly go wrong? I asked myself quietly. Trading started the minute we had the stall erected and after a couple of hours we had equalled the previous year’s takings. This was going far too well. The evening’s entertainment was in a pub just outside the showground with several of our fellow stallholders and carried on into the wee small hours in the back of the van once we had returned to our pitch. The following day’s trading was equally as brisk and we dealt with a vast array of customers more than willing to hand over lots of Scottish pound notes in exchange for oily used parts. I couldn’t help noticing a group of urchins sat on a wall opposite our pitch but never thought much of it, I presumed they were the local teenagers who had perhaps blagged their way in free and now seemed intent on seeing who could smoke the most cigarettes in a row. We had opted this year to take our Tow-a-Van box trailer and this was set up with the open end facing outwards towards the general public and it doubled up as a seating and cooking area for Gen and me. Every time we made a sale the cash was deposited into a Tupperware container sat between us. It wasn’t long before it proved difficult to replace the lid on it with cash spilling out over the sides and it was smiles all round. At this rate, I would be in a position to buy a round of drinks when trading ceased. I went off to scour around the rest of the jumble searching for bargains whilst there was a break in the crowds and upon my return went to retrieve some cash from the box to pay for a tatty old Honda I had got my eye on. I was unable to find the box,

General thought I had taken it with me so there followed a frantic search of the immediate area. The search even included the adjoining persons pitch, the van and the route I had taken around the rest of the jumble. We drew a blank at every step of the way. It was then that I noticed the teenage smokers had disappeared and it began to reinforce my thoughts that this was a little more serious than a misplaced box. I raced over to contact the organisers in their office in the main arena and unfortunately, they were as much help as a glass hammer. They were downright rude and unsympathetic so I called the Police myself and even they could offer no assistance. We studied the area around the trailer and by the way the grass underneath was flattened we deduced that someone of a small stature would be able to slip under the trailer and reach up between where Gen and I sat and take the box. Someone would have had to have been watching us for quite a while to see where we were storing the cash and wait for the ideal opportunity to strike. This was obviously when I had left Gen alone on the pitch and whilst he was busy chatting to a potential customer they must have struck stealthily and steadily. I estimated the takings in that box to be just over one thousand pounds. We still left Scotland on a high as we had doubled the previous year’s target but would have done even better had it not been for the thieving bastards and I may have got to buy a round of drinks too.

One of the most distressing thefts is when it involves a customer’s machine or even worse a friend’s pride and joy. This happened to me when the large building was broken into and two bikes were stolen. One was a Yamaha RD350LC and another belonged to my good friend Owen. It was a bright yellow XT600 ‘’ special. He had worked on it diligently for the previous twelve months and it had the makings of an interesting custom bike, it was living in the workshop whilst we arranged an MOT for it and one or two niggly little jobs were required to bring it up to speed. I arrived to work on that particular morning and as soon as I drew up in the van I could see that the door was slightly ajar. It was around 7.30 a.m. and no one else was expected to be in the building at that early hour. My heart gently slipped into my mouth and the feeling of utter dread is impossible to explain unless you have ever suffered a burglary or theft and then you will know what that feeling is like. It really is dreadful and it was with great reluctance that I poked my head around the

Page 79 The Motorcycle Undertaker door. I could immediately see that the number of machines was depleted and it took only seconds to determine which ones were missing. The feeling of dread sank to a new depth when I realised that Owen’s bike was one of the victims. Several tools were also missing and up to the previous week I had always favoured the cheaper tools, not the type you would find in a supermarket but equally not the high end kind either. My theory was that they would be a lot easier to replace if I lost them or they were stolen. Somewhere in between was what my toolbox was normally filled with.

That is until the previous week when I had broken with tradition and treated myself to a brand new Snap- on socket set. Yes siree you’ve guessed already, this had vanished and I hadn’t even had the chance to use it yet. As was the norm I hadn’t any insurance cover on the building due to the fact they were old wartime buildings and no one would insure them due to the inadequate security. I had the unpleasant task of relating the bad news to Owen and was quite taken aback at how nonchalant he was about the whole affair. I tried in vain once again to catch the persons responsible and the LC eventually turned up in Bransholme in Hull but the XT was never to be seen again. I made a promise to Owen to furnish him with another bike to replace the lost one and he was decent enough to allow me time to source something suitable.

A few unnamed folks were quite mean spirited about my intentions commenting that I would leave Owen high and dry and without a replacement. I had no intention of not paying him back for his loss and it wasn’t long before I acquired a Suzuki GSX1100E which I gave to him as compensation for his loss and he was suitably impressed, well I think he is, he still speaks to me to this day! After that stressful burglary, I decided it’s high time to delve deeper into the possibility of gaining some buildings insurance. I could no longer afford to keep replacing the stolen bikes from my own pocket so I called up the company I had my public liability insurance with and they assured me they would send out a chap to explain the necessary security measures I need to employ. I think it might have been easier to employ a humourless border security guard with a machine gun turret and a large hound named Cerberus than jump through the hoops he laid before me. At the fourteenth padlock, I was beginning to lose faith in the idea. I needed to construct an inner steel door, install state of the art alarm with a remote dialer and erect security lights all over the place resembling a pot grower’s paradise. I had no alternative than to comply with the rigid stipulations to be able to secure a reasonably priced insurance premium. The added security proved to be a massive constraint each and every day.

The outer door used three padlocks to secure it. This wouldn’t normally be a problem but they were hidden behind a steel box to prevent anyone levering them free, so I had to reach up and under the box to open the upper lock. Once inside there was another steel door secured by yet four more locks, once unlocked this could be slid on rails to one side into the open position. Then it was a marathon jaunt over to the alarm box to prevent it from setting off the siren thus waking the whole of the adjacent town and almost deafening the unlucky subject in the shop. Twice a day I had to perform this rigmarole and I have lost count of the times I have left the premises on an evening, secured every last lock, sworn profusely at the doors only to then realise that I had left my cigarettes in the office so had to repeat the long winded process but it will be worth it, or so I thought. Whilst it may have deterred the causal thief and even some of the seasoned crooks it proved ineffective to the hardened criminal determined to gain entry. Once more I drew up to the doors one morning to find the outer door had been attacked with a gas/air cutting torch. Someone had cut a hole in the padlock protective steel box then shoved the torch through the hole and cut off all the padlocks. The same was done to the inner door and this time the thieves had relieved me of my entire stock of quad bikes, several tools and a couple of motorcycles.

It was a professional hit and they must have had a large vehicle to carry off the amount of stock that went astray. That little lot would have never fitted into the rear of even a jumbo van. Needless to say, I never saw the quads again and it soon became apparent that I wasn’t the only business to suffer a loss of off-road machinery that evening. A couple of other shops had been broken into in a similar fashion. This time though I was insured and managed to retrieve every penny of the lost stock though I suspect there would be items stolen that I never even realised I owned. Not a happy ending but not a thoroughly miserable one either. Nearly ten thousand pounds worth of stock had been lost and although I received a hefty payout nothing can heal the damage this does mentally and after a while it does take its toll. I feel sure that should someone manage to invent the Karma machine we might see an end to all these motorcycle thefts.

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The Takeovers There was a time when I had seriously considered having my own personally designed t-shirts manufactured and distributed. I had already dipped the proverbial toe in the water with the Kevin Keld Motorcycle Breakers shirts of which I had invested in a hundred and handed them out to valued customers and staff. This time I had the outstanding idea to have ‘The Kevin Keld Motorcycles World Tour’ on the front depicting myself riding a bike over a diagram of a world map and a list of the seven businesses I had bought out with the date and a line through each one on the rear. There had been a similar one in existence at this time proclaiming the Hitler World Tour with a list of countries that Germany had invaded on the rear. I had, in fact, bought one of these at a rally and was quite often reprimanded for my lack of compassion and tact. No change there then. I had successfully purchased another seven motorcycle shops over the past ten years from the immensely profitable Waggy’s to the extraction of several van loads of spares from Two Wheelers in York. The latter being a small traditional old world motorcycle shop nestling between a hairdressers and a bakery in Tang Hall. Steve the proprietor was a tall, thin man, an interesting and unusual chap, who was knowledgeable on all manner of machinery from the humble lawnmower to the latest superbike; his place was an Aladdin’s cave of all things mechanical. Over the first few years of being in the trade, I used to regularly call in to see what goodies he had on offer to tempt me to part with my cash and I bought quite a few machines from him though not all would be sold for profit. My very first Harley came from Steve and I was grateful to become the proud owner of a 1949 Harley Davidson WLC750cc side valve. It was something of a sheep in wolf’s clothing however as the existing bodywork and front end had been discarded in favour of a full set of brilliant white HD Electra Glide bodywork including hard panniers so it was quite a large brute but on closer inspection, the true size of the bike was revealed by the tiny engine unit.

That mattered very little to me as I cruised the highways and byways of The Yorkshire Wolds. I was the king of cool, the mirrored shades and black open faced helmet I favoured added to the glamorous image and had I a siren and blue flashing light installed I could have passed myself off as one of California’s finest highway patrolmen, though I suspect I would have been rumbled riding the through the streets of Bishop Wilton. When Steve declared one day that he had just about had enough of motorcycles and was turning his hand to the new upcoming fad, personal computers, he called me in to clear the large consignment of used spares at the rear of the shop. It took four van journeys to clear but was a smart move and although some of it was duplicated, seven sets of 250N clocks was somewhat excessive, I welcomed the influx of dirty parts with open arms. After all, that’s what it was all about really, the distribution of used spares to the masses. Not everyone can afford to pay the manufacturer’s retail price for new parts. I would gladly sell my customers a front brake disc for anything up to twenty pounds, the retail price for a new item could be a whopping two hundred which led me to become very grateful to the big four manufacturers for keeping their prices so extortionate, it allowed me to make a comfortable living.

Another massive influx of parts came when I was contacted by Tony Gibson up at Scarborough. Tony and I had been friends and business acquaintances for quite some time and I always enjoyed a trip to the seaside for fish, chips and a root around the used spares department at Tony’s. When he finally decided to call it a day and move on to better things he called and forewarned me to have a fleet of vans at the ready to retrieve the years of accumulated stock. I took a trip over to negotiate a price on the spares and whatever else I could lay my hands on and as a gesture of goodwill, I took him some Quality Street sweets. This is me though. You have probably realised by now I don’t do things by half and this jolly jape was no exception. Not content with taking a box or even a large tin of Britain’s favourite sweets I chose to deposit a four stone refuse sack full of the blighters on to the top of his sales counter. This was done with such force that the black bin liner split and showered everyone in the immediate vicinity in an abundance of coloured sweets. Tony’s face was a picture and I don’t think he had ever set eyes on such a vast amount of chocolate in one go. “A small gift for you Tony and don’t eat them all at once” was my opening line, and then I had the inevitable assignment of explaining just how the hell I came to be in possession of a four stone bag of sweets. Well, in the yard where my shop was located there also happened to be a haulage firm and outside their office one particular week was a large blue skip.

Being the nosey so and so that I am, I couldn’t resist snooping through the contents of any skip that might contain someone else’s rubbish that would be useful to me. On this occasion, the skip was full to the top with boxes, tins and bags of Quality Street from the Rowntree’s factory at York. They were earmarked for

Page 81 The Motorcycle Undertaker disposal because although the sell by dates were still current, by the time they had been distributed to the various retail shops they would have only a short shelf life. I had a quiet word with the boss of the company whose words “help yourself” were just the green light I was searching for. I don’t think when he uttered those words he meant empty the skip however. I recall reversing the Toyota 1 ton pick up alongside the skip and filling it up with sweets using a shovel to scoop up the loose ones. Once home I utilised my daughter’s pram to transfer the load into the house much to the annoyance of long suffering wife number one, Cath. The whole street was eating those sweets for months, personally, I can’t stand the sight of them now.

Back at the seaside though, Tony and I had come to a financial settlement other than the sweets and I arranged to return with the van and a few helpers to clear the three floors of spares. This consisted of hundreds of exhaust systems, a whole range of engines and the usual abundance of tanks, forks and wheels. Retrieving some of the parts from the upper floors proved to be somewhat of an ordeal but after a week of hard and determined work, we left Tony with a lovely clean and spacious building. The same could not be said for my buildings with the stock spilling out from over the sides of both workshops and causing the landlord to once more to stand rubbing his chin and muttering “it’s getting to be a bit like a scrapyard around here isn’t it Kevin?”. These quips usually spurred me into a temporary tidy up mode which soon dissipated an hour after he had left the scene. The tidy yard was to be relatively short lived anyway as only a matter of months later I was asked if I would be interested in the contents of another motorcycle shop. This time the offer came from up in Thirsk, from Billy’s Bike Bits. Billy was throwing the towel in with the motorcycle trade altogether and making his way over to the USA with his motorhome, he too had decided the bike trade wasn’t for him and thought the trip overseas would be a better bet.

Sounds like a damned fine idea to me now, twenty odd years later writing this book but at the time I was overjoyed to have been offered yet more junk to distribute around the hundreds of eager customers. It was once again an old building stuffed to the rafters with oily motorcycle parts and this time I took some local traveller friends with me to help out. There were an awful lot of engines and because a lot of these were duplicates I left it for George and his boys to manoeuvre them from their almost inaccessible hiding places, dividing them equally between the engines suitable for resale and the ones destined for the scrap bin. When we finally left the premises I think both parties had accumulated an equal amount of parts on their respective vehicles. Mine were going straight back to the yard for resale whilst George and the boys were making trips to Clancy’s scrap yard to weigh in their booty. After the place was cleared George approached me to find out how much he owed for the scrap, well considering he and the boys had handballed hundreds of engines into the backs of vans and wagons. I didn’t think it fair to charge him so I just said “No charge, just keep your eyes open for a cheap steam cleaner for me” which I thought was fair enough and he must have thought so too as he left as happy as a sandboy.

Two days later an almost new Karcher steam cleaner appeared in the yard, someone must have been in a hurry to collect it as the inlet water pipe had been sawn through and the power lead ripped out of the plug. It was nearly new and a damned useful tool too and served us well for many years to come, cleaning thousands of bikes that had been laid neglected in the salvage yards of San Diego and Milan.

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CHAPTER 8 The Staff and Friends General-Chief of staff I just haven’t a clue where on earth to begin with this larger than life character because it’s unlikely that I will ever get to meet anyone quite as unique as him Once seen never forgotten is quite often the phrase I use to describe him. His appearance, talent and attitude are in a class of their own. This I do know though, Kevin Keld Motorcycles wouldn’t have been half as successful as it was had it not been for his hard work, extensive knowledge of motorcycles and undying loyalty. Sure I could have easily taken care of the sales side of things but would have had to sacrifice the workshops in favour of being a sales and spares outlet only. Without his engineering prowess, I would have had to wave farewell to the repairs and servicing branch of the business based on the premise that I didn’t have the time or patience to do it myself. This man will appear or have a connection to at least 90% of the stories contained in this book.

One of General’s individual qualities is his ability to carefully dismantle an engine he has never previously seen or worked on, throw all the hundreds of parts into a bucket, replace whatever needed replacing then painstakingly sit and re-assemble the engine exactly as it started out without the aid of a service manual or the internet. Unbelievably he would have no surplus washers or a rogue 6mm bolt leftover like a considerable amount of other folks do. I became convinced that he possessed a photographic memory and was able to recall every last detail with no safety net. This was also the case when we had been out in the local hostelries at some of the outside events we attended over the years though I suspect it was more to do with my lack of memory after the consumption of copious amounts of Jack Daniels. General never drank alcohol, preferring to spend the cash on his humongous Snap-On tool collection so while everyone else was slightly the worse for wear and sporting traffic cones as headgear or something equally as ridiculous he could recall all the minor details, often embarrassing details and relate them whenever was deemed necessary to bring someone down a peg or two.

I first became acquainted with General when I used to visit The Grobs, the most popular biker’s haunt in York way back in the ’70s and ’80s. I could regularly be found standing chatting with him in the rear car park nursing a beer and discussing the merits of Kawasaki triples or the Honda fours. It was pure coincidence that we both chose to take part in The Enterprise Allowance Scheme, the government’s incentive program for small businesses which proved very popular in the late Eighties. When I attended the initial meeting at the jobcentre in York I was amazed to see Gen at the very same interview. He too was setting up his own venture working from a couple of lockups close to his home in the suburb of New Earswick. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t destined to last the course and a few months later I turned up at the lockup one morning with my FSO pickup and I was given instructions to take the entire contents for spares.

The next time our paths crossed only a few months later it was when he used to visit Hull regularly and on his way past he would call in at the shop in the early days when repair jobs were a little thin on the ground. Gen and I would sit for hours just chatting about the number of bikes the pair of us had owned over the years and every now and then he was drafted in to lend a hand on a service or repair. Personally, I was never interested in doing repairs, in fact, I hated the thought of stripping down and rebuilding a customer’s engine knowing full well that they would never adhere to the careful running in process and would usually darken the door weeks later with a seized lump. I am far too bad tempered but General had the patience to start and finish a job with the minimum of fuss. It was no coincidence then that every time he visited I would be about to embark on an engine rebuild and would ask for a little assistance. The result was that I would take a back seat and observe how it was done properly without having a handful of nuts and bolts surplus to requirements.

It’s fair to say these visits snowballed and it all started from there. He commuted from New Earswick every day and with the help of Remploy soon found himself in sole charge of the workshop, a role I was more than happy to hand over to him. Armed with his backless typist’s chair he would scoot around any motorcycle up on the workbench like Davros on a bad day and whilst it was the ideal height and position to work on the bikes it

Page 83 The Motorcycle Undertaker did come with its own set of disadvantages as we found out when a monster of a bike, a Kawasaki Z1300 fell over towards him and trapped him between the wall and the bench. I was out at the time and on my return, I was alerted by the shouting and swearing so rushed over and after composing myself from the laughter I somehow managed to muster a bag of superhuman strength and push the bike upwards allowing him enough clearance to escape. We then had to call in the assistance of extra bodies from over the road to help set it back upright on the workbench. General’s loyalty and honesty were second to none and I knew I could trust him with the day to day running of the business on the days I spent absent and he often did a better job of it than I did. I could rely on his discretion at all times and there are plenty of times when I needed that. He knows some dark secrets about my personal life and I am dreading the day when I win the lottery and his blackmail demands arrive at my door.

I have seen him arrive at the workshop in the morning on his bike with his beard and moustache a solid white mass with frost when most folks wouldn’t even consider venturing out in four wheels let alone two. For some time his favourite mode of transport was a black, high mileage Suzuki GS650GT and it served the purpose very well until it developed a distinct knocking sound from the bottom end. “It’ll be right” said Gen as I pointed out that this was getting louder day by day when it became so loud I could hear it as he turned on to the industrial estate half a mile away he eventually conceded and decided an engine strip was in the offing. Once the generator cover was removed it became blatantly obvious what the noise was all about. The crank had sheared and the rotor complete with the end of the crankshaft came away with the windings and the cover. It was a while before it was rebuilt and Gen had to make do with a tatty Honda Superdream for the daily commute but was still never deterred from making the daily forty-mile round trip. These days the man himself has his own set of problems to deal with as he is now in the driving seat of his own hugely successful workshop. Genspeed Racing has evolved in leaps and bounds to become one of the major forces within the world of drag racing in the UK. A fitting testament to his many talents.

Rob Peel Rob was well renowned for his distinctive and varied looks, the most popular being a bright orange Mohican haircut along with piercings in his ears that you could shove a banana through. The hair colour and style would change regularly but his confidence and enthusiastic attitude remained consistent throughout. Rob began his career with us at the tender age of sixteen when he made the mistake of being unable to pay the bill for services rendered on his bright yellow Suzuki TS50 motorcycle, bad move Rob. Being the kind and ever understanding soul that I am, I persuaded him to work off the remainder of the bill by busying himself around the workshop. Not by washing dishes behind the scenes but by being a fully active member of the team, only he stayed a little longer than expected, six years longer to be precise. Perhaps Rob’s most redeeming feature was his impeccable telephone manner, he possessed a unique, almost hypnotic voice that could send you into a trance like state should you find yourself on the end of one of his phone calls. It’s no surprise that he then ultimately found himself in charge of the daily Partfinder faxes. The public in search of an elusive part for their pride and joy would ring the central Partfinder number with their requirements and twice daily we would receive a fax from the Partfinder office listing all the phone numbers of the prospective customers. This was as the saying goes a ‘licence to print money’ as Rob had a distinct advantage with the telephone attitude. He was so adept at this challenge I often wondered if on the occasions my mother called up she would have also been cajoled into buying a set of cush drive rubbers for a Honda 400/4. After a while of being surrounded by hundreds of motorcycles in varying states and observing how the nuts and bolts of the business worked, he became a dab hand at wheeling and dealing. Perhaps the most profitable venture was the curious case of the Honda Superdream with the death rattle loud enough to wake the dead. The owner rode it into the shop one day and before he even appeared into sight you could hear the engine tapping and grinding as if to expire at any moment. He was fed up with throwing money at the bike and it had been to another local dealer (whose name I shall withhold to save embarrassment) no less than three times to have the fault rectified, all attempts had been unsuccessful and in desperation, he sold it to Rob for fifty pounds and the bus fare home. It was wheeled into the workshop where a sticking cam chain tensioner was quickly diagnosed as the culprit and was hastily repaired with the aid of a ⅜ socket extension bar and a hammer. Rob then whipped it outside and gave it a thorough steam clean, polished it vigorously for an hour or two and then sold it the very same afternoon for a wallet stuffing six hundred pounds and proudly spent the rest of the week making sure everyone knew about it. Speaking to Rob these days from his home in Tennessee he will always remember to remind me of the time he spent identifying our vast collection of headlamps, in fact in his own words he says “ I spent so long sorting and identifying headlights I actually wrote to ‘You Bet’,

Page 84 The Motorcycle Undertaker the popular TV game show because I could guarantee to be able to identify any motorcycle from the ’80s by its fucking headlight beam” Personally I would have thought a place within the Black and White Minstrel Show would have been a better bet. For several months he would take on the appearance of a punk version of Al Jolson due to his excessive use of our shot blasting machine. The problem lied with the torn rubber gloves on the machine and the black sooty dust would escape from the gaps and leave the user with a bad case of emphysema and a tan that you could never achieve in the Western world. Always ready to prove his worth too, I was on a losing bet when I challenged him to carry a Honda Goldwing engine from the toilets, across the yard and into the workshop without stopping for a break. He huffed and puffed and looked as if his eyes were going to burst but he managed it and I ‘lost’ a portion of fish and chips in the wager.

