TRD issue 182

Transcription

TRD issue 182

Issue 182
September 2013
WWW.THERIDERSDIGEST.CO.UK
Back to Contents Page
Contents...
4. From the editor…
Mind expanding travel
7. Rider’s Lives
Tim might be a relative newbie but he can’t get enough of it
8. Image of the Month
Dream installation
10. Six & the City
Tinks went missing so we had a search in the archive
2
17. The Boy Biker
Passing on the passion
21. A View from the Group
W Bench
A reminder of the significance of good brakes and tyres
23. The Naming of the Bike
Wizzard wonders why manufacturers have blown this important basic so many times
12. Paddy’s Perspective
Anti-social political suicide
32. Hey, I’m With The Team
Stuart gets the inside line on club racing
Editor
Dave Gurman
Assistant editor
Peter Martin
Design
Simon Gardner
Web site
Andy Cadney
Contributors
Tinks, Paddy Tyson, George Smith, Ian Dunmore,
Wizzard, Stuart Jewkes, Oldlongdog, Antony Loveless,
Nick Lojik, Will Wilkins, Paul Blezard, Graham Pierce,
Jonathan Boorstein
Photographs
Stuart Jewkes, Dave Gurman, Oldlongdog,
Antony Loveless, Nick Lojik, Will Wilkins,
Paul Blezard, Graham Pierce
64. Another World
The sort of old school country shows that aren’t dampened by a little bit
of rain
96. Bloodrunner
Roadcraft revisited
146. Revival Time
Blez provides a pictorial prelude to Goodwood’s annual nostalgia fest
108. Devil’s Bridge
Motorcycle only parking on Sundays and Bank Holidays!
167. Motorcycle Girl Racer
Even stranger goings on
at Stonehenge
123. Incredible India
A brief snippet en route
from Wollongong to
Woolwich
Cartoons
Simon Kewer
The opinions and comments of contributors
within this magazine do not necessarily reflect
the opinions of the editor.
ISSUE 182 September 2013
162. Ask a Policeman
Time for a little Dostoyevsky?
171. Book Review
Our cultural correspondent unzips the ubiquitous
black leather jacket and has a good look inside
Contacts
Editorial
Dave Gurman
+44 (0) 20 8707 0655
+44 (0) 7948 897093
[email protected]
Advertising
Peter Martin
+44 (0) 7973 818579
[email protected]
3
From the editor...
Travel, it’s said, broadens
the mind and it’s difficult to
imagine how it could fail to
do so. Having said that I know
there are plenty of tourists
who’ve been all over the globe
and returned with stacks of
stunning photographs, who
have somehow managed to
learn precisely nothing about
the lives of the local people
beyond how they impacted,
positively or – heaven forbid
– negatively, on their ‘holiday
experience’.
Obviously it’s a lot easier
to do this if you are sailing
around on a gargantuan cruise
ship that delivers destinations
overnight like a floating
conveyor belt, or if you’re
cossetted in all-inclusive resort
in Sharm el-Sheikh, where the
only suggestion of military
coups and mass shootings
come via the cable TV – on
exactly the same news channel
you could be watching at
home.
Then there are the
‘Englishmen Abroad’ whose
ex-pat mentality means that
they live in the midst of an
entirely alien culture, without
ever giving a thought to any
of the realities that might be
happening outside of their
gated community. But they’re
not travellers, the only reason
they’re not at home in Blighty
is because, either they’re on a
lucrative contract, or they’ve
retired and they demand
guaranteed sunshine and
cheap labour. They certainly
aren’t interested in learning
anything about the natives
– just as long as they have a
consistent electricity supply
4
to keep the air conditioning
running and a steady flow of
water to fill the pool and keep
the lawns lush.
If narrow-minded expats, cruisers and resort
holidaymakers tend to miss
out on the complete cultural
experience, it would seem
that it is nigh on impossible to
travel independently on the
road (where available) without
developing a few insights into
the way the people around
you live their lives. In 1960
when Steinbeck decided that
as he was making his living
writing about America and
Americans, it was probably
about time that he explored
his country again to see what
they were like up close and
personal. He chose to do this
in a camper (which he named
Rocinante after Don Quixote’s
mount) with his French
standard poodle Charley for
company because experience
had taught him that a dog is
always a good conversational
icebreaker.
I’ve never done any
adventure riding myself, I
learned to ride in London and
if I’m honest I only really feel at
home on decent Tarmac (not
that there’s much that in the
Metropolis these days!). I’m
uncomfortable riding across
a few hundred yards of loose
gravel, let alone a few hundred
kilometres of the worst the
‘developing world’ has to offer.
Then there are the seemingly
compulsory rickety bridges
over bottomless ravines that
link the rough mountain tracks
complete with intermittent
kamikaze truckers coming
the other way and the kind
of unprotected drops that
make my nuts tighten and
my head spin just looking at
photographs! And don’t even
get me started on venomous
tropical bugs, snakes and all
the other shit that would be
just waiting to get me…
So while I might have no
intention of doing so myself, it
doesn’t stop me feeling envious
of less timid riders who have
the balls – or the ovaries(?) – to
take on that sort of challenge.
If travel is mind expanding,
then genuine adventure travel
must be mind-blowing, not
least because, getting back to
my original point, everything
I’ve read suggests that it’s
impossible to travel very far
on a bike without getting to
know something about your
hosts, not least because a
motorcycle provides the same
sort of conversational leverage
as Steinbeck’s dog.
Fortunately, given my
faint-heartedness when it
comes to travel, I grew up in
one of the world’s major cities
so while I might not have
done much by way of exotic
travelling, I have had the
good fortune to meet people
from around the world and
been exposed to a veritable
cornucopia of cultures. It
could be argued that anyone
I meet here is by definition
living outside of what would
be the societal norm in their
native circumstances, which is
undeniably true; nonetheless
talking to someone who wasn’t
born here and hearing their
take on life in the UK can help
to provide an understanding
of the circumstances in their
country of origin.
I was chatting to Tiffany,
who’s the very American wife
of Digest designer about
the weather (and, in spite of
various language similarities,
in many ways the US of A can
be as alien as they come). She
was saying that she has been
here since 2007 and this was
the first real summer she had
experienced since she arrived
– she honestly believed until
recently that the Great British
Summer was the same as
unicorns and the Loch Ness
Monster! However, it wasn’t
the chat about weather that
marked a major cultural
difference between this side
of the Atlantic and the other
(as far as I know bitching about
the weather is universal, it’s
always too something) it was
after we moved onto the NHS
and she confessed that the
first time she visited a doctor
here, she’d felt guilty when she
walked out without paying!
It reminded me of a
conversation I’d had with
the young fella who picked
me up in a truck after the
Rocket III I’d been riding
gave out somewhere in the
backwoods of Connecticut. As
I reported in issue 134, “Travis
had real difficulty grasping
the fact that after I mashed
my leg, everything from the
ambulance that picked me
up, to the first rate treatment I
received when they delivered
me to the closest A&E and
my later knee replacement,
was entirely free at the point
of delivery. He… couldn’t
get his head around the fact
that throughout the whole
process, nobody had asked
to see an insurance policy or a
credit card!”
I received a letter the next
month reminding me that
the NHS was far from free and
I responded in my editorial
saying, “Judging by Clive’s
rejoinder, I struck a nerve
last month when I made the
mistake of suggesting that we
enjoy ‘free’ universal health
care in the UK. Of course he’s
right, there is no such thing as
a free lunch (expense account
lunches for some maybe, but
then even they’re not free –
except for the people who
are fortunate enough to be
eating them!). So although
the NHS is free at the point of
delivery, it obviously has to be
financed. But surely Clive you
don’t believe that the whole of
your 20% income tax, National
Insurance, 17.5%VAT and fuel
tax go to pay for the NHS?
Because although it is the
country’s biggest employer,
there are innumerable other
demands on the ‘public
purse’. Aside from all the
usual communal services like
education and care for the
elderly, bailing out the people
who’ve enjoyed years of multimillion pound bonuses (and
expense account lunches) has
been pretty costly and the
wars in Iraq and Afghanistan
hardly come cheap, so I guess
it’s just a question of priorities.
“For myself, in the same
way as I’d be perfectly happy
to insure my bike every year
without ever having any
reason to make a claim, I’m
quite sanguine about the
idea of subsidising thousands
of
life-saving
operations
without getting my fair
share – in fact I find the idea
very comforting. I would
however be considerably less
comfortable if there were
10 million men, women and
children in this country (which
is the same percentage of the
population as there are in the
US without health insurance)
who couldn’t get one when
they really needed it. And in
spite of my woefully inaccurate
description of health service
funding, I think my American
friend understood that it needs
to be paid for, he just thought
that it sounded like a good use
for his tax dollars to be put to.
“Geoff Thomas (AKA Blue
88) witnessed an enormous
range of political and cultural
variety in his 28,000-mile
trek around the world and
his entertaining monthly
reports of his adventures
were clearly just the tip of the
iceberg, nonetheless they
provided all of us with some
fascinating insights. He signs
off this month, so I’d like to
take a moment to thank him
for sharing his travels and
his thoughts with us in such
an honest and openhearted
manner and to wish him well
for all his future plans (watch
this space).”
Well, I’m glad to inform you
that the NHS is still hanging
in there despite everything it
has endured recently and that
“Ashes to Boonville”, the long
awaited first part of Geoff’s
‘Poor Circulation’ trilogy is
now available via Amazon
(or by order from any good
book shop). Top notch mind
expansion from the comfort of
your own sofa.
Dave Gurman
Catch Dave Sunday between
10pm and midnight (BST) on
www.bikerfm.co.uk
5
Riders ’ Lives
What bike would you most
like to ride/own?
I’m 6’6” with long legs, which
rules out most sports bikes, so
naturally I want one. I reckon I
could set up a matt white KTM
RC8R just right.
Name: Tim Arrowsmith
What was your first
motorcycling experience?
When I was about 11 on a
family trip to Jersey, for some
reason my motorcycle-phobic
parents let me hammer a
miniature scrambler round a
dirt track for an afternoon. I
loved every minute of it. It only
took me another twenty-odd
years to get my licence.
What is your current bike?
An ‘09 Tiger 1050 I’ve had from
new. It was my first bike and
we fit together nicely, whizzing
round the UK and Europe in all
weathers. I’m proud that it’s
British and it’s utterly reliable.
I usually ride to meetings up
to 500 miles from home –
that’s how much I like it.
It copes with my overnight
bloodrunning callouts for
SERV Kent but is also fun in
the twisty stuff as well.
6
What was your hairiest
moment on a bike?
I binned a trail bike up a
mountainside in Spain;
next time I’ll pay more
attention and hopefully
avoid breaking bones again.
What was your most
memorable ride?
In 2010 I rode from the Queen
Mary in Long Beach, Ca to
Del Mar to take photos at the
GoodGuys custom car show. I
rode down on a rented Road
King which was a piece of junk
but cruising along the Pacific
Coast Highway on a Harley
ticked some big boxes for me.
What would be the ideal
soundtrack to the above?
Dennis Wilson’s Pacific Ocean
Blue on endless repeat.
What do you think is
the best thing about
motorcycling?
The unique combination of
absolute focus on keeping
the thing the right way up
combined with the feeling of
freedom that only a bike can
provide. The free parking is
nice too.
What do you think is the
worst thing about
motorcycling?
I wonder if I’ll make it home
every time I get on the bike. I
wish I could lighten up about
the whole thing but I’m still
a bit neurotic about the risk
because I’m fairly new to
riding. Drivers making phone
calls on the M25 wind me
right up.
Name an improvement
you’d like to see for the
next generation?
Development of battery
and motor technologies
that lead to petrol vehicles
of all kinds being purely
recreational objects. The Tesla
Supercharger network shows
what’s possible..
How would you like to be
remembered?
I only went to University in
my mid 30s and am very lucky
to now study and research
m o to rc yc l e s u b c u l t u ra l
histor y at the London
College of Fashion. If I can
provide something new and
interesting to the academic
world then I’ll really feel I’ve
done something useful. Failing
that I’m probably doomed to
be referred to as Mr Anna
Span, husband of the porn
director…
7
©Photograph By Dave Gurman
8
9
Six and the City
10
Saturday
It’s happened.
Luca at Sondel Sport and
Rev’it have all delivered on
their promise and I now stand
clad head to toe in skintight
black leather!
It’s a very tasteful set of
matt black trousers that are
boot cut and go over my Sidi’s
and an exceptionally well
tailored jacket that does not
look like a box with a couple
of arms stuck on. It’s longer
than the usual ladies jacket
and has lots of elasticated
panels that pull in at all the
right places, and it’s one of the
most comfortable jackets with
hard protection I’ve ever tried
on.
What I particularly like
is that they are very discreet
and I can walk down the street
without them screaming, ‘I’ve
got a motorbike’.
And even if I do say so
myself – I look damn fine in
them… so there.
Tuesday
Hooning in to work on the
hoonmobile and enjoying myself
immensely charging down Pall
Mall, when I notice a well dressed
chap on a scooter waving at me.
Wave back.
He starts waving a bit more
frantically.
I flip my visor up and look
more closely at him. Initial
impression is that he wants a lift
on the back seat, however he’s
indicating for me to pull over
so I do.
In quite an accented voice
he informs me I’ve lost my
number plate.
“Eet fell off back at ze big ‘ouse.”
Sorry?
“At ze big ‘ouse, your
number plate, eet fall off.”
So it has. Bugger!
“You going to go back
for eet?”
Mate, I’ve got to work out
what the hell you mean before
I go anywhere.
So I thank him graciously
for his information, and scoot
in to work ASAP; only stopping
briefly to let a couple of bike
plod go in front of me – “No,
no, after you, I insist”.
Park up at work, get
changed and put my trainers
on in readiness to retrace
my steps.
Big house? WTF?
Penny drops – that’ll be
Buckingham Palace then.
Friday
I do like to think that within
our powered two wheel world,
we have an unwritten set of
rules and manners that more
or less everyone agrees with.
Like nodding at other
bikers; it’s a given – we all do
it, except those in city centres,
cos you’d get an RSI if you kept
it up
(However, big Nod to the
guy on the black GSXR, in black
leathers, with a black visor and
a black and blue lid outside The
Big House most mornings at
8 am. He always nods to me
as we cross paths, almost like
twins – totally getting the allin-black leather, bike, visor
combo).
But stopping to let other
bikes out of T-junctions?
To me, it’s not always
a good idea. Time and a
place etc.
Lovely of the chap on
the black uprighty thing
(new ER-5?) on Duke Street
St James’s this morning to
slow for me to pull out but
I had to shake my head and
decline cos I noticed that the
car behind him couldn’t see
why he was slowing and very
nearly ploughed into the back
of him.
Yup – you could say the car
driver should have been paying
more attention, but in the real
world we know that’s not going
to happen.
In Mr Uprighty-couldbe-an-ER5-thing’s defence
though, it may well have had
something to do with my
bum in my new, tight, black
leathers on a gorgeous black
R6 that made him want to slow
down… yeah… right… ’course
it was.
I’m afraid that in all the
excitement of preparing for
and then disappearing off on
holiday, Tinks forgot all about
filing her column before she left!
However, I dived into the archive
and dug out one of my favourites
so nobody needs to feel too hard
done by – Ed
11
Paddy’s Perspective
Self-flagellation
M
ost discussions
about motorcycling
are dichotomous.
Bikes make sense as efficient
personal transport; they don’t
congest, are easy to park and
they don’t wear out the road.
They’re generally more fuelefficient and it doesn’t take
nearly as much of the earth’s
resources to make one as it
does a car.
But, they aren’t safe are
they? They’re noisy and a
public nuisance, or so we
are all too often told. For
legislators, one way of tackling
those negative aspects of biking
12
is to ignore the positives. Ban
them. Ipso facto there will be
no injuries or death related to
motorcycling and their journey
times will not be comparably
quicker or cleaner than a
car because they won’t be
making any.
Of course a ban would
be irrational, draconian even
and no-one would go for it.
Why would legislators who
are attempting to improve
traffic flows and air quality,
ban the very solution to their
transportational woes? They
would be cutting off their
noses to spite their faces,
as someone of an older
generation might say.
Well they’d probably do
it in Britain if motorcyclists
themselves begged them to
and if a voting population of
non-riders seemed supportive.
It might not surprise you that
the Germans have done it for
years, banning motorcycles
from various sections of their
road network. They started
it back in the 1990s because
riders were killing themselves
in unacceptably high numbers
on particularly interesting
pieces of road, which ultimately
cost the State too much money
13
and the general population too
much heartache.
An ill-informed
environmental lobby has,
in many parts of the world,
sought and succeeded in
banning bikes from certain
urban areas, preferring cars
to sit and pollute in traffic
jams rather than letting the
populace keep moving on two,
convenient wheels.
B u t
why
would
motorcyclists cry out for
legislation that penalises
them directly? Well that’s the
million dollar question of
course. Regardless of attempts
by legislators to get riders to
accept they are part of a wider
community and therefore have
some personal responsibility,
riders have insisted on fitting
excessively loud exhausts, until
repeated legislation reduced
the permitted noise level
of bikes to the dangerously
muted that we have now.
Excessive enforcement could
have attempted to tackle the
issue, but that costs too much,
because Western democracies
actually do most of their
policing through consent. And
so the persistently arrogant
or ignorant brought us to the
noise limits and the public
perception that we have today.
And it seems the desire to
fulfil society’s most negative
perception of motorcycling is still
alive and well in our Capital. Some
riders have all but signed a petition
to enact the ultimate penalty;
14
to be banned from the streets
they use.
After years of public
complaints and failed soft
policing, Brent Council have
introduced a bike ban on the
Rainsford Road in London’s
Park Royal area. It’s basically a
couple of roundabouts joined
by a long sweeping corner by
a hospital, and it seems that
riding it repeatedly, quickly and
noisily is a favourite past-time
of some. The Council don’t want
to fit speed bumps because it’s
a thoroughfare designed in
part to alleviate the congestion
on the A406 Hanger Lane
gyratory and because part of
the adjoining land is earmarked
for commercial development.
Dispersal Orders have been
made to clear gatherings of
riders who sometimes remain
until the early hours, but still
the activity persists. What
would you do if you had to
make the decision? Dealing
with anti-social behaviour is
one thing, but maintaining
legal right of access is another.
The BMF have pointed out that
inconveniencing, or indeed
criminalising the many, is no
way to deal with the few. If a
law-breaker is a law-breaker,
will another law perturb them?
Consensual policing is still the
basis of enforcement, so surely
only those who would use the
road within legal confines will
be the ones most affected.
It’s an Experimental Traffic
Order that has been introduced,
experimenting no doubt, to
see whether or not a ban on
bikes leads to a ban on bikes…
Experimental or permanent, the
cost of implementing multiple
traffic orders is comparable
to fitting some speed humps,
something that residents and
Hospital staff have called for.
There are Hospital staff who
commute by bike because it’s
convenient and green, who will
now have to take a detour.
And it’s an Order that has
been implemented in part
to ensure that a hypothetical
fatality doesn’t occur, in the
way that a fatality has been yet
to occur. In that endeavour I
expect it will succeed, therefore
proving again, that only by
banning green, efficient,
congestion reducing bikes from
an urban area, can hypothetical
casualties be reduced and
the perception of anti-social
bikers be cemented. Ban them
throughout the city and to hell
with congestion and air quality,
motorcycle casualties will
fall, rather as they have been
doing through improved road
infrastructure and better rider
training.
It’s a dichotomy alright.
W h e n t h e m o to rc yc l e
community could be stealing
a huge moral advantage within
transport policy, part of it
persistently invites repression
and negative publicity, but to
whose ultimate advantage?
Paddy Tyson
15
The Boy Biker
Boy Biker inspires the
next generation
I
have had the pleasure this
month to get involved in
a totally different world.
Rather than blinging cylinder
heads and re -vamping
vintage shock absorber
parts (www.icmhome.org.
uk) I have been working part
time at the Young Lewisham
Project. Boys and girls of
all ages go to the project
for all sorts of enrichment
activities; cooking, gardening,
carpentr y, motorbike
maintenance, music making
and bicycle repair.
My involvement (so far)
has been in the motorbike
workshop. The groups are
generally there for an 8 week
program (involving a couple
of hours a week), which isn’t
a very long time to impart
years of fixing and bodging
experience. You can’t try to
cram information into people,
if it takes 8 weeks to learn the
pros and cons of open ended
vs ring spanner, then so be it.
As a self-titled man of
some literary talent, I try,
where I can to get them to
write about their experiences,
here are a lovely few words
CLICK TO WEBSITE
just search for your model
of bike you will be surprised
how many parts we have
www.wemoto.com
16
put together by one group,
Chicken Run.
“Since November we have
been attending the Young
Lewisham Project every Tuesday
evening. We learn about
motorbike mechanics. Between
us (Jesse, Ollie, Billy & Jordan) we
came up with the idea to build
a moped and sidecar, showing
everything that the Young
Lewisham Project does. We
made the sidecar from a bicycle
frame and built a wooden
chicken shed to go on it. Once
the frame was together we
sanded and painted it. Then the
plants were added: cucumbers,
strawberries, pansies and
tomatoes. We then mounted
some gardening tools on the
front of the shed.
“On June 28th we went up
to Lincoln to the National Youth
Bike Awards, a bike show for
young people.
“ There were various
categories and lots of
interesting projects.