Rob’s many and varied modes of two wheel transport ranged from the little yellow TS50 through a succession of tatty Superdreams and GS550’s and at one point a Reliant trike that could only be described as landfill up to his piece de resistance a stunning Suzuki 750. Never one to rely on other people too much, Rob had the bright idea of staying behind after work every night and regularly clogged the tip of my MIG welder up and used all the gas. He stayed over regularly and taught himself to weld and familiarise himself with the basics of fabrication and engineering which he utilised with his GS750 project. This machine was as individual as Rob himself and was the result of several months’ hard work from Rob and our dear friend Owen. It was certainly a ride to get you noticed with its vivid, bright orange paintwork with checkered flag graphics. A highly mirror polished engine along with uprated forks and wheels meant this was indeed a bike to go as well as show. The fact that the bike ended up dominating a three page article within the pages of the premier custom bike magazine BSH lays testament to the quality of the workmanship involved. A motorcycle that matches the colour of your hair, now that has to be a first. These days Rob spends his time disguising himself and spending far too much time out in the wilds hunting, shooting and fishing, with a black face no doubt.

Kenny Bless ‘im, this young man was only fifteen when he started working for me and his enthusiasm by far outweighed his knowledge of the motorcycle. Always keen to learn and never afraid to ‘muck in’ he used to pedal his bicycle from his native Bishop Wilton every morning to participate in the day’s adventures. It was in his first week that I introduced him to the Tardis I was carefully and painstakingly constructing. I had amassed several circuit boards and the interior of a dilapidated microwave oven and wired them together. I would show the resulting mass of electronics to anyone who would listen and lead into a long speech on how I was set to become the first person in Pocklington to travel through time and space. I would be so convincing that people really believed I could do such an ambitious feat. Kenny was no different and still comments to this day on the machine under the stairs that was supposed to transport us all back to the heydays of the BSA Gold Star and Vincent Black Shadow. Because of his younger years and naivety, Kenny was easily shocked and perhaps none more so than when in a fit of rage I blew out the windows of my vintage Wolseley 6/80 with a shotgun. It was just one of many off the wall and madcap incidents he would become familiar with over the term of his employment. Kenny stayed with us a few years then moved on to bigger and better things and the last I heard he had shot his mother with an air rifle.

Martin a.k.a. Vinegar Bottle. For an undisclosed period of time, I had in my employment one of the strangest characters I had ever met. He was a very stocky amiable lad and with long knotted and greasy hair plus the de rigeur biker facial hair he was an ideal subject to harmonize with the rest of us reprobates. From day one I had the sense that he was a little unusual and out of the ordinary, you know that feeling when you meet someone for the first time and get an almost sixth sense feeling that all is not as it should be. I’m not trying to imply that he was some kind of deranged serial killer or the subject of a Hollywood movie in the same vein as the Texas Chainsaw Massacre but there was that look on his face that if he was pushed to the limit of his capabilities, his ‘switch off’ button could easily be overridden. That said, he was most of the time a happy jolly chappy but didn’t appear to possess an alarm clock as on many an early morning Gen would call round for him at his palace of residence 79 Hull Road to offer him the ride to work and there would either be no response to the doorbell or he would answer the door appearing to have been afflicted with malaria, dysentery, and Covid-19 simultaneously and would offer the excuse “I’m dying”. Incidentally, 79 Hull Road is well known in the area for being quite an unusual place.

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Should you have the duty of having to deliver a parcel to the address for the first time you could ask any amount of locals where to find it and be either hit with a barrage of ‘left here’s’ right there’s and ‘not sure’s’ but simply mention the phrase “it’s the multi coloured house” and you would be directed forthwith with military precision. The house was painted with a multitude of bright garish colours and was the proverbial sore thumb. Martin however was employed to assist with general duties and day to day running of the busy workshop. He did his job well and could be relied upon to attempt any assignment thrown in his general direction with great gusto. His enthusiasm far outweighed his technical capabilities but he was a trier, and what does God love?

Martin owned two motorcycles which he kept stored at the shop much to my dismay as they were taking up the space of two bikes that could be offered to the public for sale. Space was at a premium in those days and every available gap had to be filled with something that would be able to earn its keep, but as a favour, I relented and let him store the bikes there whilst he worked on them. One was an extremely rare 1960 something Norton Nomad 500cc twin which someone had made a half hearted attempt to convert to a ‘’. It was requiring more than a little love and attention but the basis was there to build something really tasty and unusual with it. The other bike was a dirty, scruffy looking Suzuki GT380 two-stroke triple which was going to be utilised for his day to day transport to and from the workshop. Needless to say, neither of the bikes ever made it to being legal and roadworthy though I seem to recall Martin using the GT on several trips out and it broke down every time. We did try to assist him in getting the GT to a usable and road legal condition to give Gen a rest from having to call at the multi coloured house every day and play the wonderful lottery game of would Martin be alive and ready to hit the ground waddling or in a trance like state every morning.

Another of Martin’s traits was that he constantly exuded the pungent aroma of vinegar. I don’t know what the hell he was doing with the stuff and I am not sure I should ask as I may be slightly perturbed by the answer. So much so in fact that we nicknamed him ‘Vinegar Bottle’ though I suspect not to his face fearing a violent outburst of dramatic proportions over time, however, Martin’s behaviour had become somewhat erratic. His attendance at the workshop declined until the inevitable happened. He stopped coming altogether and refused to answer the door. I phoned him on dozens of occasions to no avail and even the other residents on number 79 had not seen him for a while. I had visions of his bedroom door being broken down only to find his lifeless body tied to the bed with chains and handcuffs coated in strawberry jam and iron filings with a video of The Teletubbies on TV. The weeks turned to months and after twelve months Martin still hadn’t appeared.

His bikes were still standing in the workshop taking up my sales space so I decided to store them down at Baul Acres temporarily until he returned to lay claim to them. After a period of two years, he still had not answered his phone or made any contact whatsoever so I inquired with the D.V.L.A in Swansea as to what my legal rights were regarding ownership of the Norton and the Suzuki and was reliably informed that I was now well within my rights to dispose of them so I applied to DVLA and received the V5 for the Suzuki, unfortunately, the Norton didn’t have a registration plate so it wasn’t possible to put it back on the road at that time. They weren’t worth a vast amount at that time (they would be at today’s market prices as the value of both bikes has skyrocketed over the past twenty years) and the figure of five hundred pounds springs to mind. I suppose it was just about covering the storage of the machines and had I placed an invoice for storage on them both they would have returned a higher figure than that. As for the man himself, he never did return to the workshop to collect his bikes and the only information I ever found out was that he had been arrested by the traffic Police some years later somewhere in the Midlands for running up the fast lane of a motorway... naked. I can honestly say I could believe that story but on the other hand, it could have been a related tale from a friend of a friend etc. but it’s something I could see Martin taking an active role in.

Jarv Although Jarv was never employed by me at the motorcycle shop we did share a couple of businesses most notably KJ Construction which is probably a subject best swept under the carpet or put in a file marked ‘future book’ though I feel I must divulge at least one story from that venture. KJ Construction began as a small JCB hire business and the person engaged in the driving of the digger was Bob. Bob would never win

Page 86 The Motorcycle Undertaker awards for his tact and diplomacy and was what we might term a straight talker and like Jarv if he didn’t take to you then he wouldn’t bitch behind your back but tell you straight to your face whether he was right or wrong. His dialogue was made even more comical because he would be in the throes of hurling a barrage of choice language at some poor unfortunate soul and would always finish his sentences with a huge sniff.

A giant of a man with hair down his back he gave the impression that he had spent the past five years sleeping in a rose bush. He was dispatched early one morning locally to South Cave to dig out some trenches with the JCB. On arrival at the immaculately maintained bungalow with its manicured lawns set in an upmarket part of the village, he was greeted by the owner, a rather pompous, irritable solicitor of considerable years. His opening line to Bob was “at last you’re here, I wish to point out that on no account are you to take that vehicle over any of my grass” and then he promptly drove off in his Mercedes shouting “I expect this job done by the time I return”. I wasn’t present at this point but I can only imagine the enraged and defiant look on Bob’s face upon being spoken to in such a manner.

Needless to say, Jarv received a phone call two hours later from an incensed solicitor threatening all manner of legal proceedings. He drew the short straw and was presented with the unfortunate task of visiting the bungalow to attempt to calm the frenzied owner down. This would be the equivalent of sending in Mussolini to defend Hitler’s actions. The sight that awaited him was just as he had expected. There, wedged firmly in the centre of that magnificent grassy area at the rear of the house was Bob with the JCB sunk into the ground up to the axles sat on the front wheel enjoying a mug of stewed tea from his flask. His only words to defend his action being “fuck ‘em”. It goes without saying that we never received payment for that job. Anyway enough of that nonsense back to the real subject of this story Jarv. A great many of the adventures contained within these pages feature this man in many guises be it the instigator or even the star of the show. His name will be forever muttered by the tongues of many horrified bystanders in a wide range of urban legends.

To describe him is going to be precarious, to say the least. His outward appearance resembled an Eastern European hitman so often seen in the movies. The long black leather jacket he favoured just added to the effect. His facial expression was that of a man who is likely to rip out your liver and show it to you before you expire in a blood curdling gurgle should you give the wrong answer to his questions. I am writing this prose very carefully as it may be a distinct possibility that this book when completed will be inserted into my ever weakening anus should I mention the unmentionable. Having said that, on the flip side is a loyal and trustworthy friend that has been a tremendous amount of fun to be around and whose black, dry sense of humour never fails to impress. A radical person to say the least and not afraid of experimentation when it comes to improving a vehicle’s performance be it two wheels or four. The installation of twin SU carburettors to a Yamaha XS250 was just one of the many radical alterations he undertook, the poor wretched bike eventually made a valiant effort at eating its own internals and finally expired with a loud bang and plumes of smoke then shattered to pieces some months later.

Never one to stick with conformity, another of his projects was an old Honda CB500T, never the most reliable of bikes at the best of times, that he painted in army green colours and was the envy of every war hero in the area who were all convinced it was an old wartime BSA. Its most endearing quality though was the speedometer that had been lifted from an exercise bicycle. It only read three settings, slow, hard and vigorous and was the talking point of many within the local town. His extremist nature would shine through in most things that he would put his mind to. The bonfires held every 5th November at his smallholding became legendary, not only for the wild all night drunken parties but the sheer size of the bonfire. The ultimate in bonfires, the fire to end all fires has to be the night that he actually burnt a fire engine. Local truck dismantler Jimmy Johnson has sent over an old fibreglass body of an engine and it stood upright and was then supported by pallets and anything that was of a combustible nature that could be gleaned from anywhere in the confines of East Yorkshire. Jarv also had a fixation with Suzuki GT550 two-stroke triples and I can remember seeing at least five of them lay around his smallholding at one time all in varying states of decay. The man is a genius when it comes to fabrication and engineering and if we ever found ourselves requiring anything turning or milling then he was always willing and capable to offer assistance using his fine array of heavy duty machinery. Another of his many odd talents was his ability to nickname a person with a name so outrageous it usually stuck, names as unusual as The Diesel Queen, Pigeon face and Pieman, spring immediately to mind. I’m not sure if he has one for me but if he has I would be it has twat in it somewhere.

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CHAPTER 9 The Customers Over the years a great number of the antics of the customers, some of which bordered on the downright dangerous, never failed to amuse and mystify us all. I look back and I am staggered at the number of folks who drove through the gates of the yard with either the exhaust trailing along the road behind the bike showering sparks everywhere or limping in with a drive chain so slack you could tie a bow in it. In worst case scenarios, it was not a totally unfamiliar sight to see riders gently coasting in through the gates with no exhaust silencer whatsoever, their quite feeble attempts at keeping the revs and noise to a minimum failing miserably. I used to sometimes wonder how the hell these people had managed to get their ailing bikes this far to the shop without there being a major road traffic accident or at least a spill in the hedgerows.

Such was the case of the guy who rode in one morning aboard a tatty looking Suzuki SB200 and in a genuinely deadpan manner commented that he thought a new chain and sprockets might be in order. Before I ordered the necessary parts I thought it might be an idea to give the bike a looking at to make sure that it was fitted with standard parts and hadn’t been altered in any way. What I saw would haunt me for many years, not only was the sprocket worn well beyond its serviceable limits but there was a chunk of it missing. A chunk of sprocket containing six teeth to be more precise. This chap had ridden the bike in that state for ten miles and how he made it I will never know. Had the chain got entangled in the space where the teeth should be then it would have locked the whole drive assembly up and almost certainly would have thrown him off. When I pointed this out to him his retort was the typical Yorkshire reply for anything that was dangerous or likely to maim, “it’ll be right” he grinned and leapt aboard the bike despite my protests. I ordered him a new chain and sprocket kit and even I felt a sense of relief when he returned later in the week and insisted we fitted it for him. I kept the old sprocket for many years as an example of how dangerous some folks can be to themselves.

Stupidity wasn’t just confined to rear sprockets and exhausts. One regular customer owned and ‘maintained’ his Honda MT50 learner legal trail bike. I use the term maintained very loosely indeed. He was only sixteen and a relative newbie in the big bad world of motorcycles but his enthusiasm outranked his knowledge of the internal combustion engine. For weeks on end, he would call into the shop requiring a new piston kit for the bike. After a while, I asked if he had a fault on the bike causing him to require so many new items. “Not that I know of, I just keep breaking the rings trying to put them over the piston” he replied rather sheepishly. After advising him that the rings are available to buy separately he gingerly inquired if I would be good enough to fit the rings for him. I sent the young lad home clutching his old piston with the shiny new rings correctly fitted. Sure enough the following Saturday he was back at the shop inquiring after a new piston and rings and this time holding the remains of a broken piston in his hands. He had managed to fit it without mishap and the bike fired up more or less immediately but after a couple of hours there was an almighty bang and the bike ground to a rapid halt. It’s always very difficult to diagnose a problem without the bike being in front of you, rather like the GP in his surgery, he can hardly start handing out pills and potions without seeing the patient first. I suggested a few things that could be leading to the piston’s demise and sent him off with his third new trophy. The following week he brought the tatty red MT50 into the shop for us to try and give a diagnosis. It was immediately apparent that the oil line to the rear of the barrel was non-existent. “What mixture of fuel/oil are you using?” was my first question. This was met with a blank, vacant stare and when I pressed the question further his answers all led to the nonexistence of 2 stroke oil in the fuel. It’s a well known fact that a two-stroke engine needs oil to survive the incredible heat of combustion. An engine receiving little or no oil at all will soon head down the road of self destruction which is what was happening here. This time he left the shop armed with yet another piston kit and a bottle of two- stroke oil and a measuring cup. For several weeks it was all quiet on the MT front and after a few months the lad returned aboard a new steed. He had upgraded from the unreliable MT to a slightly less troublesome Honda MBX80, still a two-stroke and not without its complications but for the present it was running as it should. I had to question his sanity though as he insisted on turning up at the shop with a dead starling

Page 88 The Motorcycle Undertaker sellotaped to the front fairing. “It looks cool doesn’t it?” said the beaming bird murderer. He genuinely seemed quite surprised when I said it didn’t and that he would probably end up with a large group of bird fanciers darkening his door if he didn’t remove it pronto. Although I was quite offended by the cruelty I had to admire his sense of humour.

A sense of humour was not always shared by some of the other customers who could be sometimes downright offensive. On many occasions, I would be faced with a customer who had bought a used part from either another breaker or over the internet. Having taken delivery of their precious part some would find that either the wrong part had been sent or they had asked for the incorrect part for that particular model bike. It was then that they would visit the shop clutching the wrong part offering to sell it to me or exchange it for the correct part. A refusal would be greeted with a pained expression and under the breath mutterance. I couldn’t seem to get across the fact that I am in business to earn a living not to assist them in their engine rebuild by handing out free parts. Another popular saying was the infuriating “I have tried everywhere else so I thought I would try you”, I swear I once considered changing the name to ‘Last Resort Motorcycles’. It’s very hurtful and offensive to know that someone local would rather travel fifty miles to other shops rather than use the local dealer, then to openly say it to your face. On such occasions I would get my own back by simply doubling the price or even saying I too didn’t have the part they were searching for, knowing full well there was a box full of said parts upstairs. Childish, yes but in my business the actions of the minority sometimes make you act in that way.

I myself have been known to have my own bouts of bad temperedness and outrages on an epic scale. Usually when something I have been working on does not want to play ball as the Yamaha FJ1100 found out one afternoon. I had been trying to get it to fire for a couple of hours, to no avail. I had a spark, plenty of fuel was reaching that spark and I had compression but no matter how hard I tried it was insistent on being as dead as a dodo. I had even connected the industrial battery boost pack in a vain effort to start the lifeless machine. I must stress that this bike was one destined for the showroom and not a customer’s machine. I do try to take care of all customers’ bikes and would never consider using drastic measures as I did to this poor FJ. Still, the bike refused to spark into life so my last option was to bump start it up the yard. God knows I must have been fit in those days as now I couldn’t even dream of pushing a bicycle up the yard let alone a quarter of a ton of Yamaha. I went once up the yard, nothing, not even a whisper, then down the yard and every time I launched my bodyweight onto the gear lever the bike shuddered to an abrupt stop.

By this time Gen had ventured from the workshop to watch along with a good friend and customer Spreaders. They could see by the purple hue of my face that things were not going swimmingly and added to the fact I was by now getting short of breath, Spreaders kindly stepped in to offer an extra push. The bike still refused to bite and so on the final run I gave it my all and out of sheer desperation and dogged bad temper I let the beast go. It wobbled a surprisingly long way on its own before eventually running out of inertia and laid itself over with a crashing, cracking sound of broken plastic being dragged over gravel. I don’t think Spreaders quite expected that and the look of utter disbelief on his face spoke volumes. After sitting down in the sun, smoking a well earned cigarette and composing myself for a while I decided to retrieve the Yamaha which was beginning to resemble a rhino sunning itself in the plains of Africa. I did what we are all told to do in times of frustration and walk away. I left the bike for a couple of hours for it to gather its thoughts and perhaps reconsider its take on the matter of starting up. It worked, the Yamaha must have had a serious talk with itself, or the sudden shock of being thrown down the yard may have changed its outlook but whichever was the case I connected the jump leads up for the umpteenth time and hey presto the bike sparked into life. I never did experience any more mishaps from that bike and it went on to stand with pride in the showroom eventually selling to a loving and caring new owner. I hasten to add that I never told him of the happenings in the yard many weeks previous.

Les Howard It was a rare sight to see Harley Davidson owners in the shop as they invariably broke down on the way, no that’s not true at all it’s a sideswipe at Harley owners who will hopefully take it in good humour. Good God, I have even ridden Harley’s myself for the past thirty years. We had a shortage of Harley fans as their needs were more suitably taken care of by the larger dealerships. My service was for primarily Japanese motorcycles

Page 89 The Motorcycle Undertaker so it wasn’t often we had customers for the Milwaukee V twins. One exception to the rule was Les. He lived over at Goole and ran a thriving small business repairing forklifts of all descriptions. He would frequent the shop for a chat and perhaps something universal such as bulbs, batteries and consumables and if he were working on a Japanese bike he would have a trip through to the shop for a rummage through the parts bins upstairs. I think I was quite well known in East Yorkshire for having great bins to rummage through. My bins were the talk of the motorcycle world in these parts.

Les eventually went off to prospect for the Satan’s Slaves and we saw less and less of him. That was until one afternoon I was on a plane flying back from Valencia after having just signed the papers on the house purchase at Real de Montroi, a tiny agricultural village some twenty kilometres from the city, and I heard a voice call out “Keldy, what are you doing on this plane?” At first, I was unable to see who the voice belonged to suffice to say it was further along the plane behind me. No one made themselves known so I sat back and waited for someone to materialise next to me. Nothing, it had to be someone that knew me well enough to use the term ‘Keldy’. The suspense was getting to me so I unbuckled the seatbelt only to be reprimanded by the air hostess claiming we were about to leave the ground. Sufficiently scolded I slunk back into my seat and almost did myself an injury twisting round to try to catch a glimpse of the mystery caller.