Competition was fierce but
we had a secret weapon in
the shape of our live chicken
that even laid an egg on the
way up!
“We won “Best Use of Non
Motorcycle Parts”, thanks to
Morley our chicken, as well
as “Best Newcomers”. The
show was great fun and the
whole process taught us
loads: mechanics, carpentry,
gardening and chicken
keeping.”
Being involved in this kind
of work has really given me my
biking bug back. It amazes me
how happy a young person
can be just being around
bikes. Working on them,
pushing them, sitting on
them, asking questions about
them. It reminds me of myself
a few years back, so eager
to be around them, endless
interrogation about what
cc means, 2 vs 4 stroke, the
merits of different numbers
of cylinders and layouts, why
different bikes are better at
doing different things, why
do some have cables and some
tubes, why does that one have
‘flat’ tires?
Being able to remember
asking them myself, I never
get fed up of answering
these questions. I try to avoid
the old fall back answer of
17
IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT BIKES...
“because it is and that’s that.”
but sometimes my mind
boggles for a few seconds as
I try to recall the information
imparted to me by various old
boys over the years.
With bik ing getting
harder and harder to get in
to, I was lucky to win a Digest
competition back in 2009 that
provided me with a CBT and
some riding gear (last things
I ever got from this sacred
journal mind…!), which really
made it possible for me to get
on the road. Young people
at the project haven’t often
got their own bike, so a CBT
wouldn’t help much. Most of
the help we give them is in
regards to being confidant
enough to do things on
their own.
One boy in particular
turned up recently on his 50cc
moped, sporting such a proud
look I nearly welled up. After
a lap around the block with
him I had not only shown him
a few key road manners, but
also noticed that his exhaust
was very loose. Back to the
workshop to fix it!
It is a great place to be
involved in. If there are any
young people who think
they might be interested in
this type of scheme, find the
Young Lewisham Project on
Facebook and get in touch.
Enjoy every ride and
keep smiling!
Party On
The Carin’ Sharin’ Chronicles
By Dave Gurman (ISBN978-0-9560863-0-3)
See what these Amazon reviewers
had to say
What!? Nobody took the hint and bought you a copy for
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★★★★★
Gurman is very good, and in a slightly alternative way with a
beautiful slant, an excellent writer."
★★★★★
"His very coherent arguments… will often have you grinning from earto-ear; or nodding your head in agreement – at what is plainly quite
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19
A View from the
Group W Bench
Nepal
I
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FreeSpirit Adventure has been operating motorcyle tours in Nepal and India for 11 years
tried to change the front
brake fluid on my lil’Breva
Christmas
day
whilst
servicing it but couldn’t get the
filler cap screws out.
Eventually a couple of
weeks ago got the job done
after spraying penetrating oil on
them twice a day for a week and
using an impact driver. I bought
the driver in 1987 and this was
the first time I can remember it
doing the job it was purchased
for though friends have
successfully used it.
Pulled out the old fluid
with a syringe and some
screen washer pipe and then
refilled it using the syringe to
pull it through. Firm it up and
then put some cloth around
the banjo bolt and crack it
open whilst pulling the brake
lever to bleed out the air that
can get trapped there and
job done.
Or so I thought. Out riding
it all was fine until the lever
came half way back before
biting firm. It did this a couple
of times so I checked it all over.
Ho hum, 2.9mm is a bit thin on
the front disc, turns out wear
limit is 3.5mm. Then a mate
at a rally points out the lack of
tread on my rear tyre, well on
checking it had done 10,600
miles. He also mentioned
cleaning the bike as a way of
spotting these things but that
ain’t going to happen.
Checked prices through
Gutsibits (highly
recommended). Brembo discs
come in at £210.00 special
order only and I have heard
of problems with them from
friends, EBC were £145.00 and
recommended. When it came
through I realised that Brembo
haven’t changed the design of
their discs, it’s just that most
people in the Guzzi club are
going over to EBC.
And that’s another first,
in forty - five years of
motorcycling I have never
changed a disc before.
So that was ordered and
Tony Botto (TB Motorcycles)
tasked with supplying and
fitting a new BT45 rear which
he did Thursday evening
round my place and helped
with the front disc as well.
Total to supply and fit at my
place plus other help, £140.00.
Top bloke.
So £300.00 later I have a
new front disc and rear tyre
and the bike feels 100% better.
Is this why the bike didn’t feel
happy at autobahn speeds in
Germany? Was it was trying to
tell me something? Mechanical
sympathy works both ways.
They do say you won’t get the
best out of your Guzzi till you
get it talking to you. It was
certainly happy coming back
on the A41 mostly overtaking
other vehicles and watching all
those cars crawling along at 10
mph on the other side on the
loose gravel I had traversed at
45-50 mph two days earlier.
Like many of you I have
known people who buy
bikes that were fine for their
previous owner and never give
their next owner any problems
but are a constant pain in the
arse for them. This happens
bike after bike. I have seen the
same in the army and with
different
operators
on
industrial machines where
there have been no other
changes. The most spectacular
was when as Quality manager
I gave two operators having
a rough day a break. Both
blow moulders ran without
a problem for the next forty
minutes, I caught up on all
their
paperwork
and
completely policed the area.
An hour after they got back
it was all going wrong again.
They weren’t lazy or alakefic,
I wouldn’t have given them
the break if they were. The old
hippies called it ‘vibes man’; it
didn’t mean they were wrong.
But before that I was
coming back from the
Mayflower
rally
through
Londoninium. Where did all
those yellow robbers come
from? It felt like there was one
every hundred metres or so
and what with finding my
route in unfamiliar territory,
avoiding the cars, pedestrians
and Bradley Wiggins, if I didn’t
get caught by one of them it
will be a miracle. They ain’t no
safety feature. I don’t mind
them on the open road, you
watch out for them and it is
a fair sport but in a built up
overcrowded
environment
like London it is stupid and
dangerous. I hate motorways
but it is the M25 for me in
future. I cannot say I hated the
experience, just the constant
traffic lights and cameras. I
know it is grossly unfair to
compare London to Bonn,
but I did and Bonn won on
every count.
Ride Safe
An ancient Guzzisti
Ian Dunmore
21
THE NAMING OF THE BIKE
W
eird place names have always
fascinated me. There are thousands
throughout the world, such as
Ecclefechan in Scotland, Puddledub not far
from my previous home, and Pratt’s Bottom in
England, but my all time favourite is Bear Butte
in the Black Hills of Dakota. Bizarre and comical
as these names appear, they will have evolved
throughout the ages and will have a sound
historical reasoning for their existence. A Butte
is a known topographical feature, and it can be
safely assumed at some time in the past, bears
used to accumulate there.
Unfortunately, there appears to be no such logic
in the naming of motorcycle models nowadays.
As with seemingly all decisions made by modern
companies, a new model name will be chosen
by a committee of people who apparently have
22
no knowledge of the bike they are about to
name, biking in general, or its target market.
That’s unfortunate, as a perfectly good bike
cursed with a silly name will undoubtedly put
off some potential buyers, and sales will be lost.
In the ‘good old days’ when Britain was seen by
the world’s markets as a major bike producer, the
makers were able to create the kind of monikers
that still stir the emotions of classic enthusiasts.
The mere mention of names like Black Shadow,
Bonneville, Goldstar, or Commando will cause
eyes to mist over, not just because of past
memories, but also because these names
sound like they belong to something to be
proud of. Even BSA’s Bantam (my first bike)
implied lightness, but I’m not sure what Scott
were thinking about when they called their
new model the Flying Squirrel. Of course there
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was the NSU Quickly, which was anything but
quick and on the other side of the Atlantic, the
Yanks had their Indian Powerplus, Scout and
Chief, while Harley developed its own unique
means of naming their bikes (which I’ll cover in
detail a little later) but the words Duo-Glide and
Electraglide still sound good today.
24
Our Teutonic neighbours, and some Japanese
manufacturers, usually play it safe and logical
and label their bikes with letters and numbers,
which provide information on the type and
cubic capacity of the engine. Not much chance
of making a gaff there, but it does take away
some of the excitement of ownership – saying
you are going out for a ride on your R1200GS
just doesn’t sound the same as, say, a Fireblade.
I mentioned the Fireblade purposely, as a good
example of appropriate naming. It implies a
heart of fire, and razor sharp handling, which is
a pretty fair description of the bike in question.
The same goes for a Buell’s Lightning or Benelli’s
Tornado. The model name gives you advance
warning of what to expect from the bike. You
just know a Boss Hoss will be a big sod, and
a Ducati Monster will be a wheely machine,
like MV Agusta’s Brutale. So what was Suzuki’s
naming committee thinking when they called
their 650cc single factory custom Savage? It’s
about as savage as a newborn lamb. Come to
think of it, Suzuki have screwed up a few times
– god knows what these guys call their kids. I’m
thinking of the 125 Marauder I fixed up a few
years ago, which was only good enough for
marauding the gutters, or the VanVan, which
for obvious reasons makes me visualise an old
white Transit. What can you say about the 650
FreeWind – something must have got lost in
the translation from Japanese? They managed
to get it right with the Bandit, but Suzuki really
should stop calling their bikes weird names
that need to be translated to mean anything,
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Katana and Hayabusa being prime examples.
And although it’s a good bike, would you really
be happy riding about on a Gladius (especially
the lipstick red version), which to my ear sounds
like Gladys.
to Suzuki, the guys at Hinckley Triumph have
spotted the importance of the right name for
a model, and have managed to get them just
right. Even Rocket 3 seems to suit the bike that
wears their badges proudly on its panels.
Suzuki seems to be the worst offender, but
the other manufacturers should not sit back,
laughing up their sleeves. Take Honda for
example. By no stretch of the imagination could
their Dream (see Image of the Month – Ed) live
up to its reputation and you would struggle to
be rebellious on a Rebel. While a Pan-European
does correctly imply long comfortable journeys,
a Blackbird is a little bird in my garden which
eats worms and in no way makes me think of
a very fast bike with a good drag coefficient.
Maybe blackbirds are a bit bigger and faster in
Japan than the European version. Or possibly
they were just stuck for a name, looked out the
window, saw a blackbird, and said, “that will do,
lets go to the pub”. I think Victory slipped up a
little calling a recent model Hard Ball (or was it
Hard Balls, I can’t remember). In total contrast
And then, returning to Harley Davidson, whose
obvious humorous streak when thinking up new
names for its bikes shows a skilful marketing
tactic and implies a sense of fun at the Factory,
which I would guess is probably down to Mr
Willie G Davidson himself. Of their earlier bikes,
I can only criticise the Topper, a metal box with
two wheels and pull cord starting like a lawn
mower, which was described as a scooter. The
word ‘topper’ makes me think of a kid’s comic
from my childhood, or a grass-cutting device
pulled by a tractor, so maybe there was some
logic in the name after all! Excluding the comic
lawn mower, the early model names did make
some sense and provide some information
about the bike – a Duo-Glide had suspension
at both ends to give you a smooth ride, and then
when they added an electric starter, it became
29
the Electraglide. A Springer Softail tells you
that bike has old style Springer forks and a rear
suspension system that looks like a hardtail, but
isn’t. Simple, really. The Sportster was relatively
sporty in its day, and there is something quirky
(in a good way) about using the same name
today for a bike that has no sporting pretensions
at all.