I am quite sure the Spanish lady in the seat behind thought all her birthdays had come at once and began fluttering her eyelashes. I decided to give that one a wide berth, Spanish women in their 80’s just don’t turn me on, well that is unless I have been drinking rather heavily for a week. Once the plane had levelled out at however many thousands of feet that planes level out I made my way clumsily, avoiding the admiring looks from the almost dead Spanish woman, towards the rear of the plane and the mystery shouter revealed himself as Les Howard.

The usual greetings were dispensed with and the more serious matter of what the hell we were both doing on the same plane became the preferred topic of conversation. Valencia is hardly a tourist area so it was highly unlikely the pair of us were there for a fortnight’s beach holiday. I informed him that the ink was still wet on the deeds to my new house out in the countryside and would be moving over in a matter of weeks. I was taken aback when he announced that he had done the very same. The purpose of his trip had been to view and buy a small Finca out in the beautiful Valencian countryside or ‘campo’ as it’s commonly known. It was situated between the villages of Montroi and Real de Montroi, the very same village I had bought my house in.

That was definitely one of those creepy coincidences and could someone please cue the Twilight Zone music for effect? Once we had all said our goodbyes to family and friends and finally emigrated over to the sun drenched country Les and I became great friends and one of our favourite pastimes was to blow up household items using a vast array of explosives. Suzi and I would invite Les and his lovely wife Julie up to our house for dinner and drinks and we would arrange a time say 7.30pm for example. At precisely 7.20 we would hear an almighty explosion loud enough to wake the dead. This was Les’s signal to inform us that they were setting off and to give Suzi fair warning to pour the drinks and pop the main dish in the oven. The same antics would be reversed when it was their turn to host an evening’s entertainment, I used to keep a section of scaffold tube which I used for firing whole potatoes into the neighbours swimming pool, rather like a mortar it also doubled up as the starting pistol for dinner parties at the Howard’s.

The dinner parties were spectacular with a whole range of Mediterranean food on offer, a large beautiful deep blue swimming pool and late night entertainment that usually involved explosives and creating craters in the back field. Les and I would frequently be found tinkering around with the bikes in the workshop at my place in Montroi and as soon as was feasibly possible Les treated himself to a brand new Kawasaki VN900 to accompany me tearing up and down amongst the orange groves in the Valencian countryside. This was one of the many instances where customers really do become good friends and it was a sad day when I finally moved away from the Valencian campo to eke out a new start in Marbella.

The customer and the cabinet You would never guess by looking at me, would you? You wouldn’t in a million years think that I, the rufty tufty, long-haired, goatee bearded and fearsome looking character that I am, has an obsession with

Page 90 The Motorcycle Undertaker boxes! Cardboard boxes, wooden boxes, leather boxes, decorative boxes, boxes of any description, large or small although the bigger the better. I think it’s all down to an overactive imagination and the fact my parents would always offer me presents in boxes then say to whoever would listen “I’m sure our Kevin would be happier if we just gave him an empty box to play with instead of a toy”, Well many years down the line I still retain that thrill of excitement whenever I am handed a parcel or gift wrapped birthday present. I can clearly recall buying twenty five pallets of cardboard boxes to ship motorcycle parts around the globe and been almost as excited as if I had won a Harley in a lucky prize draw. My excitement increases if the box in question is large enough for me to climb inside.

My thoughts on this subject are cast way back to one particular event that occurred in the shop many years ago. It came at a time when things were relatively quiet on the sales front so I treated myself to an afternoons ‘housekeeping’. By that, I mean general tidying up and re-arranging the showroom and counter area. Let me explain further, the showroom was a large room thirty feet long and the length of three motorcycles in width with a row of bikes proudly displayed for sale down either side. Facing into this room was a much smaller room consisting of a large glass display cabinet with a solid wood top as the counter with several new spares and accessories hung up on the walls behind. On the counter was the vicious till which was not unlike the one in the hit TV show Open all Hours that would threaten to trap any unsuspecting victim’s fingers if they were not removed swiftly enough. At the other end of the counter, there was a telephone along with a credit card terminal with several suppliers’ catalogues and books for the reference of parts. In the glass cabinet below there were a vast array of Custom Chrome and Harley parts. Shiny brand new chromium plated accessories that created an impressive display and attracted an awful lot of attention from the customers upon arrival at the shop.

I decided that having an afternoon available at my disposal it would be a suitable chance to remove all the stock from the cabinet, vacuum it out and then slowly and systematically re-arrange it all to make a stunning window display. So far so good, all the items were removed; the green felt baize material that covered the floor of the cabinet was vacuumed and after a little hard scrubbing was looking awfully enticing. Instantly I was drawn towards the glass cocoon, it appeared to be so comfortable, I must resist, must resist, too late. In a flash, I was in the cabinet and it was a perfect fit. I could have very easily fallen asleep in this serene and tranquil coffin but my ideas of a quick nap were thwarted when I heard the noise of the large metal outside doors opening. Should I stay or should I go? That was my initial thought. Perhaps the person entering the showroom only needed to speak to someone in the workshop. In walked a gentleman dressed in a suit and tie and clearly did not have the looks of your average biker, he would have looked less out of place in the taxman’s office. I made an immediate decision to stay put and hoped he would either leave or wander into the workshop.

He didn’t leave nor head to speak to General in the workshop area instead he chose to walk to the counter and shout “hello, hello, anyone around?”, I was trying my hardest not to make a sound when the workshop door opened and out stepped General to see what the fuss was about. “Ah, I wonder if you could help me, I’m looking for Mr Keld” In the meantime, I was frantically gesturing towards General in a vain attempt at conveying the message to him to say I wasn’t in. He was either unaware of my gesticulations or chose to ignore them as the first words he said were to the rather official looking gentleman was “yes, of course, I can help, he is in that cabinet behind you” I tried my very best to put on a brave face, a kind of nervous smile, the kind of expression you would have on your face had you been caught running across your front garden with an orange balanced on your wedding tackle and five ice cubes up your arse.

The man promptly squatted down in front of me and abruptly announced “ah Mr Keld, my name is Mr Johnson, H.M. Customs and Excise, it’s regarding your VAT returns” My face must have turned the colour of a polar bear in a vat of squirty cream because Mr Johnson quickly followed his introduction with “it’s all ok, nothing to be concerned about. I just need to collect a cheque for £8.49 from you”. I could not believe I was having a normal discussion with the VAT man whilst lying in a glass display cabinet. It couldn’t have been more surreal if I had been dressed as a nun. I cannot imagine what tale that man told his colleagues upon his return to HMRC. The caper was to be repeated some months later but this time using the large cardboard box that was cast off after we took delivery of a new oil burning heater. It was a massive box and I could almost stand upright in it. Obviously, I had to try it out for size just as a customer entered the building. There then followed a five minute conversation between the customer and a cardboard box. Had anyone looked in the shop they would have thought he had escaped from a secure unit. Ok then, perhaps me too.

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The man and the mirror Over many years of being surrounded by all makes and models of motorcycles, it is possible to get an educated ear for each bike’s distinctive sound. It is even within the realms of possibility to diagnose a fault even as the bike speeds by. Most of the time though whilst standing behind the counter day after day I would pass the time by trying to identify the customers even before they had opened the shop door. I would carefully listen to the sound of the engine as the bike was propelled over the speed humps on the run up to the shop. On one particular occasion, I quite correctly identified one of our regulars on a low mileage Yamaha FJ1200. He had visited the shop on numerous instances to buy a wide range of parts for the array of machinery he was restoring at home.

His Yamaha was a real cute example and as with many owners it was his pride and joy but he had the misfortune recently to suffer an altercation with a white van resulting in the damage of his left hand mirror. Damage to the point of it hanging off the bike by a thread was a more accurate description. My immediate thoughts were that he was riding on the crest of good fortune that afternoon because only a few hours before his arrival I had dismantled the remains of a similar Yamaha FJ1200, same year and identical model with a pair of good mirrors all intact. It really was his lucky day, though it was to be short lived. He was, in due course presented with a fine example of a left hand mirror and inquired as to whether he could have the loan of a spanner and a screwdriver to fit it to his bike outside the shop. “I can do one better than that my man, pull the bike into the workshop and we will fit it for you”

In rare instances, I could be very accommodating though the wind had to be in the right direction and facing downhill. We, oops my mistake, I mean General fitted the mirror and after a swift swipe of the credit card the happy customer was once again on his merry way. It might have only been three minutes before I heard the distinct tones of the FJ once again drawing up to the shop door. Sure enough outside was the mirror man, with a distinctly unhappy look on his face “I don’t suppose you have the other side mirror do you?” Sure enough, the right hand side mirror was now hanging off the bike. He had left the premises and as he was about to enter into the traffic on the A1079 main road he had lost his balance and the bike had laid itself down on the rugged tarmac road smashing the mirror as it did so. The Yamaha suffered no other obvious damage other than the mirror, he was extremely lucky not to have been inquiring about the availability of cosmetic parts too.

Lord Snooty Lord Snooty, real name Phillip Harvey was eccentric to say the least and I am ashamed to say that I often took his eccentricity for attention seeking. Sure he would tell stories of all the celebrities he had encountered and I just took it with a pinch of salt and put it down to exaggeration but even so, the stories of his past were truly fascinating. It wasn’t until I began to delve into his bygone years to gain a little research for this book that I found out that every story he had related on our nights in the back of his converted horsebox was based on true life events. Phil was the son of Lord Harvey of Prestbury, a distinguished member of the House of Lords and was active in the house during the time of our friendship. It was a subject that Phil spoke little about and I never pressed him on the subject. We met when he walked into the old workshop one day asking if it would be possible to service the Triumph chopper he had in the trailer that was hooked up to his truck. Considering he was the son of a Lord he never gave the impression of being remotely Conservative in his appearance. Dishevelled to the point of being bedraggled, his clothes always looked as if he had been servicing a decrepit 1950’s combine harvester on an oily, dusty farm workshop floor.

A good friend of mine, Wayne, recently commented when I told him that I was searching for information on this piece, “wasn’t he the one who always had oily hands?” Yes, indeed he was, he always had grubby mitts, every time I ever saw him his hands had that wretched appearance of a retired HGV fitters hands. Having said that, he was the most interesting, friendly and accommodating person to walk through the workshop door for a long time. He was very well educated, had the manners of a nobleman and spoke with a soft hypnotic voice very similar to Prince Charles. His beloved Triumph was a 650 Bonneville twin with a rigid frame, chrome coffin tank and a seat designed to give you piles just by looking at it. Topped off with the obligatory wrought twisted iron sissy bar it was very much a typical early 70’s bike in true ‘Easy Rider’ style. The chopper was tatty and oil smeared in appearance, not unlike its owner but it ran like a dream and served him well on his jaunts around the leafy lanes of East Yorkshire. I always welcomed his journeys up to the shop and booking in the

Page 92 The Motorcycle Undertaker bike just so I could have a test ride around the local country lanes on it.

Regrettably, I have no photographs of the machine so I have to rely on my own rather jaded memory to recall the details so in fact, it may have been a dayglow orange Batavus Go-Go as opposed to a Triumph twin. Each time Phil arrived with the bike we would normally be expected to down tools for a couple of hours and spend time with him in the back of his converted horsebox, “call it an extended lunch break” he would say. It was magical, every hippie’s dream ‘pad’. It was cosy and dark but at the same time full of bright vivid colours with a self-contained kitchen and the living area contained many interesting items from his worldwide travels, so much so that your eyes were constantly flitting from one side of the box to the other, or was that just the silly cigarettes we used to smoke? Many an afternoon would be spent putting the world to rights and laughing to the point of vomiting with the aid of some really odd smelling tobacco. For a while the horsebox was parked round at Priory engineering, my old employer on the industrial estate and Norman had the enviable task of making several modifications to it. I’m not entirely sure where Phil was staying during this period but it wouldn’t be a surprise if he were still living in it, though he once told me his ex-wife lived in the Pocklington area.

She had been involved in a folk/rock group called Agent Beartrap and had even released an album with a track called ‘Party in Pocklington’ amongst its track listing. I still haven’t managed to get a hold of a copy yet but the search continues. Phil was also a good friend of Michael Eavis of Glastonbury fame and in the early days of the festival, it was Phil who was given the charge of looking after the security of the car parks. He would relate countless tales of daredevil practices and thrills and spills making a simple car park sound far more interesting and diverse than the main stage of the festival. Perhaps the most famous of his friends was Jimi Hendrix and in all the documentation regarding Jimi’s death in 1970 Phil was listed as being in the guitarists’ company all the afternoon prior to his death. They were great friends and although Phil spoke little of it a simple request to Google brings up enough details to substantiate his claims. His friends’ list was a true who’s who of the classic rock world and whilst I saw no reason to disbelieve his claims I always had the impression the stories were mildly exaggerated which in later years I became to regret.

One summer he arrived with the usual flock of vehicles but this time a new addition was added to the two-wheeled fold. This was a rather tatty matt black Suzuki SP400 trail bike that was an absolute pig of a beast to kick off. They all were, all those late 70’s big singles such as the SP and the Yamaha XT500 were notorious for attempting to throw your left leg over your shoulder as you attempted to start the beasts. Once running the SP was a pleasure to ride and I spent many an afternoon riding the thing over countless heaps of soil on a disused part of the airfield. Phillip insisted that the bike belonged to the lead singer of the English rock group Gun but attempts to verify this have so far been unsuccessful though I hardly think fibbing about the ownership of a bike was ever his intention.

Phil was a true gent and an expert storyteller. Someone that could instantly put you at ease. I simply couldn’t imagine the man losing his temper or being unkind to anyone. It was always a pleasure spending time with him in the cosy but functional horsebox and I was especially distressed to hear of his passing. The first I knew of it was when General received a phone call at the office from Phil’s mother inquiring as to what the last conversation was between us and Phil. It became apparent that the last call made on his phone was to the shop and no doubt it would be for no other reason than to book any one of the bikes in for repair or a warning that he was coming ‘up North’ to visit.

Whatever was discussed on that call would have been the last time we ever got to chat with Phil as his mother informed us that tragically he had driven into the New Forest and taken his own life. As with all suicide cases I was confronted with a mixture of emotions ranging from sadness to frustration. I can’t remember the last call, could it have been a call for help? Was there anything we could have done to change his mind? Had I known he was in that frame of mind I would have driven to London and dragged him by the ears back up here but would it have worked? His passing left us with so many unanswered questions and the feeling of utter helplessness. I will always remember our friendship with such reverence. Lord Snooty, they don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

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Ashley and the man from Kent It was an exciting time for me when my eldest son Ashley announced he would be willing to trot along to the workshop to help out his dear Papa. It would be perfect bonding for us both and we soon learned we both had the same twisted sense of humour. I have to admit though at times I must come across as the Devil incarnate. The days spent in the workshop usually involved basic duties such as cleaning a pre-sale motorcycle up on the workbench. Ash would attack one side whilst I grazed my knuckles and got my hands filthy on the other. The days would normally conclude with Ashley stood outside spluttering and cursing loudly whilst trying to hold his breath. It could very easily escalate to full all out war in the farting competition. It was indeed a pleasure and a fulfilling experience having to work closely with your son, even if breaking wind was the main topic of conversation. We had travelled to Liverpool one afternoon to collect a Keeway Superlight 125 for Ashley and the van was in serious danger of exploding into a fireball of mammoth proportions given the methane activity contained therein.

Whichever way you view it the days were never boring or tedious. With a stream of jolly japes and hoots to be explored. Let me just say this right here and now, and I am sure Ashley will agree, he is most definitely not a people person. A career in customer services would most likely be his idea of Hell on Earth. This hatred of the general public can be observed when Ash had to oversee the crucial sale of a motorcycle whilst I was holidaying in Scotland. Over the course of four months, Ashley and I had stripped and rebuilt a Chinese 125cc road going bike, the Sym XS125 to be precise transforming it into a ‘survival’ type steed. This in effect meant adding several modifications such as chains on the fuel tank, the addition of metal handguards, headlamp protectors and a rear carrier designed to replicate a futuristic power generator.

The finished article looked impressive and was offered for sale with a price tag of five hundred pounds through the usual channels of Facebook Marketplace which covered the whole of the UK. At the very same time, I also had for sale a Chinese 125cc scooter. A reliable solid machine in good working order with all the necessary bits in the right place and a full year’s MOT to boot. The only repairs we had to undertake on this little meanie were a new headlamp bulb and a front brake caliper overhaul. It too was offered for sale for a tidy sum of five hundred pounds through Facebook again and it was then just a case of waiting for the right person to come along. It’s rather like fishing; you throw the line in and wait for an unsuspecting punter to swim along. We didn’t have to wait very long to get a bite on the survival bike and in all honesty, we were inundated by genuine inquiries. It was sold to the first person that saw it. He had travelled from Sheffield and was delighted with his new purchase, so much so that we were even handed a five-pound tip for our troubles. One down and only one to go and within the space of a few days we had someone else very interested in that too. I had a series of messages from a chap in Kent who was very intrigued by the machine I had for sale. The messaging back and forth continued for several days and then the chap announced that yes he would like to buy it and he would travel up from Kent to Yorkshire on the following Sunday with a trailer to collect it. I left for Scotland on the Friday before with a pocket full of money from the sale of the first bike and the prospect of returning to another wedge of cash on Sunday. Unfortunately, the ball was well and truly in Ashley’s court when it came to the handling of the sale and interacting with the prospective buyer.

I had confidence in the boy though and I knew that even though the general public is number one on his hit list this transaction would be a breeze. Did I just say breeze? Upon reflection, I think I ought to have altered that to a nightmare of all nightmares. I received the fateful call whilst I was navigating the beautiful scenery of Glencoe in Scotland on my return journey back to sunny old Yorkshire. The gentleman had indeed travelled all the way from Kent with cash in his hand to buy the bike but Ashley couldn’t find it. I was perplexed by this as I had left it stood in the middle of the workshop, it would be downright impossible to miss it. “Yes I have seen the scooter but this man has travelled up for the survival bike” It was at this point that my life flashed in front of me and I felt physically sick. I cannot believe that over the past few days I had been speaking to this man regarding a totally different bike. I had my wires crossed and thought he was coming to view the scooter. Now he had travelled 185 miles for nothing. I knew the distance was 185 miles as he insisted on telling me several times throughout a five minute phone conversation. I think he used just about every single obscene word that has ever been thought up in that conversation too.

As for Ashley, he had the effect of infuriating the already irritated gentleman by the answers to his questions. Upon being presented with a scooter suitable for the daily commute as opposed to an apocalyptic

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Suzi posing aboard the very latest from Harley Davidson on trade day at the NEC Motorcycle Show somewhere around 2002.

Probably the lightest bike in the world. The Hayabusa just before the engine was stripped out of it.

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In its original form, the AWOL bike pictured before the fire that destroyed the paintwork.

Bad Boy 1 was the registration plate on this built for eldest son Ashley. He still has it today.

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The Martek Kawasaki nitrous turbo nearing completion. From a wreck laid on a pallet to this in 12 months.

Mother aboard her bike sometime in the early 1950s. Like Mother like son eh?

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Another truckload of bikes I had bought from Universal Salvage, lots of cheap Honda C90s and the Martek Kawasaki turbo leaning against the tailgate.

One of the many adverts appearing in the Used Bike Guide showing off a hoard of goodies for sale.

Page 98 The Motorcycle Undertaker survival bike the ‘customer’ looked towards Ash requiring an explanation. I’m afraid he was only to be rewarded with a shrug of the shoulders and an expression that resembles someone trying to suck a three metre long strand of spaghetti at great speed. Quite rightly the chap was demanding some form of compensation for his wasted three hundred and seventy mile sojourn and after pummelling Ashley with constant requests for fuel money he drew a blank and another spaghetti sucking expression. Unbeknown to him you have a better chance of winning the lottery without buying a ticket than you do getting Ash to splash the cash. I thought my son had handled the whole chain of events with great success and preserved the dignity of our little outfit. The man from Orpington, however, drove off shaking his fist and shouting obscenities laced with the words ‘cowboys’ and the ‘village idiot’. Strange man.

The Syrian connection One of the last tasks we undertook prior to relocating the shop from the small unit to the larger premises next door was to have a cull. Not a cull of staff but a clearout of some of the spares that had been accumulated over the years and showed no signs of being sold. I had tea chest after tea chest of Japanese parts that had been there for quite some time gathering dust. It goes against the grain for me to have to simply offload these parts directly into the skip. We didn’t have space yet in the new shed for these bits and to be fair they would not be worth the space they took up. So I was extremely pleased and elated when my friend Jimmy Johnson, who owned a truck salvage yard down the road, announced that he had a party of Syrians coming over in a few days with a view to buying several trucks and parts for export back home to Syria. They were also asking if there was a supply of motorcycle parts available.

Damn right there was and arrangements were made for two of them to visit our premises the following week. Now call me old fashioned but when I was at school the only languages I ‘learned’ were Latin and French. Latin was as much use as a one to one scale model of the Starship Enterprise made from honey. French I just never got the hang of, probably because I used to spend most of the class in the lads toilets smoking No6 cigarettes with Tom Thackeray. I’m afraid Syrian was not on the curriculum and had it been available I think smoking or making custard floorboards would have been preferable. I presume the Syrians had a similar choice at their school because neither of them that arrived to collect the parts could speak a word of English. I did note that they were both heavy smokers so I guessed they too had forsaken the English lessons to actively chain smoke in the toilets with Abdullah Thackray.