However, it’s in more recent times that the Harley
naming committee, or possibly Willie G, has had
some fun. Bad Boy, Fat Boy, Fat Bob, Street Bob,
Crossbones – not one of these wonderful names
tell me anything useful about the bike they are
attached to, which appeals to my warped sense
of humour, and are much easier to pronounce
than the more official FLHTCUI. One thing you
need to be careful of, of course, is saying “I’m just
going out to ride my Fat Boy”, in the wrong place
or within the wrong company – that might just
get you into a bit of trouble.
So in my ‘naming of the bikes’ competition,
I would have to say Harley Davidson wins purely
for not taking itself too seriously; Victory gets a
raspberry for trying to copy them, and failing;
and Honda could sometimes do better; but it’s
Suzuki who pick up the dunces cap, and get sent
to the back of the class for regularly making an
arse of such an important job.
Wizzard
30
31
Hey, I’m With The Team
32
33
C
lub-level motorcycle racing has an odd
relationship with the media. You’ll see
race reports and lists of results, but
not much else. Some of it has a regular slot
on satellite channel Motors TV, but what you
don’t ever see is the kind of feature that sets
an example; that sends the message out about
what a club meeting is actually like from that
grass roots, participant level – not from the
organisation‘s perspective, but from that of the
racers themselves. The kind of feature that might
make you want to go and do it yourself.
You won’t have seen that kind of feature before,
until now.
If I was going to do this, I needed a subject,
and this is where the interwebz came in useful.
I contacted Dave Mackay – a regular commenter
on my own blog who campaigns a KTM RC8R in
the North Gloucestershire Road Racing Club’s
Sound of Thunder championship – and asked
if he was up for having an embedded reporter
along for the weekend when NG visited my local
circuit at Oulton Park in Cheshire, in late July.
The plan was simple: I would show up, do my
thing while Dave did his, help out with some
stuff, and write about it later. This is how it
panned out:
Friday, 26th July 2013
“…bike racing is cool, because it’s an extreme world
full of extreme people, within a world of mediocrity
and normality.” – Mat Oxley
I showed up on the Friday afternoon’s test day.
Dave and his ‘team’ – Open 600-class racer Luke
Smith with his R6, and ‘crew chiefs’ Mark and
Tom – had already set up.
The paddock was only half-full. This being Friday,
most of tomorrow’s racers were probably still
at work, paying bills and doing normal life, not
34
35
36
37
able to fully commit to heading up the M6 to
Cheshire just yet. They would all be present
in the morning. For now, I got an idea what
tomorrow would be like. These national club
championships are like a travelling golf club,
where everybody knows each other but the
venue changes. Next door to Dave’s setup is
Andy “Payner” Payne and his £1500 Aprilia
RSV1000R, along with Layne Wilson, who’s
riding an ancient YZF-750 and turns out to be a
pro, having worked with the Honda TT Legends
team and the World Endurance Championshipwinning Phase One team. The floor in their tent
is ex-Honda TT Legends. This is serious shit. Layne
is not the only pro here either: Luke has a sidegig as a tech with QBSD Motorsport in BSB and
will be back at Oulton in two week’s time with
the BSB circus. A lot of this cross-pollination
with the professional sport goes on behind the
scenes, because ultimately it’s all part of the
same community with the same obsession.
Various other characters appear throughout
the afternoon, and it’s always cordial, but you
know that there’s this undercurrent of hypercompetitiveness that you can tune into if you
turn your dial slightly to one side – you’ll see
one eye always looks over there. What’s he using?
What tyres has he got? Are they new? What size
sprocket is that?
People call in and compare setups and injuries
– See your sprained ankle? I’ll raise you my pierced
forearm where my footpeg went through it. Lap
times are compared along with time spent
unconscious in the medical centre. Dave is riding
with cracked ribs and a sprained ankle, Luke is
riding with essentially a broken wrist. It’s the
same as when Kevin Schwantz rode for most of
1994 with a broken scaphoid – rumour had it
that mechanics stuck a paper clip to his ear to
take his mind off the pain while riding. Never
mind Jorge Lorenzo smashing his collarbone
in Assen, getting it plated up and returning to
38
the track 36 hours later and finishing fifth; never
mind Mick Doohan getting his smashed legs
sewn together to avoid amputation; this is just
as legit, and nobody’s getting any recognition for
it, but just like in The Show, it has its roots in outpsyching your opponents and showing them
what a double-hard bastard you are. This is how
it is: if you can race, then you race. End-of.
This is a righteous church of speed-freaks, techheads, tyre-gurus and suspension magicians
who all worship at the altar of speed. The service
is tomorrow. It’ll be an absolute minter…
Saturday, 27th July 2013
“…the sensation that you get on a motorcycle is
very special. It’s one where body language and all
the rest of it have so much influence. It becomes
extremely personal.” – John Surtees
08:00: early doors. I’m at the circuit and the
paddock is full. It’s like that scene at the start of
Steve McQueen’s Le Mans where everything is
waking up, and there’s a ‘60s cinematic groove
playing in my head as I ride into the paddock
and park at Dave’s tent-garage, ‘cos hey, I’m with
the team. The weather is warm, the sun is up and
it’s serious. There’s even a celeb in the paddock,
if her from Performance Bikes magazine counts.
The actual soundtrack is of generators powering
tyre warmers and boiling kettles. There’s not
much conversation right now, and it’s hectic as
the riders have all had to sign on at the circuit
office, warm their bikes up and get ready for
the short, sharp 10-minute-long practice
sessions that are run to a precise schedule. This
is because the organisers have got to fit in these
practice sessions and 20 races all before 6:30 pm,
when Oulton Park’s noise curfew takes effect
39
40
41
and when, if it gets broken, the Tory voters in
Little Budworth village up the road will all go
ape shit and write letters.
08:30: Dave takes his second RC8 out in the
practice just because he can (it’s nominally his
‘wet setup’, but it isn’t going to rain today so it
would otherwise go unused) and because a lot
of the time this first session is actually about
dialling the rider into the circuit rather than
the motorcycle – feeling the conditions out,
brushing off cobwebs, shaking off the effects
of last night’s session in the bar. He comes back
with nothing to report, which is a good thing
because the last thing anybody wants at this
stage is to have to fix or rebuild anything. The
kettle goes on next, then Payner from next-door,
who’s been out in the same session, comes over
for some banter, and he’s wearing different
leathers from yesterday because it turns out
he’s big on superstitions and these leathers
are more successful. I wonder whether there’s
more to it than that: a mate of mine had an RSV
like Payner’s and it was so unreliable he used to
sacrifice a live goat before it…
After this, there’s still no time to chill out yet as
Dave has three races and a qualifying session
to prepare for: the two Sound of Thunder races,
the qualifying session for the Phoenix Open
race for all comers – anything and everything
is in that one, including Luke on his R6 – and
the Phoenix Open race itself. All the organising
clubs do these extra races as they allow more
track time for everyone. The size of the entry
validates the idea: with 45 entries, it’s the largest
grid of the day.
09:00: the paddock is massively busy, and I take
a walk ‘round just to see what else is going on.
You have to keep one eye ahead and one eye
behind you as you’re liable to get run over by bikes
scuttling around between sessions. The talk is of
settings, and arm gestures are everywhere. At club
42
level, each pit garage has eight different teams in
it and you can walk in and out as you wish; noone will tell you to leave and no-one will refuse a
question because everyone in this paddock has the
same thing in common. Nobody cares what your
job is in here, and nobody will ask. The only arbiter
of anything is your lap time.
09:20 Luke comes back from his 10-minute Open
600 practice with no problems other than being
visibly in pain from his wrist. At no point does
anyone suggest taking it easy, even though
he’s out again in a minute for the Phoenix Open
qualifying session. This lot just get on with it and
don’t bother with no painkillers…
“Speed is something dangerous, but very exciting.”
– Valentino Rossi
09:35: the paddock is still busy but it’s settling
down into a routine. Dave is warming up the big
KTM for the Phoenix Open qualifying session.
This is the dry set-up – it’s a RC8R, one of only six
43
44
45
in the country as it’s a purpose-built race bike,
not a converted road bike like his other one.
The big V-twin is audible from a hundred feet
away, even in this paddock, where it provides
a bass line to the 2-stroke song being played
everywhere else. Luke has already gone out as
Dave suits up, and the tyre warmers come off
at the last possible second. As he heads out,
there’s a ritual of encouragement/backslapping
as just for a second, the underlying seriousness
of what Dave and Luke are both doing becomes
apparent, because it’s an undeniable fact that
they might not come back.
Tom, Mark and I head over to another part of the
circuit to watch this session. There’s a new target
in the form of National Superstock rider Josh
Day, who’s entered this meeting as a form of
preparation for the upcoming BSB round in two
weeks time. At the end of the session it becomes
all about “What’s Josh Day doing?” – he’s set a
time for everybody else to compare themselves
against. He’s quickest with a fastest lap of 1:40.4.
Dave has done a 1:50.3 and is 28th.
Only the fastest 40 riders qualify for the
afternoon’s race. In theory, the non-qualifiers are
sidelined from the race, but NGRRC are fair, and
considerate of the bigger picture: in the interests
of track time for everyone, the non-qualifiers are
entered into other classes as reserves.
Both Dave and Luke return from the session safe,
completely drenched in sweat, and absolutely
jacked up on adrenaline. This is the kernel of
it all, right here, and it’s what keeps them all
coming back:
Dave: “You get so into it you orientate your entire
life around racing. You become completely
obsessed with it. Every decision you make is
referenced to it. You’ll be sat watching the telly
at night and your mind will wander and you’ll
start thinking about racing. Then you’ll get up
46
and go in the garage and think of something to
do in there. Anything.”
This is why you see so many pro racers who stay
in it for a couple of seasons too long and end up
ruining their own reputations; this is why you
see so many ex-pro racers that have been forced
out through injury before they were ready to
walk away, forever haunting the paddock with
the look of unfinished business about them.
This demon bites you hard and never ever lets
you go.
11:00: by now the paddock has more of an air
of efficiency about it as everyone knows where
they stand, knows when they’re out next and
knows whether their bike works or not. The kettle
goes on again and the talk is 100% shop. Right
about now the rest of the outside world ceases
47
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49
to have any meaning as I’m fully immersed in
this whole theatre. There’s that famous Steve
McQueen quote about “racing” and “waiting”
that has been turned into a million t-shirts and
recycled so often it’s become a cliché, but like
all clichés, they’re right: now the paddock has
settled down, it’s become about waiting for
the massive bursts of activity that follow the
tannoy’s announcement of a rider’s next race.