This presented a problem because I had no idea what a Honda CG125 Brazil carburettor was in Syrian and they were clueless when it came to the English translation. However, I managed to convey the message to pull out of the boxes everything that they required and place the parts in a pile in the middle of the workshop floor and we would fight over the price later. All was progressing just fine and the heap in the workshop grew as the boxes thinned out to a reasonable degree. That is until one of the tea chests on the upper lever fell and cracked one of them square on the head leaving him with a gash on the top of the head that was seeping blood. With a tremendous amount of gesturing that a mime artist would be proud of I tried to convey to him that perhaps a trip to A & E might be in order but he was having none of it and gesticulated towards the first aid box we had on the workshop wall. Just how he was going to repair his battered crown with an old roll of Elastoplast, a pair of blunt scissors and the remains of a Honda Superdream starter motor was anyone’s guess. That’s all that was in the ill-equipped first aid box or as we termed it afterwards the last aid box. Well not to be outdone he took the roll of Elastoplast, bit a chunk from it and had his buddy stick the patch over the wound which now, fortunately, had ceased spraying blood everywhere. I don’t think these guys had seen much service in the NHS or the Syrian equivalent, or M*A*S*H even because the patch was placed on top of the guy’s hair so the minute Syrian Number 2 removed his hand from Syrian number 1’s head the patch just bounced up and sat approximately an inch above the wound.

The only successful outcome of this makeshift repair was to stick the man’s hair together in the shape of a ‘man bun’ whilst the blood still seeped from the wound. I can’t really complain though because the Syrians made quite a heap of parts to ship back home and I was a thousand pounds better off for the exercise and it was much more fun than throwing the parts in the skip. Needless to say, the first aid box was upgraded after this event; it now contained an oily bandage.

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Razor Eddie My one regret with this chap was not finding the meaning of the nickname ‘Razor’. On the surface, it sounded like a fictional character roaming the streets of London from an early episode of Dixon of Dock Green. Though in probability it was more likely that he had an obsession with collecting razor blades by various manufacturers, the same way folks collect matchboxes, ( As a child I had a collection of over 100 matchboxes of all different styles and sizes from countries near and far). His appearance was just downright scary and he always gave the impression that he had been dressed by a catapult. His dark, unforgiving eyes gave an air of danger with just one of those faces that would be the last thing your eyes would see before he gouged them out with a blade. I first became aware of this chap many years previously as he too owned one of the two-stroke Harley Davidsons in the mid to late Seventies. The bikes were so few in existence that it was easy to note who owned one at the time in the small but perfectly formed town of Pocklington. I had one, Razor had another and my good friend Martin Brigham owned the only other one in our area and his was the much sought after 250cc version, Razor and I had to be content with the 175cc variety. You could easily identify the owners of two-stroke Harleys by the desperate, drained and haunted look on their faces after years of attempting to keep them mobile. The exact details concerning Razor have become somewhat sketchy and scrappy over the years but it soon became apparent that he worked somewhere on the industrial estate but we never really bothered to inquire further. He would end his shift at the butt plug manufacturing company or whatever it was called and drop off either for a chat or to burden us with his bike for repair or service. He had long since grown weary of the two-stroke Harley, as we all do, and had treated himself to a Yamaha RXS100.

Hardly a speed machine or road racing steed but it managed to ferry him from his home in Pocklington up to the aforesaid place of work. It was our mission to keep it running and serviced with the odd annual MOT test to stay on the right side of the law. This we did to the very best of our abilities and over the years Eddie became a regular weekly fixture choosing to purchase his daily fix of hand rolling tobacco from me. Yes I know it’s naughty but I was hardly Imperial Tobacco LTD. It was a steady flow of Samson from the truck drivers based in our yard who made regular weekly trips into Europe. All it meant was that my tobacco became free as I sold enough to cover my own costs; unfortunately, it was no incentive to kick the foul, dirty habit. Eddie had a permanent dog end of a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth and I don’t think I can ever recall him not having a trail of ash and saliva down the front of his shirt or jacket.

The one tale that stands above and beyond all else is the time he inadvertently left his dinner bag containing the remains of a rat sandwich and a half-consumed flask of stewed tea in the workshop overnight. This was a silly thing to do given our propensity for practical and not so practical jokes. So we were given the perfect opportunity to have a laugh at Eddie’s expense. The stewed tea was discharged from the flask and I swear it came out in a lump and it was replaced by a full industrial strength tub of Swarfega hand washing soap. Any of you that don’t know, Swarfega stinks, it stinks for ages after you have washed your hands and has that diesel-like quality that if you spill some on your clothes the stench will follow you around for years to come. We filled the flask to the very max and carefully replaced it in the bag. I have to confess to being slightly disappointed when he collected the ‘doctored’ bag and failed to notice the addition of the hand cleaner. I was even more disheartened when the jolly jape was never mentioned in conversation ever again. He returned to the shop the following week for us to look over the bike again but not one mention of the Swarfega which led me to believe that perhaps his work colleagues were possibly in the habit of playing tricks with his lunchtime apparatus and it was something he had just got accustomed to. It could have been his way of making the trick backfire by not showing any kind of reaction therefore denying us the laughter. In any case, it was preferable to having our throats cut in the dead of night by a razor wielding Harley owner.

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CHAPTER 10 The Move Next Door It was inevitable that one day the business would become too big for its boots, well, too big for the imposing four walls is closer to the mark. The small original building just couldn’t cope with the influx of damaged and shabby motorcycles and although Gen and I had utilised every single available space to store used parts I felt that we were beginning to lose track of the stock. Larger premises had to be sourced and had to be found quickly otherwise we were going to be faced with losing even more stock to the thieving scumbags that scour the industrial estate every evening. I had lost countless parts from the large array of bikes waiting to be dismantled that had accumulated in the yard outside the shop and before long the elements would render many of these parts unsaleable. My first primary objective was to call on the existing landlord Dick. I wasn’t expecting to be welcomed with open arms considering his beloved office within the building had been transformed into an impromptu carburettor store and his private washroom into an engine degreasing station. As luck would have it the much larger building next door was becoming available within the following few months and for a marginal increase in the monthly rent payments, I could acquire the lease and relocate the stock at a leisurely pace.

The two characters presently occupying the building were an auto electrician and a lad that used to attempt to respray motor vehicles. It quickly became apparent that these two were likely subjects for a bout of baiting and provoking. On Friday lunchtimes my time was devoted to the ‘Friday Phone Call Show’ when I would, out of sheer boredom, ring various anonymous people up and play a prank on them. No one was sacred or spared the indignation of this jape. I was particularly good at this because I could always guarantee to keep a straight face and not break down into floods of tears and laughter before the punchline was finally delivered. The two guys next door were easy prey and quite regularly pranked. Perhaps the most notable was when I called up Dave the auto electrician on his mobile phone, he failed to answer immediately but then this allowed me to access his answer machine so I left a message claiming to be a certain Mr A Body. I led him to believe that I was requiring a vehicle to be repaired then resprayed and did he know anyone for the task. I asked if he would be kind enough to call me back on this number, the number I left him was one belonging to a particular funeral director in Hull. It must have been in the region of thirty minutes later when Dave stormed over to the shop waving his arms and swearing like a fishwife complaining that he had indeed called the number and had received a less than welcome reply and was quite surprised funeral directors knew such profanities as what he was bombarded with. He had indeed returned the call and began the short stifled conversation with “Hello, I am returning your call, I understand you need some bodywork doing” and “I am looking for A. Body, could I speak to him please?” Needless to say, this did NOT go down very well at the undertaker’s.

My business was booming and it appeared that cash flow was at a premium so I could afford to take on the new premises and retain the smaller building for six months or more so it was possible to expand the operation with the minimum of fuss. It came just at the right time because the first batch of American imports was due in and they went straight into the larger building allowing plenty of room around each machine for prospective buyers to inspect in detail then hopefully convince themselves they needed a new bike. Within a matter of weeks, the whole of the floor space was filled with a range of machinery from ‘fixer-uppers’ to mint condition imports ready to roll. This was before we had even managed to move any of the existing stock over.

Oh my word I thought, we need a much larger building. Drastic action was required and after a significant amount of head scratching and measuring, I devised the idea of constructing a mezzanine floor in the new place, in effect doubling the footprint instantly. It was quite an extreme course of action but the alternative was to start looking for yet another building. So off I went in search of steel RSJ’S and timber preferably of the pre-owned variety. This was where my apprenticeship in welding and fabrication came into its own as I fabricated all the steelwork with more than a helping hand from my good friend Jarv. By utilising used steel and timber the price was kept to a minimum and the whole new flooring was constructed for less than a thousand pounds. I was even in the right place at the right time when it came to the staircase as I managed to lay my hands on a complete steel staircase that had recently been taken from a derelict factory

Page 101 The Motorcycle Undertaker so this meant I no longer had to fabricate one from scratch. Initially, the steel framework was fabricated in bolt together stanchions and sat in situ then connected with the timber purlings before having the heavy duty plywood flooring installed. Upon completion, I was as suitably impressed and it was visually spectacular as well as being functional. At last, we now had a home for the ever increasing stock of bikes awaiting dismantling. Oh, how it was fun just running around the top deck prior to it being stacked full of oily used spares. The amount of space was liberating and it was almost too tempting to run around the place with flowers in my hair….naked. Of course, I resisted the temptation instead I was preoccupied with the next problem that was rearing its head, what on earth do we store the parts in? The answer in retrospect was obvious really, more tea chests. The majority of parts back over in the old place were stored in tea chests, relatively inexpensive, sturdy but yet lightweight they proved to be the ideal storage solution for the mountain of motorcycle parts.

So off I trudged in search of yet more of these bargain boxes and this time came back with two hundred of the blighters which were placed in four rows back to back and five boxes high. Within the space of a month, space was once more looking tight so inventive ideas were the order of the day. For starters, any item that fell below the two pound bag of sugar test was hung from the ceiling either upstairs or down. I am constantly surprised that the whole building didn’t implode under the massive weight and disappear up its own arse. At least now with all the used spares upstairs and all filed away in their respective places it would be easy to locate the parts should anyone require them. In retrospect, we should have considered installing a lift or even a ‘bat pole’ in the place because whoever was on spares duty ran up and down those stairs like a bride’s nightie. It’s incredible the number of folks that would ring and ask for a particular part for their pride and joy then have me traipse up the stairs, rummage through the corresponding box then come rushing back down the stairs, grab the receiver and proudly announce “why yes Sir I have one in stock” only to be then asked if I had another part for the same motorcycle so it was back up the stairs yet again. I eventually learned to ask enough relevant questions before I made the journey upstairs but periodically I would be caught off guard so I resorted to asking the customer to accompany me upstairs just to make sure. Eventually, all the stock from the smaller building was accommodated within the new premises and it left only a few old machines outside the building. An appointment was scheduled with Dick for him to inspect the premises prior to me handing the keys back, the bond had already been transferred to the new building so it was just a case of getting the all clear from Dickie boy and that would mark the end of another era. He was less than impressed when he walked around the building to find the inside resembling the inside of a large capacity combustion engine. There was oil everywhere; you couldn’t even use the toilet without having an oily ring stamped on your arse. So in a gesture of good faith, I offered to employ a lad to whitewash the interior and tidy up the woodwork. This appeared to console him a little and he left the yard that day shaking his head. I find it odd that so many visitors to the shop at that time used to also leave with a look of disbelief and shaking their heads. It took Kenny approximately three weeks to restore the building back to its former glory and I was extremely annoyed to find that Dick had, in fact, charged me another month’s rent whilst the lad was in there cleaning it up. A few weeks afterwards I was standing outside the entrance to the old building relating this tale to one of the lads that used to help out part-time and he was furious. The “greedy narrow nosed bastard” was the phrase I think he used to describe Dickie boy’s actions and before I could stop him he lunged upwards and drop kicked the brand new door which had been fitted to the side entrance of the old building. Now I don’t think he intended to damage it as severely as he did because not only did he put a foot shaped hole in the wood but took the whole door and jamb free from its fixings in the concrete surround. The door and jamb fell inwards with an almighty crash and a plume of dust. The door had only been fitted that week so I could envisage trouble ahead.

Sure enough, Dick threw a fit when he came round to collect the rent that month and was quite insulting over the matter, “it’s the kind of people you have coming to your shop that does things like this” I was horrified, I considered that 99.9% of the people visiting the shop would NOT consider an act of wanton vandalism like this. It was 0.01% of them that would, and did. The unfortunate door was repaired and once more looking resplendent with its Victorian style brass door handles, unfortunately, this was short lived because only days later a person or persons unknown snapped off the handle and booted another hole in the door. It wasn’t me but I had a fairly good idea who it might have been but never saw the lad again to find out for sure. Vandalism aside we had by now become well and truly settled in the new shop, premises that would serve its purpose well over the coming years.

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CHAPTER 11 Wondrous Stories The NEC disaster “You couldn’t make that up could you?” A phrase I have often heard concerning this tale, another is “it wouldn’t happen like that these days” both true indeed and I don’t think I have ever or ever will be in a situation like this again. It was coming up to November and the annual National Motorcycle Show at the NEC just outside Birmingham. A feast of motorcycles and everything under the sun involved with motorcycles. At the show, it’s possible to buy everything from a drive chain link to a new superbike from your favourite manufacturer. Back then it was considered the high point of the motorcycle dealer’s calendar. I had been on numerous occasions and this time I was to be there as per usual on trade day.

Trade day is usually the day before the public are allowed in to see the wide range of goods available. It is the day after press day which is a lot less crowded and I have been privy to being able to wander around on press day sporting the I.D badge from my days working for AWOL magazine. This year I had decided to take a buddy along, in fact he was my business partner from the construction firm we had together. I’m not going to name him as I fear he may just sneak into my flat and shoot me. Up to now several of my suppliers had contacted me and offered refreshments and a chat on their particular trade stand. In fact, one section of the show was dedicated to the trade and contained 30 or so specialist suppliers. I had particularly enjoyed the sound of the word ‘refreshments’. We decided to catch the train from York railway station down to Birmingham and then to the NEC. The outward journey was at 8 a.m and for breakfast we had a limp British Rail sandwich and large vodka each. It was a few very large vodkas as we had taken a small bottle of it onto the train. Upon arrival, we wasted no time in getting ourselves firmly rooted on the first trade stand. Tea or coffee wasn’t what we had in mind so we made our excuses and left and decided to visit only the stands that had various bottles of alcohol visible in their hospitality suite. In the beginning, the kind souls left in charge of the trade stands were pleased to see us, amiable and very forthcoming with both alcohol and their order books. I’m sure at one point I signed up as a dealership for Monkey bikes and sponsored a donkey in Nepal.

Towards the end of the day, attitudes changed somewhat and I think news of our intoxication soon found its way around the show as more and more stands removed the bottles of spirits when they saw us coming their way. Well, the day passed relatively trouble free apart from my friend constantly getting a dressing down for fondling the female models and suggesting rude scenarios to them. Of all places, we took refuge in one of the NEC’s many bars and took stock of the situation. We could stand up and walk in a reasonably straight line so decided to head for home once again via Birmingham on the train. Once on the Birmingham to York train the problems really started. We had bumped into a group of fellow dealers from the North East; the only name I can recall was that one was called Benji. I remember this because at the time Catherine and I owned a dog called Benji. I think I told him this approximately 37 times on that journey.

We all got ourselves comfortable (well as comfortable as you can) in the buffet car and my buddy and I raced our way through 42 miniature bottles of Smirnoff vodka. On the bar was a large bowl of those milk cartons usually found in cafes on the side of your cup and saucer. One of us managed to knock the bowl off the bar onto the floor sending cartons all over the carriage. I’m ashamed to say and yes it was very childish but I got real pleasure in stepping on each and every carton spraying us, the bar and any passerby in milk. The resulting mess resembled a scene from an American porn film.

We were slipping and falling all over the place at this point and after the barman had refused to sell any more alcohol (he had no more to sell as we had drunk the bar dry) we decided to go find the driver of the train. I kid you not, we actually got into the cab of the train where my buddy shouted at the driver “we are taking over this train, take us to Scotland”, the driver looked completely uninterested (I can only think that this perhaps happens regularly) and simply stated the obvious “but Sir, this train IS going to Scotland” after trying to make small talk we muttered our apologies and left the cab.

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Unbeknown to us, the chap behind the bar had already called ahead to inform the British Transport Police of our impending arrival. We made our way down the carriages in search of ‘Benji. By this time the mixture of vodka and milk had started to take its toll on one of us and as we were staggering our way through the bustle of bodies my buddy decided to let the contents of his stomach go. Unfortunately, this was into the laps of a middle-aged couple who gave the impression they were travelling to Edinburgh on a day trip. I did feel sorry for the couple as they made their way to the toilet cubicle to clean up. By now the passengers were getting a little restless and I could foresee some kind of battle scene approaching so I thought it better to get my buddy to sit down for the rest of the journey.

We struggled onwards through the carriage and then he tripped over a large bag in the aisle launching himself face down on the floor. He promptly stood up and announced “whose is that fucking bag?” a woman of around 30 odd years stood and faced him in a kind of defiance and rather abruptly informing him it was indeed her bag. “Well fucking move it or I will” he barked and her answer was simply to sit down and ignore the situation. I do wish she had moved it because then he simply picked up the bag and launched it straight through the carriage window. I don’t know what the hell she had in that bag but it was heavy enough to shatter the window sending glass everywhere. “Oh shit,” I said, things were now getting out of control and no one, including myself, expected this. Apparently, we were just outside Derby when the bag left the train and the lady concerned was obviously distressed by all this.

I did make a half-hearted attempt at consoling her but this was met with some rather choice descriptions of my anatomy. I hurriedly ushered him down to a spare seat near the group of North-Eastern lads including Benji who were not quite so friendly now. But this is only half the story, it gets better, or worse depending on whose side you are on. As we pulled into York Station I did my best to try to hold my buddy upright though gravity was winning in some respects. We let most of the passengers disembark before making our way to the door of the carriage and what happened next has become somewhat of a blur over the years. I looked out onto the platform to find at least 12 Police Officers lined up ready to take action. It was to all intents and purposes the final scene from the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid. “Oh well, in for a penny” I shouted as we leapt from the carriage. My pal was the first to be arrested and to me they appeared to be more interested in him than me. I just kind of stood there whilst they were all scuffling with him. I kept trying to interject saying they would have a hell of a time trying to control him. “Just go away, it’s him we want” was the reply from one of the officers. I protested yet again saying they would not manage to get him to the van without me to help him. “No just go away” was the reply. I suppose upon reflection I should have left at that point but I seriously doubted they would have much success in calming him down.

It’s difficult enough calming any person down who is blatantly as drunk as he was but trying to calm this lad down, from past experience, forget it. They kept on repeating to me to stay out of it but I couldn’t let them, or my mate, go through all this palaver without help. So I did what anyone would do, I knocked off the Policeman’s helmet, an action I’m not proud of but nonetheless, it ticked one of the boxes on my bucket list long before the phrase bucket list became trendy. I was immediately arrested and thrown, nay escorted to the back of the waiting van to be shipped to Fulford Road Police station. Once inside the station, I had become a little more sober but was kicking off and calling them a few choice names until I was allowed to go into his cell and make peace. I was then placed in a holding cell next door to a drunken woman who took one look at me then immediately started calling for help. I don’t know whether it was because I looked like Peter Sutcliffe the Yorkshire Ripper or if it was something I said but they moved her to another cell. Only minutes later I was escorted to the desk sergeant and after a short conversation was told I was free to go. Unfortunately, buddy boy had to stay because he was in such a state and he was being charged with theft of the woman’s holdall. I was taken aback to say the least at their decision to let me out but the sergeant explained that the copper whose helmet I knocked to the floor knew me personally, though I hadn’t recognised him at the time. In fact not only that, I used to service his motorcycle and was a regular customer at the shop so he put a good word in for me. No further charges. I have to say I was truly grateful to him for doing this and needless to say his bike was given that special once over every time it came in for service.

That still didn’t help me much at the time though because although I had been set free it was three am by now. No buses, no mobile phone and not enough money for a taxi either. Oh well, I thought, looks like I shall be walking the twelve miles to home. I had just left the relative warmth of the Police Station and was heading along Fulford Road when a car drew alongside. The driver wound the window down and shouted “C’mon Kev, jump in

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I’ll give you a lift home”. It was the very same Policeman whose helmet I had launched across the station platform. I don’t care what anyone says that would NOT happen these days! As for my pal in the cells, he was released the next day and was fined £250 for launching the bag through the window of a speeding train.

The HIAB wagon from Halifax The antics and hijinks that took place over near the industrial city of Halifax, whilst not exactly motorcycle related, do share some of the same characteristics of many of the stories involving bikes. For example, the individuals concerned are the same old crew, the usual suspects as I like to name them and like all the other stories it involves either money or a major disappointment on my part. I had successfully negotiated a great number of transactions along with my good friend and one time business partner, Jarv, with a couple of naughty lads based over in the tiny leafy hamlet called Triangle at the other side of Sowerby Bridge. Normally it was for old scrap motorcycles, guns, power tools and the odd four-wheel vehicle. I won’t say car as it was invariably a decrepit home built 4x4 or something equally as radical.