What happens then is that the rituals start: Dave
doesn’t seem to have one except to wait until
the last possible second, then he suits up and
starts up and goes. Luke puts his leathers and lid
on early and sits down and goes dead quiet and
appears to be contemplating something really
serious, which is exactly what he is doing. There’s
no fettling of bikes going on either: the R6 and
the big RC8 seem so reliable that no settings are
changed and the oil isn’t even checked. A set of
tyres will last all day.
“I just couldn’t accept second.” – Wayne Rainey
50
12:00: Dave goes out for his first Sound of
Thunder race. It’s six laps, so it will only take
about ten minutes. The short format means
there’s no need to bother about conserving
tyres or anything else, so it’s flat out everywhere.
He starts well and runs in the top five for most
of the race, and from our position on the pit
wall (‘cos hey, I’m with the team), the “Sound of
Thunder” from a field full of V-twins and triples
sounds like a fleet of WWII bombers. It’s serious
quality, this.
Dave finishes 8 th, just behind Matt “Billo”
Billington on a Triumph Daytona, and there’s a
scramble for the timing results from the circuit
office, because to qualify for this afternoon’s
race, a rider has to finish within 110% of the
winner’s time. Dave has qualified easily, and
done four 1:49s and a 1:48.53. More importantly,
he’s finished ahead of Payner next-door.
Back at the tent-garage and it’s already wall-towall piss-taking fuelled by pure adrenaline:
51
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Dave: “Up at the top chicane [Britten’s] I thought:
there’s loads of people watching so I’m gonna
get my elbow down, but it started to tip in! I
was like that [wild gesticulation] and I pushed
it back up on my knee! [Demonic laughter]
It was emotional. Where were you stood
watching that?”
Us: ”The pit wall.”
Dave: “Did you see the first corner? It was mental.
That Payner comes barrelling through round the
outside, on the grass, riding into people…”
Mark: “This fucking idiot?” [Payner walks over
from next door]
Dave: “You are fucking mental!”
Payner: “Gearbox is fucked mate. Got no fucking
gears. I went neeeeeeer then niiiiiiir and niiiiiiiiiiir
then it goes dddddddddddd and I look down and
I try and put in another one and it’s two too high!
I think it’s the quickshifter.”
Mark: [to Dave]: “You’re trying to tell him how
mad he is and he’s not even having it is he?”
Payner: “It was running fine until I went
ddddddddddddd – no gears! Nothing!”
Mark: “Is that where you went on the grass?”
Payner: “Straight in front of [Darren] Rumley too.
Even ‘e went [gesticulation] fucking get out – who
do you think you are you fucking idiot from Devon!
Get that tractor out of here…!”
Dave: “Gary Hamilton – this is his local track.
He’s from Scotland, but this is his local track
if you know what I mean. I was catching him
in places but – I was catching him at Shell Oils
[hairpin], and at the chicane, but then they were
outdragging me out of there, and outdragging
me down the start and finish straight, but if
I could have latched onto the back of ‘em I
probably could have run with ‘em…”
It’s forensic analysis next because in this game,
no result is ever quite good enough:
How Dave has complete recall like this is beyond
me. It’s the racing junkie fix again. Maximum
Payner: “Did I?”
Dave: “You came straight through on the grass!”
54
overdrive, maximum overload. I’m feeling it
myself, and all I did was watch. This is the sermon
in the church of speed. Buzzing doesn’t even
begin to describe it. It’s like they’ve been going
so fast, they’re all thirty seconds ahead of us
in time. It’s Point Break on bikes.
own races means the pace slows down and it
becomes more like a golf club again. The kettle
is on. The banana cake comes out.
Now it’s lunchtime, although the concept is
nebulous in the paddock. The formal lunch
break isn’t for a while yet, but that’s mostly for
the benefit of the marshals out on track. In here,
the gaps of several hours between the riders’
14:30: Luke has had to wait ages for his first
qualifying race, but now the time is upon him.
He does his thing again, then the tyre warmers
come off and he’s off to the grid. He’s starting
from the third row. The 600s sound like scooters
“I don’t want to leave racing in the back of an
ambulance.” – Mick Doohan
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compared to the Sounds of Thunder, and Luke’s
R6 is the one with the bloodvessel-bursting
16.5k-redline, which is the reason why I’ve
always liked them…
There’s no green light anymore in racing, so
it’s red lights out and the huge field that The
Show could only dream about, heads off as
we watch from the pit wall again. After just
a few laps, the race is ’red-flagged’ by big red
LED squares at each corner that light up like a
form of hypnotic device. It can only have been
stopped by a fallen rider. There’s a sliding scale:
if all the riders complete the lap and return to
the pits, then it’s not so bad. If the riders are
held out on track somewhere, then it’s usually
considerably more serious. Nobody returns.
All the medical cars rush out. All we can do
is wait.
Eventually all the remaining bikes return and
Luke is among them. The paddock is quiet
because this is A Big One. The race result is
declared and all track activity is suspended.
We’re back at the tent-garage:
Luke: “It was Billo. He came off right in front
of me just after Clay Hill. It was unbelievable.
Then after we stopped all everyone was saying
was how well they were doing beforehand.
Couldn’t believe it!”
Me: “Is that why I’ve heard the 600s being called
Axe-Murderer Class?””
Luke: “Yeah. Somebody said to me once you’re
all idiots. Should call it You’re All Idiots Class.
That’s how it is though, ‘cos it’s so incredibly
competitive.”
We all get into a deep discussion on the nature
of a crash that only one of us had seen. It was
a dispassionate analysis but with the subtext
of great concern; an emotional distancing as a
58
form of protection mechanism – discussing it as
a form of ensuring it won’t happen to us. Mark
summed it up best: “You don’t want to think
about that shit until the end of the day.”
Here was a fascinating insight into the racer’s
mindset. These blokes will all give you their
last tenner, but will take you down on track in
a heartbeat; they’ll show concern for a fallen
rider’s life, then show concern for the effect of
the incident on their own race. To the outsider it
sounds like mind-blowing hypocrisy, but don’t
think I’m about to get my judge on about it,
‘cos I’m not. The key to it seems to be the ability
to straddle the line between compassion and
competition – to compartmentalise – and it’s
the reason why I would probably be a really shit
racer if I tried it. I’d care too much in the wrong
way and I haven’t got a competitive bone in
my body…
To me, it’s a more evolved form of the
motivation to ride in the first place – that
balance of risk against intrinsic reward –
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and of the rationalisation that we all find in
ourselves to go out and ride in the face of all
those dickheads who call us “mad” and ask us
why we would want to “kill ourselves”. I think
that at the end of the day, you either get it or
you don’t, and if you’re not a biker yourself, you
probably won’t.
Eventually, the Air Ambulance shows up and
takes Billo away to hospital. The meeting
will not be suspended, and there’s a revised
timetable coming out because nearly an hour
has been lost.
Back to normal business…
“There’s moments on a bike where everything
just comes together…when it’s on, it’s on. It’s the
greatest feeling.” – John Hopkins
15:25: the Phoenix Open race, the one with
Josh Day in it, the one with everyone in it,
is the best of the day. All the races have
been shortened by one lap because of the
time delay. Dave has a humdinger of a battle
with ‘Steve Hislop’ on a R6 (Dave Manley in
a Hizzy-rep Arai) in the early laps. He comes
back having only finished 26th, but you would
think he’d won given the machine gun debrief
and the banter that starts up when Payner
from next door – who’s finished 29th - comes
over again in a repeat of this morning’s
piss-take.
16:40: Dave goes out for his final race of the
day, the second Sound of Thunder. This is the
warmest day of the year so far, and the humidity
is tropical. This race is not very close, as the
field is strung out quickly and the winner, Leon
Morris, clears off and wins by eleven seconds
on his Ducati 848. Dave finishes 9th, beats two
of his championship rivals, and after Oulton
Park currently sits in 4th place in the Sound of
Thunder with five rounds to go.
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While these last few races of the day are on, the
paddock is starting to empty as those riders who
have finished racing are packing up and heading
home, so the vibe is like being the last few
people to leave a nightclub. I privately lament
that the club doesn’t get together in Chequers
bar en masse and have a massive piss-up after
the meeting, but of course outside the gates is
that other world, where everybody has the jobs
to go to on Monday morning that finance this
second life. Some of the riders have travelled
from the far corners of the country and won’t
be getting home until midnight. No doubt
Billo’s crash will be weighing on their collective
minds too.
17:20: back at the tent-garage, Luke is getting
ready for his final outing while Dave and I start
packing the setup away around him. By now,
Luke is visibly weary and in pain from his wrist,
but the commitment is total and unwavering,
so the tyre warmers come off one more time
and after more backslapping he’s off to the grid,
from where he goes on to finish 28th after seven
exhausting laps.
That’s it. Game over. There is no press
conference, no podium (even if you win); there
is no champagne, no interview, no television.
No freebies, no autographs, no grid girls and no
$3m contract. If there is to be any mention at all
then it will be via NG’s own website, and maybe
a word-or-two on Bike Sport News. For everyone
else, if you quantify reward in the above terms,
there is no reward at all for any of this. But that
is to miss the true motivation that drives
all racers, from novice amateurs to the top
professionals:
It’s about being part of a community; it’s about
testing your riding skill and being the best
possible rider you can be; it’s about competing
against others and against yourself; its about
getting out of your head and doing some real
living, and most of all, it’s about having a load
of life-affirming fun on a motorcycle. As for the
danger, it can’t be any more dangerous than
doing nothing with your life.
While the professional side of it keeps turning in
on itself and taking ever-greater steps to control,
limit and even exclude the paying spectator, the
club paddock is eternally welcoming. Purists
bemoan the corporatisation of motor racing,
and lament the loss of informality that was the
defining characteristic of an earlier era. The club
paddock is where they will find it again. I like to
think that it is still like this right at the top of the
sport, in its deep core: the racers, the techs, the
crew chiefs – the doers, not the talkers; but up
there in The Show, it’s become so contaminated
by the middle-men with their corporate vested
interests of marketing, brands and money, that
the seam of hardcore racing purity is invisible,
and to find it at all you need a VIP pass, which
you can’t get.
Meanwhile, down here in the club paddock,
exists the beating heart of motorcycle racing.
This is the way it should be, and this is the way
it always has been:
“It’d be nice sometimes, just to completely be a
nobody, and to be able to race on weekends. This
is what I love, the racing. The more competition,
the better.” – Casey Stoner
Stuart Jewkes
A big thanks to Dave Mackay and Luke Smith
for allowing me to be a part of their weekend.
Footnote: after his serious crash, Matt “Billo”
Billington is on the road to a full recovery, thanks
to the superb work of the volunteer Marshals
and MSV’s medical teams.