One such bargain came in the shape of a cosmetically tatty but serviceable Ford seven and a half ton HIAB wagon which was up for grabs at a never to be repeated three hundred pounds. Never one to miss a bargain I immediately jumped at the chance and so one fine and sunny afternoon Jarv and I along with a couple of other friends sped off in my Escort XR3i to view the machine. I also had in the boot of the car a new welding set which I had only recently bought but hadn’t been bothered to remove it, a foolish thing to do but at the time I didn’t foresee it posing a problem, but it did when one of the lads accompanying us slammed the rear hatch a little too zealously and shattered the rear screen into a million pieces. It was fortunate that the day’s weather was sunny and warm as opposed to raining cats and dogs. The wagon was in daily use at a salvage yard near Bradford that was owned and run by a pair of Pakistani brothers one of which was a raving gayboy and unfortunately took a distinct liking to me and I had the feeling that he was following me around the yard just waiting for the opportunity to pounce. Each time I moved to a different part of the wagon when we were performing the inspection I could almost feel his presence over my shoulder and boy was I glad when we had handed over the cash and were ready to hit the road though I never managed to escape without him handing me his phone number.

Hit the road may have been a little too optimistic really, a better description would be to hit the major obstruction at the first opportunity. The salvage yard was at the bottom of a rather steep and foreboding hill, halfway up the hill was a hairpin bend with cars parked intermittently along one side of the road nearest to the dark black mill houses. . Jarv was in charge of driving the truck along with one of the other lads, Spocky as a passenger whilst I brought up the rear in the Escort. As the truck neared the sharp bend it became apparent that it was going to be almost impossible to negotiate the parked cars at the side of the road. The wagon’s mighty engine stalled right on the bend and no amount of revving, swearing and throwing wheel braces around was going to aid its movement any further up that hill. The only course of action remaining was to reverse the truck down the hill and try another more vigorous run at it. Alas by now a queue of irate motorists were right behind the unfortunate wagon and after much negotiating and arm waving every one of them had to reverse down the hill to let the truck back down to the start.

It was beginning to resemble a game of snakes and ladders by now and once Jarv had the truck back on the level he let the stream of impatient car drivers pass by. On this second attempt, I drove my car to the top of the hill to halt the traffic heading down so he had a clear run and then with a great deal of revving and a defiant plume of black diesel smoke Jarv set off once more on his expedition to the top of mount Bradford.

This time with a good run at it and his foot to the floor the poor old Ford huffed and puffed its way up to the summit leaving a dark cloud of diesel smoke over the immediate area. That, my friends, was only the beginning of our calamities on that fateful day. By now the afternoon was turning to early evening and the light was failing quickly, this normally wouldn’t have been an issue but considering the truck had no headlights it was to pose a particularly nasty problem. As Jarv carefully negotiated his way along the M62 leaving Bradford far behind with me in front as makeshift headlights it became apparent that something was amiss and as he pulled over to the hard shoulder, a glance to the rearview mirror could identify that immediate problem. The truck had now picked up a puncture in the nearside front wheel and of course, we had no spare wheel so we were left stranded, high and dry with only fifteen miles to cover on the motorway.

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Not only that but the gearbox had developed a terminal looking oil leak which had deposited a neat line of used oil all along the slow lane of the motorway culminating in a large pool underneath the stricken lorry. Right, I thought, let’s take stock of the situation. We are in desperate need of a spare wheel, some hydraulic oil and a heavy-duty jack. Now I don’t know about you but those items are not usually to be found in the back of my car so drastic measures were called for and I walked a hundred yards to the emergency phone on the side of the motorway. After eventually managing to contact an operator I explained what had happened and told the story of our predicament to a thoroughly disinterested girl on the phone, it then occurred to me that we had no insurance, M.O.T or road tax for the truck and the operator was now taking more notice and was asking for my home address. In a fit of panic, I simply said: “my name is John Smith and I live in the middle of a field” then promptly hung up.

I returned to the crime scene and announced that they were unable to help so we should perhaps head home collect a wheel and return to fix it ourselves. Back at Jarv’s place, we were lucky enough to find everything we required to repair the broken down truck and after a pit stop at the local fish and chip shop we headed back to the M62. By now the light had truly disappeared and we were now searching for the truck in total darkness. After two or three passes on either side of the carriageway with no sign of it we were slowly beginning to think it had all been a bad dream, however, we eventually came to a halt where we guessed it had been parked, we were greeted with the telltale evidence of its existence, the huge oil slick that had seeped, nay, gushed from the gearbox. No evidence of any broken down truck, surely no one would have stolen it with a flat tyre and no lights. Reluctantly it was another walk to the emergency phone where I managed to speak to the same bored operator who was probably halfway through filing her nails on her left hand by now and she kindly informed me that our truck had been recovered to a salvage yard over near Doncaster and West Yorkshire Traffic Police would like to have a word with me about its condition.

That was enough for me to abandon ship and we mutually agreed that it might be better to lose a few quid on the deal than open a can of worms with the Police, after all, no one knew who we were so we had the advantage. Twelve months later the truck reared its ugly and oily stained head once more when a friend, Mark, expressed a keen interest in buying it. I had told him the story and that it had been taken to a recovery yard near Doncaster but it completely slipped my mind to inform him of the pending Police interest in anyone who was remotely associated with the ill-fated machine.

Things took a turn for the worse when whilst he was busy inspecting the wagon, the owners of the yard rang the officers concerned with the case and within minutes a squad car had been dispatched to deal with the offender. Having narrowly avoided being arrested Mark was subjected to a cross examination of how he became involved with the truck. Luckily for all concerned at this end, he simply lied through his back teeth to them saying that it was passing travellers that had suggested he contact the recovery yard with a view to buying the truck. Needless to say, he then declined to even buy the vehicle at a greatly reduced fee, preferring to put the whole experience behind him; oddly enough this was our thoughts too.

Elvis and the oily caravan I have always been very amiable and friendly towards the travelling community, having believed they are better on my side than against me. Although they could sometimes be difficult to conduct business with, when a deal was finally struck you knew you would receive a handsome payment in a large bundle of cash to rush off to the shop and spend on sweets and pop. Well not exactly like that but their money was plentiful and it was instant. Over the years I became great friends with numerous travelling families and perhaps the one person who stands head and shoulders above the rest is Elvis. Not the Elvis the one time King of Rock and fast food fanatic or indeed the bespectacled Elvis that shot to the top of the charts in 1978 with Oliver’s Army. The Elvis I became friends with was a traveller who hailed from the gypsy site adjacent to Cottingham on the outskirts of Hull.

He was a man of medium build and height and always gave the impression that he had been dressed in a long since dead uncle’s clothes, a dead uncle that was twice the size of Elvis. I first encountered him and his family at the local cafe on the industrial estate, a typical ‘greasy spoon’ cafe that General and I spent far too much time in, eating far too many full breakfasts and of course spending far too much money. Elvis, his brother and their mother would often be in there and I wasn’t entirely sure about the mother’s intentions. I had

Page 106 The Motorcycle Undertaker the distinct impression that she had a soft spot for me and was constantly twirling my hair and complimenting me on my curly locks.

In the thirty years I have known Elvis I can truthfully say that I haven’t understood a word of what he has said to me, he was blessed with the ability to spit out dialogue at the rate of a thousand words a minute. “Eykev oya doin, whatyabisywi” which would translate as “Hello Kevin, how are you doing? What are you busy with?” and would be spoken in one second. I have lost count of the number of times I have stood and had a ten minute conversation and not had the faintest idea of what we were discussing. It could have been the wild animals of the Serengeti or the price of non-ferrous metals 1976-1977, but I obviously nodded and grunted in all the correct places. I would feel sorry for him and every now and again would allow him to delve into the heap of scrap engines and assorted metals dumped unceremoniously outside the shop to make up the load on his battered multi coloured Ford Transit pick up. This always proved to be a mistake on my part as it wouldn’t stop with a few engines, he would want the contents of the yard and would stand for hours arguing about it until in a desperate attempt to get rid of him I would relent and say “just take the lot”. It was no surprise that when we had somehow acquired an old two-berth caravan and had used it and abused it beyond belief at the jumbles that Elvis was there waiting to take it away for scrap. I was not so keen this time as we were in the process of having a major clear out in the shop and the caravan would be utilised as a makeshift waste skip.

I successfully convinced him to return in two weeks and he could tow the whole lot away, free of charge. Needless to say, we wasted no time in filling the dirty dishevelled caravan with all manner of junk. If it was difficult to dispose of it went in the caravan, from old tyres to damaged fairings, rats nests to uprooted bushes. The windows were smashed thanks to an afternoon’s impromptu commando style raid held by my staff armed with air rifles and a .410 shotgun. All that paled into insignificance when we added the final touch in the shape of the forty five gallon drum of waste oil that we dumped in there, almost succeeding in hospitalizing three of us in the process of lifting it through the broken window.

Unbeknown to us the lid of the drum wasn’t as secure as we were led to believe and at some point over the following day it had popped open gradually spewing its thick black contents all over the interior of the caravan. When Elvis arrived full of enthusiasm to collect his prize he was slightly perturbed at the condition of the now stuffed and wrecked caravan but once he realised it was a freebie his mood changed for the better and within minutes he had hooked up the van to the tow bar on his pickup and was heading out of the yard. It was timed coincidentally with the first telltale drips of black sticky oil dropping from the rear of the caravan onto the tarmac road outside our yard. It must have been a traffic Policeman’s nightmare watching the wobbling caravan shedding paper and debris as it headed off the industrial estate leaving by now a clear trail of oil as it went. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable call came, with a frantic Elvis on the other end of the line claiming a wheel had parted company with the caravan axle and the beast was now sat at the roadside causing an enormous queue of traffic as it struggled to pass. At least I think that is what he said, of course, he may have said “Kevin come quickly I have a microprocessor controlled portrait of a bowl of soup with a velvet ice cube” I jumped on a bike and headed to where I thought he was broken down with four spare wheel nuts and a wheel brace in a bag over my shoulder. The trail of oil on the public highway was becoming more intense leading me to believe I was closing in on my wounded warrior. Sure enough, there was my irate friend, the wrecked caravan and a rather large oil slick at the side of the A1079 doing their very best at holding the rush hour traffic at bay. I hastily handed over the nuts and brace and turned tail and headed back to the shop whistling the theme tune from Thunderbirds are Go as I went. I never heard anything else from Elvis for quite some time so presumed he was either extremely annoyed with me or in prison for the multitude of offences he must have committed that day and I still inwardly chuckle as I pass the black stained tarmac of the A1079 on the outskirts of Hayton.

Baul Acres So named because of the farm’s owner, Tony Baul, one of the strangest and extraordinary men I have ever set eyes upon. The correct name of the place was Barr Farm and it was located approximately one mile from the village of Barmby Moor on the busy A1079. The historic farm consisted of a 2 bedroomed house immediately adjacent to the main York to Hull road and the foundations would frequently rattle and groan when the heavy trucks went speeding past at all times of the day and night. In the field beyond the house were six fairly substantial wooden chicken sheds each large enough to accommodate eight cars. In the centre of the

Page 107 The Motorcycle Undertaker rear paddock was a very large wooden building measuring eighty feet by twenty feet which Tony occupied making his woodwork toys and any get rich scheme that came his way.

On the lawn was a large ‘Nissen’ hut painted in thick black tar and a large greenhouse full of weeds. I rented from Tony three of the chicken sheds and the Nissen hut to store the overflow of bikes in from the unit on the industrial; estate. It was a happy amicable arrangement and the rent was more than reasonable considering the amount of space on offer. The downside to the whole arrangement was I was never quite sure what kind of reception I would receive from Tony upon arrival at the farm. On certain days he would emerge from the house full of the joys of spring and on an especially good day, I would be invited into the house for a coffee and a chat. On a bad day, he would be lying in wait somewhere convenient to accost me as I opened the door of the shed. There then would follow a thirty minute tirade of misery that would put the Devil to shame. By the time I had spent half an hour in his company, I would be on the verge of committing suicide. He would complain about footsteps on the grass, mud in the yard and anything that involved him parting with cash. Tony could perpetually gripe about how little he earned but the rising costs blah blah until in desperation I would feign illness to escape his clutches.

In saying that though, the man was a great help to my business and I had the facility to store over a hundred motorcycles in those buildings at any one time, so I chose to suffer in silence. Along with Tony, I had to contend with his long suffering part-time housekeeper and girlfriend Jean. Jean was a lovely character, a typical English lady and I would often compare her to Pam Ferris the actress in the hit TV show Rosemary and Thyme. Although she was definitely removed from my Christmas card list after the escapade with the fire in shed number 4. Very strange when you consider this was also the very same building that housed the CX500 trike that made an attempt on my life. It was in this building I kept some of my own private collection of bikes. The cream of the crop if you like. These were my own personal toys and there was amongst others a Honda CB400/4, Yamaha FJ1200, Kawasaki Z650, the AWOL project bike and many more. One morning Jean inquired if it would be possible for her to use a small section of the building to store some of her belongings as she was busy moving house and it would really help her out. Not wanting to be unhelpful I said I was willing to assist by storing the goods. I left her the keys for the building and told her to use whatever available space she needed.

I then promptly disappeared for the weekend on a photoshoot for the bike magazine and left her to it. It wasn’t until I received a phone call from the bringer of doom, Tony, that I remembered what she had been doing. The phone call was in true disaster movie style with Tony in a state of distress and panic over the situation. Apparently, the building was engulfed in flames and the firemen were at present hauling as many bikes out of the place as they could. Could I come straight away? That would have been a little difficult considering I was in Norfolk at the time and by the time I would have arrived home the damage would have already been done. Upon arrival at the farm on Monday morning to assess the damage I was greeted in the yard by a panic stricken Tony. No words of comfort for me, no apologies and no explanation just the words “I haven’t any insurance on the building so you won’t be able to claim”. Oh great, thank you very much, Tony, I thought. I resisted the temptation to ask if he had any other good news he would like to share like perhaps we were all being evicted or my family had been abducted by Arabs. I am in debt to the marvellous firemen that managed to salvage most of the bikes leaving the FJ, the AWOL bike and my 400/4 to bear the brunt of the disaster. It was mainly cosmetic damage and nothing that a respray or a good clean wouldn’t put right.

Incidentally, this event was to reinforce my views that some folks would rather purchase a damaged bike than one that is running and ready to go. For example, the Yamaha FJ1200 had been advertised in our ads for months and had very little or no response. A few weeks later I advertised it again as follows: Yamaha FJ1200 1992 model, fire damaged but easy repair. Has six months MOT, a bargain at £1200. It sold immediately and if I had access to another three of these I am convinced they would have sold too as the number of calls for it was incredible.

Unfortunately, the AWOL bike hadn’t fared so well and with it being a custom bike and its piece de resistance was, in fact, the paint job it took a lot more to restore it to its previous incarnation. A task undertaken by the multi-talented John Gledhill who resprayed it in a really odd shade of grey and made a damn fine job of it too. A far more detailed account of the AWOL bike can be found in the chapter on bikes in this very book. Meanwhile back on the farm, it then transpired that Jean in her eagerness to get back to the house to Tony’s unequalled charm and wit had inadvertently left the lights on in shed 4. Normally this would not have posed a problem but she had also stacked a large pile of bedding and towels against the wall in the

Page 108 The Motorcycle Undertaker shed touching one of the exposed light bulbs. This, in turn, had become extremely hot and ignited the bale of bedding and towels which promptly fell over onto the FJ1200 setting the fairing ablaze. It was a mistake on Jean’s part but an expensive one at that nonetheless but hey ho we all make mistakes.

As for Baul Acres, Tony eventually let some of the remaining buildings to the hugely successful Valentine Pine, a woodworking concern specialising in pine furniture. The last wooden building became the home to the business of manufacturing and installation of bedroom furniture by my dear friend Crispian. We all had a friendly and amicable relationship over the years and quite frequently we could all be found sitting drinking tea in the sun outside the large building.

The A.W.O.L Years What was it that Andy Warhol said regarding fame? “Everyone is famous for fifteen minutes”. Well, my fifteen minutes stretched into a couple of years when I became a freelance writer for the motorcycle press. I had good experience within the motorcycle trade so it set me in good stead for the assignment, in other words, I knew what I was talking about when it came to the technical side of motorcycling. It began quite by accident when I returned from a two week jaunt around Daytona Beach in Florida for the eye opening ‘speed week’ in March ‘97. I had spent a luxurious fourteen days in the company of NCC pals Ray Buckle and John Bolt and it was John that actively encouraged me to write about my exploits (though most of them would have to be confined to the top shelf publications), and submit my report to the custom bike magazine, Alternative Way Of Life or AWOL to give it its working title.

What the hell I thought, nothing ventured and all that malarkey so I cobbled together a brief resume of my first time at the Harley orientated show and go event and to my amazement, it was published a few weeks later. I had always enjoyed writing from an early age and I quite regularly wrote accounts of various rallies I had attended and submitted them to countless internet forums where they attracted the attention of a fellow bike nut, a girl with the wonderfully charming name of Blue. This girl was in the position of editor of the magazine AWOL and already had a long list of writing achievements to her name and had worked her way up to the number one slot. I was quite proud of my extensive knowledge of classic and obscure motorcycles but Blue was a wealth of information and it was always a pleasure discussing ancient long forgotten motorcycle marques long into the night. I instantly felt massively under talented but my determination to succeed in this area of the motorcycling world helped me gain the confidence to attack the tasks set before me. I continued to write for the forums and felt quite proud whenever anyone commented on my work.

I am not normally very good with criticism but in this area, I could take anything thrown at me, I knew very little about writing for publication so any comments from people in the know were taken as a compliment and constructive advice. Though I suspect I might have felt a little different if I was advised to give it up and return to the day job. After the Daytona piece had been published I thought that would be the end of it, my rather small bite of the fame apple had been thoroughly digested and the details stored away in my memory banks. It was once again Mr Bolt that came shining through and suggested we both collaborate on a feature bike shoot over near Halifax. John would take care of the photographic element and would I be up to interviewing the owner and writing up a short feature detailing the bike and how it became to be a stunning custom creation.

The bike in question was ‘Alien’ and it was my very first feature and when I saw it in print a few weeks later I was overjoyed. I felt like an actor who sees his first part in a TV sitcom, or a thespian on his first trample over the boards. The fact that my name was contained in the credits in the ‘flannel panel’ at the front of the mag was a groundbreaking moment for me. Both John and Blue took it in their stride but I wanted to rush out, buy every copy of that magazine I could find and show every person in the street my name in the front of the mag. “Look that’s me” I would tell my family and friends and I don’t think I could have been happier had I won the Euro millions. I have never been much of a photographer, never having the patience to load the film correctly and as a teenager, my bedroom was littered with discarded rolls of 35mm film ripped out in anger because I was unable to load them correctly. So when John suggested he take the photos and I write the accompanying article I heaved a sigh of relief, watch out Laurel and Hardy here come Bolt and Keld.

This arrangement worked very well for several features and then I was offered the Holy Grail, my very own column within the pages of AWOL. It was a technical column imaginatively named ‘Kev’ll Fix It’

Page 109 The Motorcycle Undertaker and although it’s a very unethical title these days back then it suited me fine and the heading was a cartoon rendition of yours truly sat in a large bulky armchair mimicking the TV show famous at the time. I, of course, was draped in jewellery and sporting my Snap-On cap so was instantly recognisable. The drawing was produced by the incredibly talented artist Rich King and a dusty framed copy of the cartoon still hangs on my flat wall to this day as a reminder of when I was as famous as James Bond in my eyes. The column dealt with all manner of technical issues involving motorcycles ranging from getting your bike through the yearly MOT to storing the machine away for the winter months.

I received hundreds of letters to the office in Knutsford asking me to answer various questions regarding specific machines and on occasions, I would receive gifts, multi-coloured illustrated envelopes and bribes to answer these requests. I really enjoyed writing these monthly features, I knew what I was talking about especially considering I owned by now the biggest bike breakers in East Yorkshire. As time progressed I spent more time over at the AWOL office in Knutsford, initially just to drop off my work for the column but increasingly to spend time with some of the staff. This was not like any other workplace I had experienced. The atmosphere was totally relaxed but yet had an outward appearance of being unorganised and dishevelled but everyone worked well together and always got the magazine completed in time for that all important day of publication. I found it incredible that so many people could arse about and make general merriment in a small office and still turn out a brilliant magazine with ease.

Perhaps the ultimate accolade for me was when John and I were asked to build a project bike to be given away free in a subscriber’s competition. I felt thrilled and honoured to be asked to take part in such a daunting task. Sure I had worked on plenty of custom bikes previously but this one would be seen by thousands of keen readers and would have to withstand close scrutiny by the motorcycle trade and bikers all over Europe. I am not going into details here because you can find the full story in the section on the bikes elsewhere in this book. Having said that I can tell you that the whole build from start to finish was covered by us both in five separate articles published in the magazine, including an in-depth look at the awful jerseys I wore for the build. It was such a shame then that the bike never made it to the competition giveaway. Alas, the publishing company went into liquidation and I was asked if I wanted to be put on the list of creditors for the money we had invested or keep the bike. It was a no brainer really and the bike stayed indefinitely at the workshop.

After the closure of AWOL, Blue had moved over to Back Street Heroes and I continued to write the articles for that publication this time with Blue taking charge of the photography. I was extremely nervous initially having my work linked with someone who had far more experience than me. I must have made a decent contribution to the partnership as there were no profound attempts on my life. I thoroughly enjoyed every moment working with someone so informed and dedicated to mechanical transport be it on two wheels or classic American four-wheelers. The only other person I have ever met who has such a vast extensive library in their memory banks is General who also never of chatting about the virtues of motorcycling. The reign of fame ended abruptly when I suffered the breakup of my first marriage and within the space of a few weeks went from having a respectable three bedroomed semi with wife and two children to living in squalor within the confines of my office answering only to the never ending supply of Jack Daniels every evening. I openly admit to the marriage being on its failing legs and surely it would have happened sooner or later.

It was the stupid idiotic life I chose to lead that was the cause of all the grief. I shunned all my friends including Blue and instead of listening to their advice I preferred to sit in a cramped office force feeding myself with alcohol feeling sorry for myself. It was a decision I still regret to this very day and oh how I would have done things differently had I known how low I had sunk. I am going to skip over this turbulent time of my life and not elaborate too much because the whole idea of this book is for it to come across as an amusing collection of narratives designed to lift the spirits not make the reader want to start a correspondence course with the Pierrepoint family.

Antics in the old office The office in the smaller building was best described as a grotty hovel. It served a purpose sufficiently and was built for purpose, not comfort. I shall elaborate, picture a room measuring twelve feet long by eight feet wide with an entrance door along the longest side. Then imagine in that room behind the door an old boiler for a long since defunct heating system and a work surface running all around the room at waist

Page 110 The Motorcycle Undertaker height and you have a rough idea of the dimensions of the place. Now dip the whole room in waste oil, dust and cigarette butts and you have my wonderful office. In the early days I had a faux leather office chair and many an afternoon was spent rocking back in that chair with my feet on the work surface awaiting calls from prospective customers. On the wall of the office was a large cupboard that was always stacked to the top with cigarette tobacco and a little cash pot. I had built up quite a lucrative trade in this tobacco aided and abetted by the team of international truck drivers from the haulage company in the yard. It was easy money for them and even easier money for me.

They would stop in Luxembourg on the return home journey and stock up with duty-free tobacco safe in the knowledge they had a guaranteed customer upon their return home. I would stock the cupboard to the hilt and once word got around that black market tobacco was on sale up at my shop I built up a decent customer base. It was a double edged sword as most of the customers had motorcycles so I would get a chance to promote my services to the two wheeler. The profits on the tobacco would be split 50/50 between myself and the truckers and the customer would achieve a similar saving on retail price so it was a win-win-win situation for us all. I had my regulars and it would be possible to set the clock by some visits and one in particular that springs to mind concerned a certain Miss soon to be Mrs X. I have to leave her anonymous for obvious reasons. She would call every fortnight on a Friday afternoon without fail for enough packets for her and her fiancé to last the two weeks. She was a fine looking specimen, tall, slim and with a beautiful mane of jet black hair and one of those easy going personalities that I found so attractive. Aged around the mid-thirties she had quite clearly looked after herself.

Certain times she would call and would be in a rush as she had just collected the children from school but on this one occasion she made a point of saying “I have no children today so I am free to do as I like”, this comment went over my head of course and it wasn’t until after the event that I realised the significance of her statement. I was sat as usual in the grubby chair and she sat on an upturned oil drum and she began to discuss her impending wedding in the morning. I got the impression she was somewhat scared about the whole idea of marriage but put this down to the normal pre-wedding nerves. As the conversation deepened she made a move, stood up, hoisted up her skirt and presented me with a beautiful pair of silken thighs resplendent in white sheer stockings and she quipped “these bloody suspenders are forever coming undone”, seeing the look of sheer terror on my face she added, “would you like to play?”

All I could do was splutter and politely decline the invitation as tempting as it was, and I still regret not taking her up on the offer. It wouldn’t be the first time that I would be propositioned within the walls of that old grimy office though some tales are better left where they are. It certainly wouldn’t be the last time I would be halted abruptly in my tracks and being shocked to the core.

Only a few months later I had a visit one afternoon from two well suited rather stern, looking gentlemen. Had I observed their approach I would have probably hidden in a cupboard or hot footed it around the back of the shop fearful of them being VAT inspectors requiring their share of the tobacco profits. Unfortunately for me, they caught me in the act of tidying out the tobacco cupboard and somewhere in the region of two hundred packets were stacked up on the workspace. A hundred excuses were running through my mind ranging from “they are Christmas presents from my children’’ to “I found them in the yard and was just preparing them to deliver to the local customs office” but observing their stony expressions even I thought better of trying to fob them off. They were introduced as Det Sergeant Farmer and D.C Wallace of the Regional Crime Squad. No wonder they looked so po-faced and to make matters even more intense they wanted to question me in conjunction with a recent murder in Hull. At once I began to panic and racked my tiny brain to try and determine the last time I had been in Hull. I tried in vain to break the ice and make light of it by saying “do I look like a murderer?” but the two detectives simply glanced at each other then back to me and both said “yes you do” in unison.

Things were taking a turn for the worse and before long I could see myself rotting in some far flung prison cell for a murder I did not commit. Det Wallace elaborated, “are you familiar with a certain Mr Peter Grainger from Beverley Road in Hull?” indeed I was, in fact, the last time I had been in Hull it was to pop round to his house to drop off some motorcycle parts. Both General and I had been invited in for coffee and he introduced us to his girlfriend and I clearly remember at the time thinking she looked rather young for him, but hey ho none of my business. The detective pushed the conversation further “ are you aware that he

Page 111 The Motorcycle Undertaker is claiming to be a relative of yours?”, apparently we shared some far distant relatives through marriage but it was a long way down the line and Peter had mentioned this to me on a couple of occasions but our relationship was merely business orientated. I had the impression that he thought of me as some prodigal brother but for me, it was always on a salesman/customer basis. It transpired that later in the week after we had called at his house he had taken a length of telephone cord, strangled the dear girl and hung her up in the cupboard under the stairs. However unbeknown to him, the girl had the foresight to contact the local Police and even leaving a statement detailing her fears for her life. She had also recorded a video of the Police interview stating her fears and at a later court case this was to prove crucial evidence and as far as I can gather it was the first time in the UK that video evidence had been used to convict a murderer. I told the officers everything I knew, and after a great deal of nervous explaining, they were satisfied that I hadn’t attended the Yorkshire Ripper School of Etiquette or had qualifications in the art of murdering teenage girls. I began to try and explain the mountain of tobacco that stood towering between us on the work table but they were not remotely interested and just left me with the warning “don’t let the Customs men catch you with that lot”. I was happy, they were happy, phew I lived to fight another day.

That day would come a couple of years later when I was paid a visit by a pair of rather cocky customs and excise officers. I was in the office when they arrived in an unmarked Transit van and when they introduced themselves I thought the game was up as far as the black market tobacco was concerned. I was shell shocked to discover that they were here to test my vehicles in the search for red diesel. For anyone not savvy with the different classes of fuel, red diesel is used primarily in agricultural vehicles and not subject to the extortionate amount of duty levied upon the normal fuels. It can be obtained for a fraction of the price of standard diesel but the penalties are high for unauthorised use and can result in confiscation of the vehicle. I was immediately in a state of panic as three of my vehicles were parked outside the shop, two of them were fine but the tatty old Escort van I used as a run-around was full to the top with red diesel.

I also had the Toyota Hilux sat on the drive at home seeing as I had chosen to use wife number one’s car that particular day. The officers asked me for the keys to the vehicles and after handing them over I sat back in the office waiting for the inevitable. Would I be arrested? Would I end up behind bars with the threat of being cornered in the showers with a burly black man named Tyrone? All these thoughts and more were swimming around my mind when one of the officers came back into the office and returned the keys. “We have dipped the first two vehicles but couldn’t get the pipe into the third, the Escort van, but we presume that if the first two are clear then it’s highly likely the third will pass” I stood there open mouthed not quite knowing how to reply to that, surely there is a God after all. The second officer came into the office and in that false, chummy and casual tone that most Police officers use when they are trying to hoodwink you into admitting that you did, in fact, smash the phone box window, said “where is your Hilux then?” trying to catch me off guard. “Er, I don’t have one” I nervously lied.

I shuffled from one foot to the other expecting further interrogation but it never materialised and the two officers made some half-hearted comment about how I should enjoy the rest of my day and duly informed me that they were satisfied with their inquiries and off they went. I initially thought that was the end of the matter but upon my return home that evening I happened to notice a strange vehicle with a single occupant parked a little further along the road. As I jumped out of the wife’s car the occupant of the mysterious vehicle ran up the drive and accosted me introducing himself as Officer Knobhead from H.M Customs and Excise and he had it on good authority that I was using illegal diesel in my vehicles. I couldn’t argue with that and he was hardly able to contain his excitement at seeing the bright red Toyota Hilux parked on my drive. “May I have the keys to this vehicle sir?” he allowed himself a chuckle whilst saying this and after I had handed over the keys he returned to his car to gather up the all important test equipment.

I swear I saw him skip on his way back over. He unlocked the fuel cap door and I could see the smirk melt away from his face and his attitude then took a turn for the worse “but, but this is a petrol vehicle” he stammered, “yes I know it is, always has and always will” He was furious, “but we have been told that you had a diesel Toyota” I knew exactly who had blown the whistle on me, the cretin that I had recently fallen out with over the patch of land I owned up at the other side of Barmby Moor. After Heil Customs had calmed down a little he admitted that they had received an interesting phone call regarding the unauthorized use of diesel in my Toyota and they would be revisiting that person to discuss the possibility of repercussion concerning wasting officer’s time.

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As a footnote to this story, the person responsible for causing me unnecessary grief that particular day was a farmer who owned the field adjacent to mine. We had suffered a major confrontation over land access which resulted in him contacting all the local press and TV because I refused to allow him to get his own way. After the red diesel incident had slipped to the back of everyone’s attention I set about exacting my revenge. The layout of his farm was simple, he used a static caravan as home cum office and his pigs were out in the field ‘free-range’. A large bell was housed on the outside of the office to alert him to any phone calls; he never took advantage of the mobile phone revolution and relied solely on the landline number. The first week of the prank I advertised his Land Rover Discovery in the free section of the local Auto Trader for a pittance of a price adding the phrase ‘please keep trying as I am hard of hearing’ I do not doubt that he would have received dozens of calls from interested parties as he was out in the fields sorting the pigs out. A couple of weeks later I then placed an advertisement in a local property magazine offering his six-acre plot of land for sale once again at a too good to miss price. This time I had confirmation of the hordes of unnecessary calls because he had said to a mutual friend “I am fed up to the back teeth of traipsing up and down the field to answer the bloody phone” adding “for some reason they all think I am selling up”. Karma, as they say, is a wonderful thing.

Trouble in Thailand Following the divorce from wife number one, I decided to relocate into a one bedroomed flat above the well renowned Steer Inn restaurant situated adjacent to the A1079 between Barmby Moor and Wilberfoss. It was shared between myself and fellow vehicle dismantler Mark who was the owner and operator of the booming A1079 Salvage based on the industrial estate not a million miles from my business. The flat was comfortable, clean and ideally situated for the bar and dining room, in fact, it proved to be a little too convenient at times. More than once I have attempted to scale the long badly lit sweeping staircase opposite the bar after a particularly heavy drinking session only to fall asleep on the top step much to the annoyance of the hotel guests. It’s true to say that at that time in my life I was particularly unhappy with my lot and took to moping around like a lost soul, with this in mind my close friend and ally Owen took it upon himself to book me on a little trip to cheer me up.

Not one to mince words Owen took me to one side at the workshop and announced that we were going away for a while, “I don’t feel like going anywhere at the moment I am not good company” I protested, “furthermore I can’t think of anywhere in this country that I would want to visit” I attempted to throw obstacles in the path of the impending journey but to no avail. “We aren’t going anywhere in this country buddy,” continued the excitable culprit “think white sandy beaches, bronzed beautiful natives with legs up to their arse and hair as soft as silk” I still wasn’t convinced, especially if that were the men that he was so carefully describing. “We, my friend, are going to Thailand” and as much as I tried to convince him that I didn’t wish to leave the cold, wet shores of the UK he pursued the subject relentlessly, topping the conversation off with the words “too late, the flights are booked and you owe me four hundred and fifty quid” I was furious, in fact, I began shouting and swearing so loud that General emerged from the workshop to see what the fuss was all about.

However, that evening as I sat alone on the edge of the bed in the flat feeling mighty sorry for myself, I gave more thought to the impending journey and came to the conclusion that perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea after all. Within a couple of hours, I had convinced myself it would be just what I need to raise my spirits. It was to be a mini tour of the Far East on motorcycles taking in as much of the beautiful Thai scenery, street markets and jungle villages as possible. The tickets were one way so we could stay as long as we liked or until we ran out of money which would be difficult given how wonderfully inexpensive the country was. It wasn’t a trip for just Owen and I either, coming along for the ride was Timmy, another great friend and cohort with an obsession for two wheeled adventure, Steve from NB Coatings, our contact for when we ever needed any powder coating work carried out. Added to that team was Chris who once again was a motorcycle fanatic, had an eye for the ladies and had previously spent time in the country so was able to organise the trips out and the logistics of such a trip, our man on the inside so to speak.

There was only one condition on this trip; we all were to dress the same, a kind of uniform for the jungle. This consisted of a pair of ex Dutch army Para boots, black and white camouflage jeans and a plain black hooded sweatshirt. The five of us together did begin to resemble the enemy in a Chuck Norris movie and our presence attracted the attention of both locals and the authorities at most places we chose to visit.

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The flight from the UK was particularly eventful to say the least. All five of us boarded a plane at Manchester Airport and we had a two-hour changeover in Dubai to look forward to before the continuation of the flight to Bangkok. An internal flight then followed to Chiang Mai where we would finish with a frantic taxi ride to Chiang Rai and into the Pintamorn Hostel where five Yamaha TT250’s were hopefully awaiting our perusal. That was a marathon journey at the best of times but as a smoker of sixty sticks per day I found the travelling traumatic. No sooner had I leapt into my comfortable relaxing seat ready to sleep for the next few hours when I was tapped on the back of the head by the passenger behind me and asked what the hell I was doing on the plane, to my amazement one of the local pub landlords, Derek, was on the same plane heading to Dubai then on to Delhi.

Small world I thought (but I wouldn’t want to paint it). At the first stop in Dubai, I said my goodbyes to the landlord and then spent the whole two hours chain smoking to build up the nicotine fix to see me through the rest of the trip and even then the minute I sat down on the plane ready to continue I was already gagging for a cigarette and ready to punch anyone that disagreed with me. I restrained myself for the relatively short flight to Bangkok and tried my hardest to sleep the cravings away. The flight passed without incident, no doubt the calm before the proverbial storm. On arrival at the bustling airport, Owen made his way over to the duty- free shop only to return with not one but two bottles of Thai rice whiskey, one for him and the other for me. How could I resist the temptation and considering the price was equivalent to a mere one pound per bottle I would have been silly not to indulge myself, after all, I was on holiday. The alcohol was a fine substitute for the nicotine and I wasted no time in pouring myself a large one, I was perhaps a little too eager as in the sixty minutes waiting for the plane to whisk us to Chiang Mai I polished off the whole bottle and was begging to indulge in Owens allowance.

Fortunately for all concerned, these were the days before excessive drinking was banned on the major airlines and after I had begun shouting and causing a scene which resulted in Owen punching me on the nose rendering me unconscious I was finally carried on to the plane where I spent the rest of the journey in a self- inflicted drunken coma. I had no recollection of that flight or the taxi ride to the hostel and I have to rely on eyewitness accounts for the benefit of this book and those accounts are usually accompanied by a look usually reserved for badly behaved children. I awoke to find myself sprawled on my bed, still suffering the after-effects of the demon whiskey some two hours later and now desperate for the bathroom. For reasons unbeknown to me, I found that I was naked and sweating profusely. What happened next would haunt both myself and Owen for the rest of our lives as well as being worthy of a place in a fictitious adult themed Laurel and Hardy sketch.

I staggered to the bathroom to relieve myself and given that the whole room was a ‘wet’ room a large puddle of water had accumulated just behind the door and in my post drunken state had not seen it coming. I slipped in true banana skin prank style, my legs leaving the safety of the floor at six hundred miles per second as I lunged and frantically grappled the first solid object I could see through hazy eyes. This was the bathroom sink and being Thailand the walls and fixtures were not as strong and sturdy as we in the UK had become accustomed to and an eighteen stone carcass launching itself onto the sink was bound to spell disaster. It spelt disaster in four-foot tall capital letters, fluorescent red with halogen lights on as the sink came away from the wall shearing the water pipes in the process, the heavy enamel pot hit the floor shattering into five large chunks each armed with a razor sharp edge. As I hit the floor with a bang the razor’s edge made an attempt on my life slicing into the palm of my left hand drawing blood, lots of it.

The noise of the sink breaking added to my screams brought Owen rushing in from next door and as he rushed into the room the sight of me, naked and covered in blood nursing a broken sink with water spurting everywhere is a sight he wishes to put as far from his memory as possible. His only words “I just don’t want to f**king know” uttered in that tone that people use when they believe that something rather sordid has been taking place. Sam, the owner of the hostel, was more than understanding of the whole situation and after turning off the water to the now flooded room supply was quite happy to accept my offer of thirty five English pounds to replace the sink. No wonder he was happy about it as I found out later that I could have probably bought the hostel for a little more. If this, on the very first day in the country was to set the standard for the rest of the break then we were in for some pretty wild times.

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CHAPTER 12 Out on The Road A change is as good as a rest or so the saying goes and working within the motor trade is no exception to that rule. Our rest would normally take the form of a weekend away at any one of the many varied auto jumbles held most weekends or on special occasions, we would venture to one of the major motorcycle shows held throughout the country. At times these sojourns into the public arena could be likened to a world beating Led Zeppelin tour in miniature, including Robert Plant’s drinking habits. It was always impossible to predict the outcome of any show or jumble as no two were the same. They may have been similar venues and held on regular dates but the vast difference in profits made sure that every time we were to venture forth it would be held with some trepidation. It truly was a game of Russian roulette every time the vehicles exited the yard to trade in far off exotic destinations such as Peterborough or the sun kissed tropics of Stafford.

It is quite an undertaking for me to condense all the antics that took place at the outside events into just one short chapter or story. I have enough material to release a book that just caters to the reader interested in seeing how ridiculous some motorcycle enthusiasts can be and that is in my head. Fellow jumblers and stallholders who also attended such events no doubt have even more tales of the er...unexpected. One thing for sure though was that our stall had always attracted quite a following at mealtimes thanks to my wife Suzi’s wonderful cooking. Large crucible sized dishes containing such delicacies as Irish stew, Bolognese or savoury mince would appear at mealtimes along with half a dozen of the neighbouring stallholders. Never one to shy away from work Suzi was an incredible asset when it came to handling the heavy green boxes we used to store parts at the events. She could load the van and trailer by far quicker than General and I could. She became the envy of many of the other stallholders with her work ethic and on more than one occasion I have been told that I ‘have a good woman there’. No one else’s wife would even attend the sales let alone cook for the masses and load and unload the stock. Suzi would often be pushed to the front of the stall to add a touch of glamour to proceedings, it often worked and she could quite regularly sell stock we had previously been ‘lumbered’ with. A flutter of the eyelashes and even the stingiest jumbler could be made to delve deep into his pockets.

Newark Auto Jumble Of the regular monthly venues, Newark Autojumble was always deemed the most profitable and socially it was a great platform to keep abreast of the happenings within the motorcycle world. The weekend would begin on Saturday morning by loading the stock to be disposed of into vans and trailers and gathering together the provisions for the overnight stay. This usually consisted of a crate of beer and a substantial allowance of meat pies if Suzi wasn’t in attendance. Normally we would arrive mid-afternoon and start to unload the stock and set up the pitch. The admission price was a reasonable ten pounds per pitch but my maths was never too good so I generally paid for two pitches but took the space of four. No one ever checked this and I can recall once even taking six pitches when I had an excessive amount of stock. We would usually divide our time on the Saturday evening between visiting fellow stallholders’ pitches to try grabbing early bird bargains and laying out our own vast array of assorted junk and jewels. It was even possible to arrive on a Saturday afternoon with an empty van and buy the stock for the pitch over the forthcoming hours.

Newark was an excellent venue for buying stock for the shop too and over the years have had several notable bargains. The following account of one such event will always be referred to as ‘the three three’s’ by anyone lucky enough to have been involved. Many years ago another dealer based in the Midlands and who specialises with classic Japanese machinery had the good fortune to clear out the whole stock of new old stock from a local spares distributor. He had loaded the whole lot into two vans and a trailer and he and his brother had set out to offload the vast amount of seats, fairings and goodness knows what else, at Newark showground. They enjoyed a brisk trade on Saturday evening and Sunday morning but come the afternoon

Page 115 The Motorcycle Undertaker they were still left with a van full of new boxed parts most of it unidentified, smaller parts but still very sought after. Both the brothers knew I was always interested in taking any amount of wholesale job lots so offered me the van full of parts for three hundred pounds. It was just too good a deal to walk away from so I bought their remaining stock. Unfortunately, I had done this deed failing to notice that we were already full with the vans and trailer.

The remainder of Sunday afternoon was spent shoehorning those parts into every last crevice within the two vans and trailer. No visible airspace was left unstuffed and with a sigh of relief by 5.30 pm we had managed to integrate the new stock within the vehicles. The very next day I unloaded every single part from the latest acquisition and began the painstaking task of identifying each individual part then to list them on that wonderfully famous auction site. Progress was rapid and before long the pallet full of parts began shrinking down in size whilst the PAYPAL account grew and grew. This is where it gained the name of ‘the three three’s’ because the initial outlay of three hundred pounds had grown into three thousand over three weeks.