NGRRC: www.ngroadracing.org
Dave’s Tumblr: http://bit.ly/19n2tbQ
The author’s blog, with more pics from the
event: http://bit.ly/17vkDpC
63
Another World
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I
t’s the 4th of August and I’m off to the old
airfield at South Cerney for the 39th Annual
Gloucestershire Steam Extravaganza. I’ve
been going to events like these for over 30
years and you may wonder, as with many of my
opening paragraphs, what on earth this has to
do with biking. Well, although I’m a big fan of
external combustion engines, the vast majority
of these types of event also include excellent
vintage bike shows. Today is the last day and,
unlike the preceding two, whoever controls
these things has decided it should rain. Not
proper rain, mind you, but intermittent, wind
propelled, spray-in-the-face type rain. But
that’s OK because we’re British and rain is part
of everyday life here; it’s why our countryside is
so green and our cows’ udders are so full.
A fresh hosing of horizontal precipitation breaks
out just as I park up so I wait vainly for it to
subside, before getting out the brolly and foldaway cagoule. I subscribe completely to Billy
Connolly’s observation that there’s “no such
thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes”.
Nevertheless, the family next to me all get back
in their car and leave without entering the
showground and I disdain their lack of national
spirit and resolve. Why would they come all the
way out here and then leave at the first drop
of rain? As it transpires the shower is over by
the time I’ve paid my ten quid entrance fee (just
cheap enough to prevent me foaming about
‘the old days’ and beer at ‘thruppence’ a pint). I
imagine the family that left will only be halfway
back to Swindon before having to confront their
own stupidity.
Once inside I head straight for the bike section,
not just because it’s the bit I most want to see
but also because I’m meeting father-in-law, who
is exhibiting his 1920s OK and has been camping
here for nearly a week with mother-in-law. Before
I get there I’m drawn to a sprightly old chap in an
immaculate red boiler-suit and the kind of cap
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that sailors, boiler-men and revolutionaries used
to wear. It’s legendary stuntman Dick Sheppard,
who holds the official world record for walking
away from (or as he said “being cut out of”) 2,003
car wrecks in his professional stunt career. Later
on the ringmaster put it more colourfully by
saying, “he’s written-off more cars than Gordon
Brown’s scrappage scheme”. Like so many, Dick
started back in the post war era on bikes and
later formed a team called the Disaster Squad
with the expressed intention of destroying cars
for the entertainment of the public. At the height
of his career he was destroying 18 cars a week
at shows and during TV work in between as the
resident stunt man at the BBC. He would go on
to crash cars for the James Bond film franchise
and drive one of the Minis in the Italian Job –
Bravo, Mr Bridger!
And that’s the kind of encounter you can have
at a Steam Extravaganza. 83-year-old Dick is
charming and utterly engaging. He’s here to
open the show but also to promote his latest
book Close to the Edge, although the prequel
My Wild Life in Gloucestershire looks fun, too, if
one my be permitted to judge a book by its
cover (small boy in school uniform holding a
catapult with two bikes emerging from blazing
straw bales in the background!). For many years
he also held the official world record for riding
a bike through the longest tunnel of fire but it
has been ‘officially’ bettered by two blokes on
a racing sidecar outfit last year… not the same
thing in my opinion!
My spirits are high, I feel my crisp tenner is
already well spent and I haven’t even reached
the bikes yet. Once there I meet up with fatherin-law and we start chatting and snapping
pics. You can see for yourself the eclectic mix of
machines and the levels of care and enthusiasm
that have gone into their preservation and
restoration. I chat to a large man who’s looking
at the Honda CBX1000 beside me. It seems odd
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to men of our age that this could be a ‘vintage’
machine, and perhaps it’s not strictly within the
definition but it’s no less interesting for that. He
says he has one at home but wants to sell it as
he doesn’t ride it much these days. He’d rather
it went to an enthusiast, “someone who’d do it
up and bring it here next year”.
The bike section is dwarfed by everything
else but it is still a significant concentration of
interesting machinery. And as seems traditional,
it is alongside another roped off area full of
stationary engines, many driving generators
with pretty arrangements of light bulbs or
pumping water round small closed-loop
systems of copper pipes and old troughs, the
owner’s dog sleeping watchfully in the shade
of a large tank of cooling water.
This is what I love about these shows; there’s so
much here. It’s a window onto our true passions
and interests: strange and exotic bikes; American
cars; tractors; steam wagons; military vehicles;
fire engines. Husbands and wives dressed in full
military uniforms, real machine guns sticking
out of real armoured cars and olive green trucks.
Some of the machinery is colossal – where do
people keep giant cranes and traction engines in
a world increasingly congealed with scrofulous
‘rabbit hutch’ houses on ever-sprawling estates
with aimlessly contrived street patterns, little
parking and gardens so small you could trip
over them?
It’s all so familiar and real, but strangely not
real. The background thrum of generators and
the crump-tish, piccolo cadence of fairground
organ music blots out the real world beyond
the perimeter fence. It’s a feeling I know so well
but never really thought about because it seems
so natural to me. It has a whiff of the travelling
fairground – in fact these shows nearly always
include an actual travelling fairground. I settle
down on a straw bale to ruminate more fully on
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these emerging thoughts with a pint of proper
cloudy cider and a hot Cornish pasty. It starts to
rain again and I shelter quite contentedly under
my umbrella.
The first thing that strikes me is that everybody
seems happy, despite the weather. It’s only water,
after all, and doesn’t seem to dent the fun a jot.
I suspect everyone is happy because there is a
common bond between the people exhibiting
things and the people who have come to see
them. And people who are interested in the
bikes also seem interested in everything else
as well, and vice versa. These shows seem to
be about much more than nostalgia for old
machines, they are like special moments in time
and space where we push away the depressing
world of debt and work, of management-speak
and petty regulations.
We create temporary communities that are
larger than the market town I live in (population
6,000) and with more retail outlets. There are
many dozens of stalls selling plants and tools
and old bits of everything. There’s food and drink
and ice cream, and blokes demonstrating the
latest ‘must-have’ product for polishing, painting
or sharpening whatever it is you think you need
to do the thing you love to do when you’re not
being forced by economic circumstance to do
the thing you least like to. The prices of things
are cheaper than eBay and you don’t have to pay
delivery. And you can haggle with the vendor
and share a joke or a story about a bloke who
trapped his finger in one of the things you just
bought, but it was alright in the end because
his wife said it stopped him picking his nose
in public!
These shows create a world that attempts to
be free of the avarice of normal life, a world
of kindness, interest and eccentricity. It’s
interesting because I suspect it’s a world we
would rather live in than the one we actually
Continued on page 94
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50-51booksdvds_Layout 1 22/05/2012 11:41 Page 1
books&DVDsbooks&DVDsbooks&DVDsbooks&DVDsbooks
Ken Sprayson the frame man
Ken Sprayson – hero of
the IoM TT with the TT
Welding service!
do. It’s an escape from politics and economics,
from game shows and ‘reality TV. Hardly anyone
is using their smart-phone. These shows seem
peculiarly British but there are similar ones in
the US, Canada and Australia, so perhaps it’s
an Anglo-Saxon thing we have exported to our
former colonies.
I have a hunch, however, that it’s an even older
phenomenon than that. If you know where to
look you can see Uffington from here, where
a three thousand year old image of a horse
is carved into the chalk of the hillside. I have
long suspected that these images were used to
signpost the places where ancient horse fairs
were held rather than the pseudo-mystical claptrap promulgated by the legions of wannabe
pagans and some of the more impressionable
academics. These fairs lasted well into recorded
history and are an important part of our
cultural DNA. There would have been eating
and drinking, and music and fun. There would
have been displays of skill, trading of horses
and livestock and dogs. Distant friends would
have met, new friends and trading alliances
made, and then it would all pack up until the
fun started again next year.
I don’t think it’s too fanciful to see the bikes here
today and all the other things as being any less
than the natural continuation of this ancient
tradition. I think we get exactly the same from
these shows as our ancient forebears did. And
they are not all as big as this one and The Great
Dorset Steam Fair at Tarrant Hinton. My favourite
show is not far away in Lambourn, a small affair
held as the bluebells flower in spring. It’s less
intense but has it all. These events are one of the
best places to see bikes and talk to their owners.
And if you like real beer and cider and music and
good food, and friendship and old machines
generally, and don’t mind poultry and livestock,
and dogs and children running about enjoying
themselves then that’s all a bonus.
Oldlongdog
South Cerney Show:
www glossteamextravaganza.com
Dick Sheppard: www.dicksheppard.co.uk
Every year for 50 years, from
1958 to 2008, Ken, welding torch
in hand, repaired the damage
wrought by these infamous roads
on racing frames.
He ran a completely free
welding service for novices and
world champions alike, giving
his time and expertise for no
reward and always a perfect job
done with a smile! To racers with
broken bikes Ken was little short
of a saint.
Ken has been a legend among
motorcycle racers and enthusiasts
for more years than he probably
It’s
a
cares to remember! He made the
first Norton featherbed
production frame, helped design
and produce the Dragonfly
frame, developed the Earles fork
into the legendary Reynolds
Racing fork, made innovative
and successful racing frames for
Geoff Duke, Jeff Smith, Mike
Hailwood, and John Surtees and
many others.
At Reynolds he became the
master of making light but strong
welded frames from Reynolds
531 tubing. He was so good he
even made the frame for Thrust 2
the British World Land Speed
record breaking car propelled by
a jet engine.
This is a fantastic book which
l
a
ste
takes you back to when British
industry led the world and British
bikes were setting the pace.
Ken’s book will be launched at
the International Classic Bike
Show at Stafford, April 28-29
where Ken will be a guest of
honour surrounded by some of
the many racing specials for
which he designed and built the
frames.
Publication: April 2012.
Recommended price £14.95
(includes UK p&p when
ordered from Panther
Publishing)
229 pages, 234 x 176mm,
softback, 170 photos and
illustrations.
ISBN 978-0-9564975-6-7
Panther Publishing Ltd.
[email protected]
panther-publishing.com
Foreword by Malc Wheeler of
Classic Racer
All 5 for
£36
inc P&P!
By Ian Mutch
www.mutchmotorcyclebooks.com
Low Rider
Harley to Mali
£7.99
£7.99
plus £1.50 P&P plus £1.50 P&P
Looking For
America
£7.99
plus £1.50 P&P
Riding with the
Beast
£7.99
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Picture book A4
Motorcycles
Forever
£12.99
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If these books donʼt make you
smile, seek medical help
Twitter
@IanMutch
For payment details emaikl me: [email protected]
cheques or paypal at present no cards, sorry
50 The ROAD
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Blood Runner 2
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W
ith several months’ experience of
riding a blood bike behind me now,
my perspective has changed a bit –
for starters, it brings a whole new meaning to
the phrase, “I’m just going out for a few pints”.
It’s also changed how I ride.
It’s a long time since I first read the advanced
biker’s bible, Motorcycle Roadcraft: The Police
Rider’s Handbook to Better Motorcycling, but
it’s a book I revisited recently if only to remind
myself that I haven’t forgotten some of its
fundamental lessons. Its prose may be drier
than Ghandi’s flip-flops and written in factual,
formal English, but it’s no less effective for
that. Re-reading it, I’d forgotten how much
I’d forgotten, if you know what I mean. One
thing it has done is force me to slow down
again, a concept that I’d lost in the ether while
couriering. Despatch riding is a job where
the mantra is ‘speed is everything’; combat
filtering is the order of the day, and the skill
of gap chasing becomes honed to perfection.
Despatching, and then road-testing bikes for
magazines led to me picking up some bad
habits – habits that I wanted to leave behind.
One of the tenets of Roadcraft is ‘The System’ of
machine control – Information, Position, Gear,
Speed and Acceleration. I’m back to using it all
the time now, both when I’m driving and riding,
and it’s made me much smoother in terms of
making progress, and bizarrely, despite the
fact I rarely exceed the speed limit now, it’s also
made me faster. Riding a fully-liveried blood
bike means setting an example, but using
The System doesn’t mean we’re not quick –
reading the road further ahead and taking in
all available information on potential hazards
means your average speed tends to be higher
because your riding is more consistent and
you’re not in a pointless cycle of accelerating
and braking. It’s about making safe progress;
cutting corners increases the risk of an ‘off’
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and, let’s face it, that’s really going to slow
you down.
Riding on blues-and-twos doesn’t give me
carte blanche to exceed speed limits and ride
like a demon, either – the lights and siren
simply broadcast our presence to other road
users so their use means we make progress
far quicker when riding at appropriate speeds
because other traffic (generally) makes way
for us, and red traffic signals are treated as a
‘give way’. That said, it’s astonishing how some
drivers fail to see or hear you, even when
they’re directly in front of you or pulling out
of side roads. You have to be hyper-aware
at all times when riding on blues and twos –
more so, even, than when riding normally
because there’s more information for you to
take in and process. You never stop looking for
other road users’ mistakes, and the same rules
apply – being in the right is meaningless when
you’re dead.
Setting an example extends to how we’re
dressed too, so that means full protective
clothing at all times, together with a plain
white helmet and gloves – no stripping down
to a tee and going without gloves, even when
the mercury is nudging 30°C as it has been
these few weeks (by mid-July, Northern Ireland
bizarrely had the UK’s highest temperature for
the year to date – a whopping 30.1°C which
is something we don’t see here very often).
Comfortable it isn’t. It makes a change to be
putting on a motorcycle jacket wet from the
last time you wore it only instead of being
damp through persistent rain, it’s damp with
fresh sweat. Nice.
The bikes we ride are exemplary too although
it’s hard to believe that the iconic Pan
European ST1100 that is the mainstay of the
Blood Bike fleet is 15 years old, because it’s
still so capable and bullet-proof; even the
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styling and design has held its flair. Honda
got it so right with that bike, which is why it
was the chariot of choice for almost all of the
UK’s police forces, paramedics, chauffeur bike
companies and others during its production
run. It’s the perfect bike for blood running –
dominant on the road, big in stature; it has
great torque and power from that venerable
1100cc V4 engine, with its smooth, linear
delivery. In police spec, it can light up like a
Xmas tree – one button on the control cluster
sets the headlamp to flash between high and
low beam, another switches on the twin rear
reds, and a third activates the twin blue lights
on the front, plus the one atop the pole at the
rear. Oh, and if other road users can’t see you,
the 110db Tri-sound siren cuts through traffic
noise like a knife through butter.
Although Blood Bikes in the UK have
a Home Office - approved and specified
colour scheme of red and yellow for their
Battenberg marking, from the front and rear,
all emergency services vehicles share the
same colours – red and yellow. Consequently,
we can be mistaken for police by other road
users here. The white helmets and hi-vis
yellow jackets we wear all contribute but the
major factor is that, until we came along, the
PSNI was the only agency in Northern Ireland
using bikes with blues-and-twos. Even now,
there are no motorcycle paramedics (while
I’m on the subject, there’s no air ambulance
in NI either but that’s another story). The Fire
Brigade here don’t use them and neither do
any of the civilian agencies such as the AA and
RAC – nobody bar us and the PSNI use bikes,
so it’s a Pavlovian response; hi-vis jacket and
white helmet plus the Battenberg markings
on a Honda equals police. Which has its
positives, but like so much else in Northern
Ireland, everything has a subtext so we need
to be careful, especially when we ride through
certain areas of the city.
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That said, being mistaken for police can, and
does have, often amusing consequences,
particularly when we’re out there minding our
own business and not running on blues-andtwos. There are a couple of incidents recently
that stand out and they both occurred on
the same day. I was riding between our HQ
(which houses the garage where we keep the
bikes) and the hospital lab (which forms our
base when we’re on shift). I’d left a section of
motorway and, noticing a queue on the exit
slip road, filtered my way to the front and
pulled up alongside a Fiesta driven by a young
woman. She had the window down and, as I
came alongside her, I noticed she was busy
texting on her smart phone. That is, she was –
right up until I came to a stop and looked at
her. She must have seen a blur of colours in her
peripheral vision and thought I was a traffic
cop, because as I looked at her, she threw her
phone into the passenger side footwell and
looked dead ahead. It was almost as if she was
thinking ‘If I can’t see him, he won’t see me!’
She refused to meet my gaze even as the lights
changed and I rode off.
I was working the following afternoon too,
so I was taking the bike home with me at the
end of my shift. As I approached a set of traffic
lights on a main intersection, I noticed a Range
Rover ahead of me at the white line. As I pulled
up behind him, the driver suddenly floored the
accelerator and shot the red light, making a
swift left turn and disappearing into a housing
estate. That pricked my curiosity – given that
the driver must have assumed I was a cop, what
had he done that warranted jumping a red light
and, so far as he was concerned, triggering a
pursuit by a police officer on a bike, linked by
radio to the whole of the PSNI? I was left to
ponder that one as I rode home. Of course,
the reaction of other road users towards us
also has an effect in skewing our perspective
of them too, so we’ve become used to seeing
104
vehicles in front of us suddenly slowing down
to a sedate 30mph, or drivers reaching across
to belatedly fasten their seatbelts.
There is a plus side to riding ex-police bikes
though – they’re loaded with little extras that
normal bikes don’t have. One of the most
novel is the ignition override that allows you
to remove the keys with the engine on and
blues going. It saves precious seconds when
we’ve run across town to another lab to collect
urgent blood for transfer to one of the hospitals
we serve. It’s a feature on all police bikes
and is fitted to allow the rider (or driver – all
emergency service vehicles have this) to leave
the blue lights running on arrival at a scene
without draining the battery. Security is not an
issue though – without the keys in the ignition,
the engine cuts out the minute anyone tries to
depress the clutch lever and put it into gear.
It‘s been an interesting period in Belfast these
past two weeks. Aside from the unbroken spell
of bright sunshine and temperatures more
frequently seen in Los Angeles or southern
Spain, there’s also been a massive increase in
activity by the PSNI to deal with ‘Loyalist’ rioters.
It’s meant huge numbers of police armoured
Land Rovers lining one of the roads on which
we’re based, scores of officers in riot clothing
waiting around for deployment, and an almost
permanent soundtrack of sirens from speeding
police vehicles as they cross the city from one
flashpoint to another. Oh, and then there’s the
three PSNI helicopters, which have been flying
a holding pattern at around 700ft above us
each day.
It’s meant for a tense couple of weeks, involving
us having to feed our way through Loyalist
parades to get to where we are needed, and
navigating alternative routes as we discovered
that certain main roads were blocked by local
residents. Not something that our colleagues
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105
I signal the same to him. We both stop. The
Pangolin has right of way, so I wave it forwards
with my hand, and the driver moves off, waving
to me in thanks. I follow straight after him as
he joins the motorway entry ramp, which is
when he realises that I can move much faster
than him, so the minute he has space to do so,
he moves aside and I overtake him. I thank him
and speed on ahead, musing on the fact that
I’ve just overtaken a police vehicle on a shout
and left it for dust. I don’t think I’ll ever get
used to doing that. It’s something that never
gets old!
If my column has pricked your curiosity and
you’re interested in volunteering as a blood
biker, then you can find your local group via the
National Association of Blood Bikes website at
www.bloodbikes.org.uk
on the mainland ever have to worry about.
We’ve also had to ride through streets with
protesters on either side and a heavy police
presence in the middle. So I guess it was only
a matter of time until I would encounter a PSNI
armoured Land Rover (known as a Pangolin)
heading for the same piece of road as me,
but from a different direction. I’m on a shout
and running on blues-and-twos, so is the
PSNI vehicle. The traffic signals ahead of me
are red, so I slow to cautiously edge my way
through them at the exact same time as the
PSNI Pangolin does from my right. We hesitate
– he signals to me to go first, at the same time
To qualify, you generally need to be able to
devote two nights a month or more between
the hours of 19:00 and 06:00. Restrictions vary
but most groups specify that volunteer riders
need to be over 25, have held a full unrestricted
bike licence for a minimum of two years and
possess a current advanced riding qualification
(ROSPA/IAM or Police Class 1). Go on… take a
look. It’s the most rewarding thing you’ll ever
do on a motorbike.
Antony Loveless
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107
Devil’s Bridge • Kirkby • Lonsdale
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109
S
bikes were already assembled in the only place
in the UK (or so I’m told) where a bylaw states
that only bikes are allowed to park on Sundays
and bank holidays.
We rode northwest through Otley and Ilkley but
bypassed Skipton before heading into the open
countryside of the Yorkshire Dales in glorious
sunshine. Settle, Newby and Ingleton drifted
by as we approached Cowan Bridge and on
into Kirkby Lonsdale where we left the A65 and
turned right onto the A683. About a hundred
yards or so from the junction, a large number of
For those of you who have never been, Kirkby
Londale is famous for the Devil’s Bridge, built
in the 13th Century across the River Lune. It’s
set between the Yorkshire Dales and the Lake
District and is only a few miles from Kendal. The
Devils Bridge towers above the river and diving
from it into the treacherous waters below isboth
dangerous and against the law, but that doesn’t
seem to stop the foolhardy from trying.
unday the 4th August dawned sunny.
I rolled the Silver Fox from the garage
and my son Anthony brought out his
Burgman 400. Together we set off on the A65
leaving Leeds urban sprawl behind us.
110
It’s also famous for the bikes and bikers of all
ages, who congregate there every Sunday
from across the north or England.