But alas for every success story such as that one there will be an equally meteoritic downfall and it was not unknown to travel all the way to the jumble, spend hours erecting the stall stocked with a wide range of parts then head home empty handed and emotionally drained by the whole experience. Once the stall had been erected on Saturday it was then time to chill out with a few beers with the other stallholders and collectively bemoan the faults of the general public’s attitude to us, the poor jumblers. Entertainment would be provided in many guises. In the early days in one of the buildings at the edge of the showground, there would be a disco held for the staff and members of the local pony club.

We always made it our duty to gain an invite where we could leer at the women taking their daughters in for a dance, it also meant cheap beer until closing time and on more than one occasion I have had to be carried out of the place and placed gingerly onto the Kawasaki quad we used as showground transport. Navigation back to our pitch was almost impossible and apologies are made to the poor souls whose stock we would regularly drive over on the return journey. Six people we managed to squeeze on to that quad one evening. It was an accident just waiting to happen. In a similar vein one evening one half of the twins from Manchester were treating us to a display with an old Honda C90 minus its silencer. The twins ran a scrapyard somewhere near Manchester and were regular participants in the jumble scene always displaying a varied stock of used bikes. I can’t recall exactly which twin it was but he thought it would be a great wheeze to thrash the C90 full speed across the showground but sadly for him he hadn’t noticed the rope barrier that the organisers had erected halfway across the open field. He did notice it but way too late to actually do anything to avoid it and the rope simply dismounted him with little dignity and off went the C90 kept speeding towards a group of horrified onlookers. It looked a truly admirable stunt, but the burn marks around his neck from the rope made him look as if he had escaped the clutches of the hangman and the fact he couldn’t speak all weekend made this his one and only venture into the world of stunt riding.

As expected we were all in fits of hysterics and the general opinion was that it was the highlight of the whole weekend. On the odd occasion, a few of the stallholders would brave the elements and venture forth into Newark town centre to sample the many varied drinking establishments. Actual details from these events are somewhat sketchy due to the amount of alcohol consumed at the time though it wouldn’t be a strange sight to see myself and fellow stallholder, Reg Baister scaling the fence of the showground at 3 a.m. and then performing a wide sweep across the site in search of our respective vehicles. Speaking of the intrepid Mr Baister he found himself burdened with the nickname of ‘gas oven’ some years previous to this. It grew from the conversations we would be involved in after a particularly dire autojumble or sale where profits were outweighed by the costs. At the end of the weekend’s trading I would shout over to Reg on his pitch “Oi Reg, have you done any good?”, the look on his face was enough to turn mortals to stone and he would glumly reply “May as well have stuck my head in a gas oven for what good I have done”. I’m pleased to say that Reg is still trading at Newark to this day and still has that look of a man about to throw himself under a bus across his face. Reg was lurking on the pitch adjacent to ours at Newark one Sunday afternoon when I was approached by a customer asking for an indicator lense for a Honda CB500T.

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He had been on Reg’s stall but after sifting through all his stock was unable to find the part he so desperately needed. I knew he was desperate for that particular part because I had been listening to the conversation taking place within earshot with great amusement “I’m after a Honda CB500T rear indicator lense” he had asked Reg, no please or thank you and his manner was rather abrupt to say the least. We were familiar with awkward customers with attitudes like this and they usually left our pitch with their tail between their legs and battered eardrums. When he realised that he had drawn a blank with Reg he began to show interest in the boxes on our stall. “I’m after a rear indicator lense for a 500T” he barked and once again the manners were in short supply. “Yes, I have one down there in that box” I went over to the mass of green storage boxes we had out on display to retrieve the part and dusted it off. Reg was watching the proceedings with interest and then the chap spoke out the one line that is the worst possible dialogue that can be let loose on any seller. “I have been searching for one of these for years” Had I been in a foul mood or hungover I might have been tempted to hike up the price at that juncture but seeing as it was a lovely sunny day and we were doing well I stuck to the usual price, “give me fifty pence and it’s yours,” I said feeling quite pleased with myself for the brief moment of generosity. The tirade that followed even took me by surprise, “I am not paying that, fucking robbing bastards, you lot are all the same”. I resisted the temptation to punch him on the nose or recite my usual reply of “I’d rather set fire to it” but instead with all the calm I could summon I dropped the lense to the floor, stamped on it smashing it into a dozen pieces then picked up the remains and said, “I understand mate, give me 20p then”.

As expected he went ballistic and called me, my staff and Reg who was laughing along with the remainder of the onlookers, all the profanities he could muster before storming off in a huff muttering something about searching for one for years. He couldn’t have been searching too diligently though because I had another three in the same box but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

Rightly or wrongly whichever way you look at it Newark and in fact, most of the jumbles were an ideal platform to rid ourselves of junk. One man’s junk is another man’s treasure or so they say. There is no guarantee with any of the goods purchased at these events and it’s down to the vendor’s discretion to be as honest as possible with the descriptions. I did try to build up a certain reputation with the stall though at times when I had rubbish to offload I would sometimes throw these into the equation simply for the fun factor. Such was the case with a brand new rear tyre we had acquired through the shop. I’m not sure where it came from but it had a slice of approximately one inch on the edge of the tyre rendering it useless for the road but ok if you were using it around the fields. It would have been a travesty to throw it on the scrapheap because it still had the new labels stuck to it. To hide the cut in the wall of the tyre I simply taped over it with brown parcel tape and wrote the price on it.

This then gave the impression that it was a brand new item in excellent order. I priced it at twenty pounds which was thirty pounds below what it should be so that should have rung warning bells to any buyer but late afternoon at Newark a buyer was drawn to the tyre and after inspecting every part of it apart from under the tape he paid the price and waddled off with his bargain. The sale was forgotten about until a few months later and we happened to be standing at the Welsh National Motorcycle Show and we were approached by an irate punter claiming to have bought a tyre from us which was ‘buggered’. After he had explained the course of events that led to his unfortunate purchase I had no choice but to admit it was my twin brother that had sold him the tyre and he had now skipped off to another country. “What do I do about the tyre then?” he said meekly, “If you leave it with me I will put it on our stall and try to sell it for you” I generously offered. He left the tyre, I did manage to sell it to another unsuspecting buyer but the original person never returned to collect the money so I was yet another twenty pounds up. I could be economical with the truth when selling complete machines at auction or the autojumbles. Most of the time I didn’t know if the machines on display were runners or not so I left it to the buyer to make their judgments and decide if it was worth the gamble. However just once and for a bit of light hearted fun I ‘doctored’ a Yamaha TY250 trials bike. The bike had come in as a non-runner and after a top-end strip it became apparent that the hole the size of a fifty pence piece in the piston was the reason it was well down on compression. The bike was tatty and it wasn’t economically viable to repair the engine so to gain the compression I inserted a strong bedspring on the top of the piston and reassembled the engine.

When it was kicked over it gave the impression that the bike had enough compression to make it start. The bike stood in a prominent position on the stall and with a price tag of just a hundred pounds it was bound to

Page 117 The Motorcycle Undertaker attract attention. I had priced it taking into consideration it did need a rebuild; I wasn’t trying to sell a dud bike for a high price but merely offering it as an ongoing project. A few people were interested and vowed to come back later, yes we have all heard that before, but one chap was interested enough to jump aboard and take a huge lunge on the kick starter and comment “it’s got plenty of compression anyway” your words my friend not mine I thought. After he had played about with the carb and kicked a few more times he announced “a bit of fresh fuel and I’ll have this going in no time” yes I thought only a fresh fuel and a new barrel and piston too. I never conned him into buying the bike. I suppose I could have told him it needed a rebuild but then I think of the hundreds of times I have bought bikes that the owners assured me would run only to find them wrecked beyond repair. The age-old phrase of ‘caveat emptor’ really does apply to autojumbles too. Buyer beware.

Rufforth Auto Jumble Similar in content and mostly the same stallholders but a quarter of the size of Newark, Rufforth Park is another setting for a monthly sale of motoring related goods and tools. This is home turf and only a short distance from York it meant we never had the overnight escapades. Instead, we had to be waiting in line at the entrance at 5 a.m. waiting to be allowed to erect the stall. I used to make sure I secured one of the longer pitches located towards the rear of the pay box just so we could have some Saturday morning entertainment watching the owner getting thumped when he had abused or been rude to the incoming public. This was actually a common occurrence and I have seen the poor unfortunate owner be on the receiving end of no less than three physical altercations.

It’s reminiscent of the school playground in the ’60s and 70’s when everyone would start shouting “fight” and actively encourage two boys to leather the hell out of each other before the teacher broke up the fun. It was a long narrow pitch and cost a very reasonable fifteen pounds but sadly the takings were only a fraction of what would be taken at the much larger jumble in Nottinghamshire. Another distinct disadvantage was that although this was our home ground it was Yorkshire and the reputation of the Yorkshireman’s frugality is never more prevalent than at an event like this. Getting fellow Yorkshire folks to part with money is difficult at the best of times but add to that equation a selection of dirty used motorcycle parts and you are on a hiding to nothing. As regular as clockwork we would hold a conversation as follows:

“I looking for a headlamp for a Honda CB200” “Ok, I have one that will be 20 quid” “20 quid? I can get one from him over there for a tenner” “Well go get one from him then” “I can’t because he hasn’t got one” “Yes, mine are only a tenner when I haven’t any too, bye.”

It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility to find ourselves the proud owners of someone else’s pitch too. On several occasions, I have bought the entire stock from another trader eager to escape a cold winter’s afternoon and in one case, in particular, I bought the van too. We were standing in the usual place and the chap next door was just clearing out a lot of new old stock car parts and seemed thoroughly disinterested with the whole idea of haggling with the public. Mid-afternoon he approached us asking if his stock would be of any interest to us. I explained that I am open to buying anything be it motorcycle spares or sewing machines so yes I would be attracted by a proposition but sadly had no way to transport it back to base. “Well if you give me an extra hundred quid and a lift to the railway station you can have the van as well”. The van in question was a dirty pale blue Ford Transit mobile library van with sliding doors and an enormous body on the back. It had been previously used as a mobile food shop delivering groceries to the isolated villages of Northumbria. The deal was too good to miss so at the end of the afternoon’s trading both vans were loaded up and driven back to base where the new addition became earmarked for the role of autojumble bus. It was the perfect vehicle for that task, it was roomy, easy to load, had a fitted tow bar and the doors up front were sliding for easy access.

That van became a regular sight at Rufforth and the journey to and from the event on a Saturday became a source of much merriment and frivolities. It was at this time that I had managed to source an electric megaphone with the apt moniker ‘Tubby the Tuba’, it was loud, and in fact, it was very loud as the public of

Page 118 The Motorcycle Undertaker the streets of York would soon find out. One Saturday afternoon it appeared that the guests of a wedding were about to enter a pub on Acomb Green in York and as we drove past I shouted through the megaphone “Don’t marry her she is the biggest trollop in boot leather” at which each and every guest turned around with faces aghast to see the blue van sailing past with five undesirables laughing and hooting in the front. The unfortunate chap out walking his dog also became the brunt of the blue van japes when we hurtled past him shouting “oi mister, your dog is on fire”. We sped off into the distance and the sight of the owner patting down the dog to put out the invisible fur fire is a sight I have never managed to erase from memory.

The B.M.F Jumble If you were to push me into a corner and hold a rather large offensive looking pointy stick at my head and ask the question “which autojumble is the most profitable in the UK calendar?” I would undoubtedly answer “The Stafford Classic Bike Show”, poke me even harder with a sharper stick to learn the identity of the runner up and you would hear me blubber the words “BMF rally at Peterborough”. The annual BMF Rally and its slightly smaller sister the Tail End Rally were a close second and third respectively from my own point of view. The main show in July was an enormous event held at the Peterborough showground and offered hundreds of motorcycling related activities from the manufacturers lavish displays to the wacky moped racing. I have never attended the lager jumbles held on the outskirts of London or the giant one in Beaulieu and for some traders, these may be the icing on the cake. I would book a very large pitch at the BMF and at its biggest, our pitches covered 12 plots and the stock was transported via a rental truck.

It was a 3 day sale and an ideal venue for buying as well as selling and I have had some tremendous bargains from the other motorcycle dealers who used this show to offload 12 months of accumulated stock. Folks that would never consider attending any of the other jumbles would be in attendance with a whole host of bargains on offer. One-off deals such as the 100 Harley Davidson shirts I procured from Black Bear HD shop for three pounds each and sold for eight times as much as I had paid via the internet. The hundred service manuals bought for twenty pounds for the lot then sold for twenty pounds each over the following few months. Perhaps the best ever deals were to be had from Aiden at The Trike Shop based in Wales. He and his team would have a vast array of brand new parts taken from unused bikes that had been converted to trikes so there was always a glut of rear ends and cosmetic parts which he would attempt to sell over the three days. After the trading had ceased on Sunday afternoon I would be called in to look over the remaining parts. There wasn’t usually any need to haggle with the price as it was normally a rock bottom price to clear the remaining stock and once again the fingers would be tapping on the PC keyboard listing the parts on the auction sites upon our return to base on Monday morning.

The evening’s entertainment for the weekend would be provided in the exhibitors’ bar which was a welcome touch for us hard working stallholders. Only once in all the years that I was in attendance at the show did I have to be physically carried by four people from out of the bar. The combination of the long drive, the setting up of numerous pitches and half a bottle of Jack Daniels had certainly contributed to my condition that evening. I was carried outside the bar and left to my own devices on how to navigate back to the pitch in the dead of night. After being sick in several waste paper bins en route I eventually made it home to base where I promptly tripped over the edge of the tarpaulin covering our range of motorcycle fairings and panels and launched myself headlong into the stall. The fairings provided a soft landing but the noise of shattering plastic accompanied by howls of pain and assorted profanities woke several people who were sleeping in the vicinity.

Next morning I was greeted by the site of several broken fairings and panels and laughter from the assembled crowd keen to see the damage that had been inflicted on me and the plastic fairings. That unplanned fall had cost me over a hundred pounds in damages and was one event I wasn’t keen on repeating in too much of a hurry.

On a separate trip to Peterborough, our pitch was located relatively close to the huge fairground that had been sited on the edge of the main event. It consisted of the usual thrilling and exhilarating rides designed to bring forth the contents of the stomach after consuming nine pints of best bitter and provided us with a constant stream of dance music until midnight. On Friday afternoon I was occupied with covering over our stall with the large tarpaulin to protect the goods from the elements and stray drunks when I was tapped on

Page 119 The Motorcycle Undertaker the shoulder by a young man in quite an agitated state, “Hey mate, can you help me? I need a spring summat like this” he handed me a spring of around six inches long and was broken in half. I couldn’t resist being quite jovial about it so replied “I have one but it’s not the same as that, mine isn’t in two halves” at first he looked rather deflated but then the penny dropped and he realised that I was after all in a position to help out.

I removed the tarpaulin and we both searched through the sea of green storage boxes until a replacement spring was found. Eventually one turned up and he was ecstatic over it and at once demanded to know the price. “Just take it, free of charge mate,” I said and proceeded to cover the pitch over once again. As the lad was leaving he turned and shouted “See that ride over there? It’s my Dad’s, come over later for a free ride.” He had uttered that magic word ‘free’ so an hour later four of us were stood facing his father’s stomach churning contraption. Imagine two steel towers over 100 feet high and 20 feet apart with a giant elastic band fastened to the top of each tower with a metal caged sphere in the centre of that band at the bottom of the towers then you have an idea of what a machine this was. A kind of giant catapult. The sphere was locked on to the platform at the bottom with the bands at full stretch, a lever was pulled and the sphere took off at breakneck speed vertically until it hit full stretch over 100 feet above the top of the towers then began to hurtle towards earth again and so on. The sphere would roll in its axis too adding to the disorientation of the poor unfortunate soul sitting within the steel cage. “C’mon mate have a go” shouted the lad who I had attended to earlier in the evening. There was no way I was going anywhere near that thank you very much and declined his kind offer. The friends with me watching over the proceedings were having none of it and physically carried me over to the stairs up to the platform. I had no choice and within seconds I was whisked into the steel ball.

As the kind youngster was securing me into the ball he commented, “You know the spring you gave me?” I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like the next statement, “Yes” I whispered nervously, “well it’s holding you in here, it’s part of the securing bar that stops you rolling about in the ball” I gulped and prayed that the spring I had given him wasn’t defective and was up to the job of securing a twenty stone carcass into a giant catapult. Fortunately, it was and as the lever was pulled I was shot like a bullet into the heavens. The view was exhilarating but short-lived as I plummeted back to Earth and the sudden jolt as the bands reached full stretch meant that I was thrown from side to side and I can clearly recall that I thought my innards were going to exit my body through my nostrils. I staggered from the machine feeling as if I had been left in a tumble drier for a week, much to the amusement of the assembled throng.

Stafford Classic Bike Show As mentioned previously the bee’s knees when it came to profitable outdoor events was the biannual Stafford Classic Bike Show. The first of these was normally held in April and catered mainly to the owners of British machinery but Japanese classics were not ignored at this event. The second show was held in October and catered primarily to classic Japanese machines. As years progressed it became the norm to see a roughly even mix at both shows and of course not wanting to miss out on extra revenue we were in attendance at both. The show was open to the public on Saturday and Sunday but we usually arrived on Thursday afternoon to begin the setup process.

Most of the bargains were to be had within the confines of the outdoor autojumble on Friday. Once I had the good fortune to notice a Kawasaki ER500 on a fellow jumblers pitch with a price tag of only £950, after haggling briefly with the owner who had travelled from the Netherlands to attend the show I left his pitch with the bike and £800 less in my jeans pocket. The bike was clean and tidy and a runner too, it stood in a prominent position on our pitch and within hours a buyer had parted with eighteen hundred pounds to own it. The show hadn’t even started and I was a grand in pocket. It could be very easy to earn a profit at these shows primarily due to the massive footfall over the weekend. There was no shortage of quality classic machines on display from all the major owner’s clubs and individuals alike. Naturally, the weekend would have its fair share of mishaps relative to the amount of alcohol consumed.

After years of attending this show, one of the landlords of the Stafford town pubs would lay on a buffet for all the stallholders and this became the starting point every visit. As per usual one drink led to the bright idea of gaining entry to the local nightclubs and it wouldn’t be a strange sight to see half a dozen jumblers trying to

Page 120 The Motorcycle Undertaker scale the fence back at the showground at 3 a.m. One year the late-night crawl around the nightclubs left me and fellow assistant ‘Spreaders’ minus a lift back to the showground. We set off to walk the five-mile journey in a less than sober state and after a few yards, I had become disgruntled with this so flagged down the first car that was passing. After a great amount of drunken pleading including telling the driver my wife was expecting he agreed to ferry us back to base. He was reluctant to help because he too had been out drinking and had no wish to be prosecuted for his lapse of sanity. We leapt into the car with huge sighs of relief and promptly fell asleep on the journey. The driver had reached the gates of the showground and was busy trying to remove two almost lifeless bodies from his car when the Police turned up. Quite a sobering sight at the best of times but not wanting to be involved in any altercation we both hot footed it and cleared the fence at the showground. As we peered through the gates the Police officer was in the throes of asking our driver to blow into this bag. I did feel a twinge of guilt that our driver had been apprehended because of our drunken antics, it was only a small twinge though. Over the many years we were in attendance drunken antics were commonplace, so much so in fact that I may consider writing yet another volume detailing some of the countless escapades.

The Farmyard Party. For several years Kevin Keld Motorcycles was given the assignment of handling the hugely successful maintenance marquee at Yorkshire MAG’s epic annual outdoor event, The Farmyard Party. To put this into perspective it would be rather similar to handing over the reins of local Government to Screaming Lord Sutch or Ozzy Osbourne. For those unfamiliar with this event, it consists of a huge gathering of motorcycles, a custom bike show, plenty of live bands, lots of food outlets and a nearly endless supply of alcohol for a three-day stint set in the beautiful countryside around Helmsley. Organised with precision and attention to the last detail the rally has been considered probably the best in the North. Our pitch was just through the main entrance and the idea was that should anyone suffer any mishap on their bike we would be able to offer assistance and get them mobile as soon as possible. We would only charge the customer basic cost price plus the parts and should a solution be less than forthcoming the AA man was usually on hand to assist further. It sounded like a great arrangement that in theory should have benefited everyone. Not so I am afraid as it soon became apparent that certain factions were taking distinct advantage of General’s good and often helpful nature. The most extreme case being the crafty twat that had him grinding the valves in on an almost expired Honda CB900! Some unscrupulous folks would leave it until this time of year to get a fault fixed, knowing full well that the bike had been running like shit for the past few weeks and our rates were half that of the local dealers. By and large though the customers were usually extremely grateful not to be left stranded in a muddy field miles away from home.

The marquee was an impressive set up to say the least with lights and electricity on tap and all our workshop facilities including compressors and workbenches at hand. It’s at this point that I feel I must throw my hands in the air and admit to being absolutely useless, in fact, a positive liability within this working environment. I would normally have consumed far too much alcohol to be of any use to anyone and it would be an achievement if I even managed to find the place. One year, in particular, was considered to be the pinnacle of stupidity and I consider myself rather fortunate to be still alive to tell the tale.

We spent the afternoon before opening day setting up all the equipment and after a long shift retired to our private compound which housed all the vehicles to get some deserving sleep in ‘hotel Transit’. Early next morning we were all ‘up with the lark’ and it was thrilling to sit and view the endless procession of bikes and trikes and happy people heading in to enjoy a weekend of bands, booze and general merrymaking. Not wishing to feel left out I promptly opened the first bottle of Jack Daniels intending to restrict myself to just the odd shot here and there. The odd one eventually became half the bottle and early afternoon I was staggering around half naked making a general nuisance of myself. Someone had the idea of lighting the barbeque at lunchtime and loading it up to the max with an assortment of cheap fatty sausages and undernourished burgers. It was just reaching optimum cooking conditions when I staggered backwards and fell on to the blazing barby. This catapulted sausages, hot fat and flaming burgers all over the gathered throng and left me with serious burns to my rear end and back. Screaming in agony and rolling around the floor I was aware that sympathy was definitely lacking. In fact, I was berated for my foolish actions leaving the assembled staff and friends to go hungry though I suspect General had a secret stash to replenish the slightly out of shape barbeque.

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The atmosphere was distinctly chilly towards me so I made my excuses and headed forth into the gathered throng within the main event. The advantage of owning a motorcycle shop can become apparent at localised events such as this, a great deal of my customers were also in attendance and every few yards I would hear “Oi Kev, come and have a drink with us”. Now I know you are looking at me with that ‘knowing’ look but I sometimes would decline their kind offers, it was difficult but not impossible. The accident with the fire had brought me to my senses a little and there is nothing like third degree burns to sober you up on a sunny afternoon. I spent a couple of hours on the AWOL stand chatting to the staff and curious readers keen to see the faces behind the names. It was at this time that I had been quite involved with the magazine and my technical column had its own fair share of followers. I restrained myself with the diminished bottle of bourbon not wishing to give the outward impression of a drunken buffoon whilst joking and having tremendous fun with the staff and readers alike.

Following another tour of the custom bike show and a few more drinks and illicit substances with friends, I headed back to base or at least in the general direction of base only it was nowhere near where I needed to be and I quickly found myself on the nearby riverbank. Barely able to stand let alone swim I launched myself from the bank into the flowing river expecting to immerse myself in the crystal cool water to regain my composure. Had I been sober I might have noticed that the water wasn’t in fact deep enough to immerse a dog in, it was but a mere six inches deep and I hit the bottom with the full force of my twenty stone frame then after my knees had buckled I lay face down in the water. A definite shock to the system and after swallowing several mouthfuls of dirty muddy water I dragged myself to the bank and lay on my back in an effort to bring myself back to reality. It didn’t work and I soon found myself trudging in totally the opposite direction across ploughed fields and the most magnificent countryside imaginable full of bright, trip induced vivid colours.

Panic hit me and I began to cry, my hands were bloody and torn after I had vaulted myself over several barbed wire fences in a desperate attempt to find civilisation. When I finally did arrive back at the van I insisted on kissing and hugging every living soul in the immediate area believing that I had been lost for weeks in the wilderness and surrounding fields. In real-time, I had only been missing an hour or so but I was just so relieved to see everyone. So much so that I began acting like a total twerp again and in desperation Owen, General with help from other bystanders, locked me in the back of the van for my own safety and the well-being of others. After behaving like a caged animal I settled down and slept for a short while before I was let out by fellow lunatic and partner in all things dubious Andy. As I leapt forth from the van simulating a rabbit from a trap I landed straight into the arms of a very shocked and stunned AWOL magazine editor, Blue. Regrettably my more than slight stature was too much for her to handle and although she caught me with precision we both fell over backwards with a dull thud and a squeal of agony breaking one of her ribs in the process, a foolish act I still feel dreadful about to this day.

It is at this point that my memory fails me somewhat and from what I can gather I soon disappeared off into the rave tent with Andy to dance to two hours of something not quite resembling music. The noise was horrendous resembling a road drill on acid but I’m led to believe I made some pretty dandy moves that evening. Now Andy is not known for his subtleties and can be so very unpredictable when it comes to pranks but even he was shaking his head in disgust at me when I decided the young couple tying flowers in their hair on the periphery of the rave tent needed a golden shower. To a cacophony and a bout of arm waving the couple quickly rose and made themselves scarce as I continued weeing long after I had put my offending appendage away in my jeans. Quite how I made it back to the van is still a mystery and the next morning I awoke soaked in piss and nursing the headache of all headaches. I staggered forth from the van to the aroma of a good old British fry up. “Not for me thanks” was my reply to the offer of a bacon sandwich and immediately emptied the contents of my stomach down the side of the van.

After sitting holding my head in my hands for an hour I ventured once more into the arena to chat with friends but this time any offers of alcohol were met with a flat refusal and a bout of face pulling. It was on my recce around the river area in search of my sunglasses that I happened upon a group of friends who had thought it hilarious watching me the previous day attempt my Olympic swimming skills. I spoke to Wendy, who was the wife of one of my dear friends and our JCB driver who had recently passed away. Her husband, Bob had always loved the Farmyard Party and had been a regular attendee over the past few years, so much so that they had decided to hold a small friendly wake for him and deposit the ashes in the river. “Just a minute

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Wendy, when did you tip the ashes in the river?” I asked nervously. I knew where this was leading before she even said it, “we threw them in just before you catapulted yourself in”. I couldn’t believe it, I knew I had always liked Bob and we had enjoyed some great times and escapades together but I drew the line at drinking him. All the time I had been thrashing around in the water I had been ingesting various parts of Bob the JCB driver. I couldn’t remove those obscene thoughts from my mind and spent most of the day projectile vomiting and drinking gallons of water to rid myself of the ashes. R.I.K. (Rest in Kevin).

The Classic Motorcycle Show at Donnington Park The Classic Japanese Show held annually at the Castle Donnington Park race circuit in Leicestershire usually signalled the beginning of the show season for us. It was traditionally held in January and was always a welcome distraction from the hectic Christmas and New Year period. The show was originally managed by Andrew Greenwoods Classic Shows Company who also held similar events at prestigious venues and stately homes throughout the country. Andrew was a very amiable and approachable guy and more importantly from my point of view always willing to ‘do a deal’ for pitch space. I would normally take up residence outside the main event with the rest of the jumblers but if Andrew found himself with space to spare on the indoor pitches due to anyone not showing up or a cancellation he would often try to intercept us before we started the long arduous process of setting up. The bartering would begin for prime location space in the heated halls of Donnington or occasionally Harrogate Showground.

We usually ended up with a decent sized pitch for a similar price as we were due to pay for the cold damp and usually cramped outdoor space. The show was always a success for both traders and punters alike and the public, having spent time in the house playing at happy families over Christmas, were keen to get back down to the serious task of restoration of their bikes and tracing those hard to find parts brought welcome relief. At previous events, we had enjoyed quite a substantial success and it looked like the year 2005 was going to be no different. Preparations had been made for the event by throwing a couple of projects in amongst the mountain of oily parts and we then filled the van to the max and took along the tow-a- van stacked to the ceiling with green boxes full of new and used spares as good measure. Upon our arrival, Andrew approached me offering indoor space at a greatly reduced fee because of a late cancellation and considering the weather outdoors looked like it was about to take a turn for the worse I graciously accepted his kind offer.

I drove the van in and along with General began the long slow process of unloading and carefully and diligently setting up the sizable pitch. The unfortunate disadvantage of having an indoor pitch was that space was at a premium and it was impossible to throw the parts out for perusal in a haphazard fashion, the immediate neighbours were quick to complain if any of my stock should be overhanging their space by as much as an inch. I had to make sure the pitch is neat and tidy and looking presentable, even so, it was blatantly obvious that we really belonged with the rest of the riff-raff and ne’er do wells outside. After a few hours of careful rearranging, we had the stall looking reasonably presentable and ready for trading the following day. Now it was time to get down to the serious business of partying and it had become something of a ritual for a handful of the stallholders to head off in the direction of Castle Donnington village in search of a friendly hostelry for a well-earned pint and a decent meal.

In years gone by we have left the village unable to even walk back to the van thanks to the huge amount of alcohol consumed, actually I should amend that statement to ‘I have left the village unable to walk’ but on this sojourn to the bright lights I had felt slightly under the weather and I moderated my consumption quite drastically. After a hearty supper at the local chippy, it was all back into the van and head back to the racetrack to try and get a decent night’s sleep, and that’s when the problems started. As some of the lads leapt out of the van and headed to their respective sleeping quarters it left me and General to share my van. Gen made himself comfy in the back of the van, wrapping himself tightly in an old sleeping bag and at once began the snoring. I, however, had terrible chest pains and initially put it down to indigestion thanks to the speed at which I had eaten the fish and chips previously in the village.

After two hours had slowly passed I still hadn’t moved from the passenger seat and sat bolt upright nursing horrendous chest pain. It never crossed my mind to ring for an ambulance and was still convinced that it was indigestion and would have been quite happy if someone had laid me across their shoulder and

Page 123 The Motorcycle Undertaker patted my back to disperse the excess wind. After a fitful night’s sleep sat in the prone position I awoke to the crucifying chest pain, only now I was unable to move without the pain increasing. I took a handful of paracetamol in the hope it might alleviate it somewhat. Although it did numb the pain slightly I struggled to get out of the van and it took a while for me to waddle ‘duck fashion’ over to our stall. I sat down to help deal with the public for only perhaps thirty minutes before the pain once again returned so I had to retrace my steps back to the sanctuary of the van parked outside. I found it impossible to sit for any length of time on the stall and concentration was almost impossible. Fortunately for all concerned General was quite capable of running the stall though I was perturbed that when it came time to begin loading the stall up he would be struggling on his own and there was no way I was in any state to help.

Yet again and upon reflection I should have dialled 999 for an ambulance as the pain had shown no sign of subsiding. When at last it came to the end of the show and time to load everything back in the van and trailer we were lucky enough to have bumped into Rob and his brother, the Laverda specialists who offered their services to help Gen load the van. I have never been so grateful as I was that afternoon as the very thought of trying to lift the heavy boxes of used parts just made me ache even more. We said our goodbyes to Donnington Park and it was left for Gen to take over the driving as I found even moving the wheel too painful. I sat in agonizing pain in the passenger seat choosing to pull faces at the other drivers on the M1. Once back home I sat in a chair in the front room and slept another night sat bolt upright. It was in the days when I was a smoker and to even puff my way through a Cartier cigarette was too stressful. The next morning Suzi’s Father Billy came round to view the patient and as soon as he walked in the room announced that he was going to rush me into the hospital. We headed for York District Hospital with tyres screeching at every junction and as soon as I arrived I was given an injection for the pain. That did the trick, took the pain away immediately, so much so that I was quite prepared to go home as I felt ok now. It wasn’t that easy and after an ECG, various blood tests and the obligatory blood pressure check I was admitted into ward 24 and was told I had suffered heart failure. That short conversation with the cardiologist was a game changer and life for me would never be the same again. I was hoping to be out of the hospital later that day, things to do, places to be and all that but no chance; it was eleven weeks before I left the confines of that ward.

During my stay in that wonderful hospital, I had spent three days in the CCU becoming increasingly alarmed at the number of immediate neighbours who were wheeled out in the dead of night….dead! I had managed to stop smoking too, reducing my intake of sixty cigarettes per day down to zero overnight. I had also managed to gain a few stones though I suspect this had little to do with the food served within the hospital but more likely due to the vast amount of pies, cheese and chocolate that Suzy insisted on bringing in each day. Visitors too were not afraid of handing over unlimited amounts of pork pies and chocolate biscuits. My bedside cabinet began to resemble the deli counter in a supermarket with its stash of goodies.

That Classic show at Donnington was to be very nearly the last show I would attend in the UK. After spending eleven weeks in hospital and then a further five weeks recovering at home I mentally had decided to throw the towel in with both the motorcycle business and the country it resided in.

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CHAPTER 13 An International Affair

By now, Kevin Keld Motorcycles had become a massive success thanks to General’s diligence and downright hard work. I could never have kept it afloat from my hospital bed and to be quite blunt I was losing interest in motorcycles. Life had changed dramatically since being diagnosed with heart failure. Whereas once I had been an ambitious and enthusiastic soul, hell bent on making my way in the world of business and the process amassing stacks of money, now I had learned to be a little more appreciative of the basic things in life. I had a bank account stuffed to the gills with cash, I owned three properties outright but what good would it be to me if I was pushing up the daisies? Life and people became more important than money, happiness and peace of mind became more important than sitting looking at the figures on a well-thumbed bank statement. Suzi and I had spoken at length regarding relocating over to Spain to start a new life. Unfortunately, her mother who lived in Fuengirola, Spain and had been suffering from leukaemia had taken a turn for the worse so it became a priority to find a suitable property.

I spent many happy afternoons at Monkton Road our house in York, scouring the internet in search of a suitable property. Many were shortlisted but one, in particular, caught our eyes and on the face of it appeared to be the ideal property. Ocho Palmeras or ‘Eight Palms’ was a three bedroomed property along with a sizeable plot of land and swimming pool and in need of restoration located just outside Valencia. It seemed perfect. In reality, Eight Palms was a perfect example of don’t believe what the photos say. Suzi and I flew over to Valencia full of hope and excitement to meet with the estate agent handling the property and upon our arrival at the plot, the wind was well and truly blown from our sails. I found it difficult to believe that this was the same property that had been showcased on the estate agent’s website. Allow me to decipher the descriptions, for needs restoration read derelict. For swimming pool read concrete water storage bin full of green slime, I am surmising that the photos of Eight Palms that graced the website were taken some years previously before the vandals had attacked it. All the wiring and water pipes had been stolen, every window had been smashed and seemingly the only way to improve on this would be to attack it with a heavy bulldozer. We stayed in the Valencian area and viewed several more properties over the next few days but nothing took our fancy so in a much deflated mood we headed home and once more back to the drawing board.

In the meantime, Gen had been busy running the business and I returned to my duties with a mission in mind. I was determined to sell all the used spares I had accumulated over the previous years. I had two chicken sheds full of parts at Baul Acres and the upstairs level of the unit on the airfield was bulging with forks, fairings and four hundred tea chests full of parts. In the days before EBay, there was Yahoo Auctions and I wasted no time in using this site to my advantage. I would head off upstairs and choose a suitable tea-chest full of assorted parts for on particular machine. I would then proceed to lay out every last part on the floor in as symmetrical order as possible. Reminiscent of the scene in The Wall by Pink Floyd where Pink (Bob Geldof) is frantically arranging matchboxes and other household items in an almost shrine like arrangement, I did this for over fifty boxes. I would list every single item, photograph the shrine from various angles and then list each box on the auction site. I found that it was not uncommon to realise over a hundred pounds for a box full of oily and sometimes broken old parts. After the parts had been sold I would carefully parcel the whole lot up and dispatch them to all four corners of the globe. The courier company we used would have their work cut out collecting some of the vast weights we had waiting for them every day. The driver given the short straw of collecting from our place had the look of fear etched on his face as he entered the office to be faced with six parcels each bearing the weight of one and a half washing machines. It was proving to be a huge success in reducing the amount of stock in hand and after I had picked the best of the best I was approached by a young lad from over near Leeds who was just starting out in the breaking game. This was just too good to be true, he was looking for a vast amount of used spares and after allowing him to search through all my used stock he decided that what I had left would be perfect. The only hurdle was the price.

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I now found myself in the position that Rod from Waggy’s in Scunthorpe had been in some years previously when I had bought all his remaining stock. Rod had lost interest and become disillusioned with the breaking game very much the same as I had although I could lay the blame at the door of my ill health. It was almost impossible to put a price on the spares that were leftover and the retail price would be was in excess of £100,000 should each item sell, but that is the problem, each item will NOT sell. In the world of motorcycle, car, or even truck breaking I had learned that to be able to sell a few items you needed to have thousands of various parts to choose from. It’s no good trying to run a breakers yard with only a range of ten models, you needed a hundred different models, then factor in that each bike has only one seat or rear wheel and when it’s gone it’s gone you can see what a task it is keeping the stocks up.

Robert, the prospective buyer appeared on the face of it suitably impressed with the range of stock on hand, I left the ball in his court to come up with a realistic cash offer and was almost bowled over when he appeared a few days later and hit me with a figure of seven thousand pounds. I had expected to emulate the Waggy’s scenario and only end up with perhaps a maximum of two thousand pounds. I was quite frankly ecstatic, that cash injection would help the search for overseas property. Whilst, on one hand, I was trying drastically to reduce the stock I was still tempted by bargains, after all, they were all still out there and perhaps the most notable was the Suzuki GS750 Retro bought for a mind blowing three hundred quid. It was a clean, straight bike and within days I had a local buyer lined up offering eight hundred and a beautiful Kawasaki Zephyr 750 finished in the deepest metallic blue I had ever seen. Deal done and dusted the Kawasaki was tucked away to one side t be one of my ‘run-around’ bikes over in Spain and in a future story I can relate the times I used this bike riding through the off-road tracks in the Valencian mountains.

Probably the emotion most lacking in the final few months before the move to Spain was laughter. Since being discharged from hospital both my physical and mental capabilities had taken a battering. I no longer felt fit enough to endure a cold winter night in the back of the van at the shows and autojumbles. Silly stories of the wrongdoings of customers and staff alike were just not happening. Things were so much fun in the old days.

Over a period of six months or so the buildings began to empty and the stock shrank until all that was left was the workshop containing General and the equipment. Most of the heavy machinery I donated to him as he had announced that he would be continuing in the bike trade under the name of Genspeed Racing and boy I am so pleased to report that the venture was a huge success and still trading to this day. For me, it was a sad day to have to say goodbye to my best pal, after all, we had been together almost every day for at least ten hours over the period of fifteen years. I spent more time with Gen than I did my wife and children and it was General that I owed the success of my business to. I was the one who just paid the bills, Gen was the one who did most of the work and for that I will always be truly grateful.

Things were slowly beginning to click into place. A large five bedroomed mansion set in the Valencian countryside was viewed, discussed and eventually purchased. A tenant was procured for the three bedroomed semi-detached house in York that Suzi, William and myself once called home. Tearful goodbyes were said to various family members though it was mutually agreed that the separation was only to be temporary as the house in Spain had more than enough room to accommodate plenty of people should they wish a free holiday in the sun, and who wouldn’t? I did, however, make the mistake of once saying to some friends (who I shall write about in another continuation of this story) “if you ever fancy coming over for a bit of R&R just grab a flight over. They did and it was three months before we managed to get rid of them. They became known as the Clampetts, named after the family featured in the hit 1960’s TV comedy The Beverley Hillbillies.

The day was drawing ever closer and however I tried to delay it the final goodbye would be inevitable. General had moved his tools and equipment into premises in York and was once again trading successfully. Suzi and William had flown over to the new house in Spain whilst I rallied round loading the van and trailer up with personal belongings and furniture. I would have to undertake a further four journeys before I managed to transport all the bikes and tools over. I had booked myself and the vehicle on the ferry from Dover to Calais and on the very last day of my time in the UK I parked up in the local town to grab a newspaper. On my return to the vehicle, I was accosted by the local traffic warden in the process of writing out a ticket for my illegal parking. It was just too good to miss. “Excuse me Missus but you may as well shove that ticket as far up your arse as possible, it sure as hell ain’t getting paid” I commented rather smugly before leaping into

Page 126 The Motorcycle Undertaker the driver’s seat and heading off in a distinctly southerly direction. I could see her in the driver’s side mirror waving her fist and shouting something like “you bloody well WILL pay”. I never heard anything else about the outstanding parking ticket.

That was it, an end of an era or the start of another? If you are still with me after reading the contents of this book then you are a good two-thirds of the way through my association with the motorcycle. There are many aspects of my life that I have left out simply because of the lack of space. In the next book you can expect more stories about odd customers, even more stories about individual motorcycles that made a fortune, more staff members, and a whole host of silly stories surrounding the days of the shop. Added to this is a range of stories such as the buying and selling of motorcycles over in Spain, my elevation to full-patch member and club secretary of the Road Demon’s MC in Malaga. The birth of my alter ego Kalamity Kevin and his explosive exploits. There are reports of much merriment at the Spanish motorcycle rallies, fun at the Moto GP from the Ricardo Tormo race circuit just ten miles from our house and partying all over Southern Spain. There will be lots of stories concerning the huge amount of motorcycles and mopeds that I have sold since returning to Blighty, tales from an isolated farm high in the Yorkshire Wolds and I will bring you right up to date on where I am now, namely battered and broken after a serious motorcycle accident. If you have enjoyed this book then I am convinced you will love the next, keep your eyes open for it. Now if you’ll excuse me I shall just get down to writing it.

Bye for now-The Motorcycle Undertaker.

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Synopsis.

The Motorcycle Undertaker by Kevin Keld

A fascinating tale of one man’s meteoric rise to the pinnacle of the motorcycle world then ultimately his demise amid broken relationships and mental health problems. From the early days of liberating the engine from a groundsman’s lawnmower to earning thousands of pounds from the sales of broken motorcycles then back down to earth and penniless. A journey that calls at all the right stops on route. The ridiculous antics in the workshop, the staff who firmly believed they were not in employment but part of a cabaret act, the diverse range of exotic motorcycles and the not so inspiring machines too. Then just when you thought it safe to enter the water along came the customers. A motley bunch of willing participants in a bartering game. A dirty, oily version of Monopoly where the winner is decided by who pays how much for what. It’s hilarious but at the same time can just hit home how you should never judge a book by its cover. In this world, you don’t need to know the first thing about motorcycles. It’s a true story of life as we know it within the retail trade, it’s a dirty job but, well you know the rest.

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