I spoke to one such biker who had been coming to
the Bridge on and off for over thirty years. He told
me of the times not so long past when wheelies
and donuts were the order for the day and an
occasion when one rider was busy showing off
his prowess at burn-outs when his bike suddenly
found grip and shot off into a brand new Yamaha
flattening it and a whole row of shiny bikes. He
was almost lynched! Thankfully there were no
such antics whilst we were there.
In fact the venue was as relaxed as you could
wish for, there are a couple of burger vendors
and an ice-cream van so getting a quick bite to
eat is not a problem. The topic of conversations
revolved around the bikes, the route they took to
get there and where to go afterwards. All of the
people I chatted to where happy to talk about
their bikes and when I asked if a photo was OK I
got a thumbs up from every one of them.
There were bikes of all shapes and sizes and
riders to match. There was even a scooter, just
the one, Anthony’s Burgman actually and he
watched it nervously fearing if he looked away
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it might end up in the river. He needn’t have worried, all bikes seemed welcome and besides it was
a lovely day and the river was too far to drag his bike.
Whilst the majority of the rides parked were sports bikes there were also examples of classics such
as a bright red BSA and the almost compulsory Harley Davidson.
The ride to the Devils Bridge was one of the best I’ve done for a while. The trip there and back was
about 110 miles from Leeds, every one of which was worth it. So if you’re heading for the Lakes
and fancy a stop on the way...
Nick Lojik
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“Funny But Thoughtful”
“Dave Gurman is the thinking motorcyclist’s Jezza.
He’s deeper, balder, funnier and infinitely less irritating - and he’s had
a lifelong passion for bikes!”
“Dave Gurman makes you glad that you’re riding and glad that you’re reading” – Austin Vince
“Dave’s ability to capture segments of life and express them in a personal and uplifting manner
creates many a snigger through to full on laugh out loud moments.” – Neil ‘Nelly’ Hudd
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122
Incredible India
123
O
ur first impressions of India were good
except for negotiating the single
lane bridge immediately after the
border that all traffic going in both directions
needed to cross. Being India, there were no
stop ‘n’ go boards or traffic lights, it was just
a free for all scrum of trucks, horse and carts,
cars, motorbikes and pedestrians. Every man,
woman, cow and dog for his/herself. The badly
laid wooden boards on the bridge didn’t help us
battle through the scrum as the bikes wobbled
about all over the place. Once across, we rode
through a small village with a few dodgy
looking food stalls, the road then opened out
into woodlands of eucalyptus and jacaranda
trees. Was this some bizarre trick? Were we
back in Australia again? The landscape looked
so familiar with huge stands of Jacaranda and
Eucalyptus trees. We took advantage of the
cover and stopped for a pee. We’d read that as
soon as you stop anywhere in India you’d be
instantly mobbed by a crowd of onlookers who
know no sense of personal space. Not here. We
peed in private and rode on, feeling in some way
a little disappointed.
We needed fuel, for us and the bikes. We pulled
over at some shanty hut workshops where a
bunch of men were squatting on the ground,
pulling apart some mangled pieces of car.
I pointed at my fuel tank and shrugged my
shoulders in a questioning way. They all pointed
down the road in the direction we were heading
so we thanked then and rode on. We didn’t really
know where we were going anyway so thought
we may as well accept their directions. Naively
we only had a map of the whole of India with
us which was, right then, totally useless. After
20 minutes or so we came into a busy town
and, spotting a half sensible looking (and air
conditioned) café, parked up and headed in. We
were hustled into the posh ‘family’ section and
they put on both the chiller units for us. Two dahl
bahts and a big bottle of water later, we were
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126
sorted. Delicious and cheap, the only downside
being the thousand resident flies who seemed
as keen on the food as we were. We gave the
waiter a 50% tip, he’d looked after us well. With a
big “Tank you sir madam” he waved us off but not
before giving us some ridiculously complicated
directions to a nearby petrol station. About 500
metres along the road we found it, clear as day at
the side of the road. We pulled in quite a crowd,
as about twenty men surrounded us while the
attendant brimmed our tanks. Quite what was
so interesting we’ll never know?
Riding in Nepal had been a good training
ground but India was in a different league. It’s
pretty difficult to describe it. There are sections
of road that are OK – Just think of a very hot &
dusty rural road anywhere else in the world. If
it had all been like that it would have been fine
but these sections are far too often interrupted
by crappy towns that cause utter chaos. The road
was also often smashed to smithereens and the
combination of dust and exhaust fumes was
chokingly thick. Horns were blaring constantly.
Buses, trucks, cars, tuk tuks, motorbikes, bicycles,
bullock carts, wandering cows, pedestrians
were ALL pushing and clamouring for the
same little slice of road. I learnt to ride a bike
in busy London and am a pretty confident ‘go
for the gap’ type (some might say aggressive)
rider, but those Indian guys are Olympic gold
medal holders of ‘anything goes’. It was full on
and pretty damn tough at times! We covered
150km in four long, hot, knackering hours. Kate
was bloody fantastic. We’d both been worried
about her lack of experience but she just got
on with the task at hand.
There was no information at all in the Lonely
Planet guide about any of the area from the
border all the way to Delhi. I guess it’s just not a
place that tourists visit. There was no way we’d
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130
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make it to Delhi in a day so we had to try to find
somewhere to stay for the night. We searched in
one town to no avail and heading on, as evening
was approaching, we were getting desperate. By
the time we reached Morradabad it was dark,
which was very bad news on those roads. We’d
promised ourselves we’d never ride in the dark
in India, and on day one, we’d already broken
the promise. Stress levels rose. Neither of us
had a clue which way to go. As we approached
a junction we’d call up on the intercom to decide
whether to go left or right. On other stress free
occasions we’d had fun doing the ‘who cares,
left or right’ thing but at that moment we just
wanted to find a hotel. We rode around the
city in the choking traffic, looking for any clues.
We pulled up at a taxi stand and asked around,
finally managing to find someone who could
speak English. Apparently he knew where a
hotel (for whities) was. Off he sped on his little
moped, no lights, dark shirt and well versed
in traffic negotiation, India style. We followed
(just). I’m sure you’re supposed to go ¾ of the
way around a roundabout when turning right
aren’t you? Not this guy. What about one-way
streets, what does that term actually mean? We
did only go one way just not the same way as
the rest of the population of town! He had us
driving like true locals in no time.
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After a ten minute, hair raising ride, our new
friend led us to a pretty decent looking hotel. He
would not leave (despite the cash we gave him
for his trouble) until we were fully checked in. In
fact, I reckon he’d have tried to tuck us in to bed
if we hadn’t been so insistent that we were now
ok. The relief to be in a clean, air conditioned
room was huge. We’d done over 300km’s that day
which in those conditions had taken a massive
eleven hours of hot, dusty, super-stressful riding.
We were totally knackered. After showering
(bliss) and changing into some clean(er) clothes,
we wandered the streets and found a reasonable
looking restaurant. While we were eating a
local guy came over to us and asked what we
were actually doing in Morradabad. He said
he’d not seen any foreigners there for years. He
explained that there was indeed little of interest
to see there and it was basically an industrial,
cross roads town. We were in bed super-early
that night and fell into an exhausted slumber.
In the morning, we packed up and skipped
town before things got too oppressive. It was a
little cooler at 6am, but it seemed that in India,
you could never get up early enough to beat
the crowds.
We’d never really even wanted to go to Delhi,
but the logistics of the trip forced us to. We had
to do some visa applications for getting through
the Stans. As we approached the city on a real
highway, the traffic built, but to be honest the
run in wasn’t too bad. The traffic once in the
city centre was so gridlocked it was actually
quite safe and easy to manoeuvre around.
It was bloody hot though, my handy pocket
thermometer showed 40 degrees. Somehow,
using a combination of Lonely Planet maps and
a bit of luck, we stumbled pretty much on the
area we wanted to be in town and checked into
a reasonable guest house. The Cottage Ganga
Inn was apparently the place to be. The Lonely
Planet described it as “Popular with overlanders
with a courtyard providing safe parking”. We had
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is some space and even quiet as all the traffic
(vehicle and human) squeezes to the side of
the road. But as quickly as the hole appears,
it is immediately filled as all the traffic ‘goes
for the gap’, and the mayhem continues on its
merry way. We say merry because there is one
big difference to what you might have in your
mind. The whole scene although manically
hectic, noisy and unbearable is at peace with
itself. No road rage (or Raj rage!), no frustration,
no aggression. This is just life in Delhi. We were
the ones who struggled to handle it and began
to crack under the strain, not the Indians, this
was just their lives. We could only take about
10-15 minutes of the madness until we needed
to duck into a western style café or shop (not
always easy to find) to get some respite.
The next morning there was a new added twist.
Overnight rain had left puddles of filthy water
and a mush of rubbish and mud was caked
visions of rows of Land Rovers and Africa Twins
parked up, animated conversations between
western travellers, maps outs on bonnets whilst
tales of epic journeys were shared. Instead,
disappointed, we chained our bikes to a tree
in an otherwise empty courtyard and lugged
our gear in to the hotel across the hot, dusty
concrete driveway. The hotel itself was basic
but cleanish and comfortable. We checked in
and then wandered up the road, finding the air
conditioned Club India for a western-style lunch.
Rejuvenated, we headed out into the streets to
explore our surroundings.
What’s central Delhi like then? Well, take
your worst, busiest, most stressful Christmas
144
everywhere. On this day, as we walked along
the street, we had the added joy of negotiating
all the hazards of the day before whilst also
avoiding the splash from the tyres of passing
vehicles as they crashed through the potholes
full of filthy water. At one point, the water
stretched across the entire road. The puddle
must have been at least 20 foot long. So long
that we actually hired a cycle rickshaw to get
from one side to the other, so avoiding wading
through the filthy, sewage-like mess. Yuk. India.
It is relentless. The madness is everywhere and
unavoidable. It is not limited to certain areas of
town, or certain towns. India is India!
Will Wilkins
This is a chapter from Wollongong to
Woolwich a 224 page account of our 15,000
mile 5 month adventure. Check out www.
wollongongtowoolwich.co.uk for further details.
shopping experience and double it, no in fact
times it by five. Then turn up the heat to 35+
degrees. Add some filth, rubbish, dust, shit (dog,
cow and human). Take away the pavements
and traffic rules. Then add a load of bicycles,
motorbikes, cycle rickshaws, tuk-tuks, cars and
trucks ALL creating a horrendous cacophony
with beeping horns and shouting. You’re getting
close now. Oh, we forgot the wafts of stale piss,
beggars and the incessant buzzing flies. Then,
just when you think the narrow street must
surely be at capacity, an ancient wooden cart
approaches, pushed by six men, it is laden with
building materials. It clearly can’t stop, it has
way too much momentum. It forces a ‘hole’ in
the seething mass and for a split second there
145
REVIVAL TIME!
F
or many motorsport fans September
means Goodwood Revival month, so
it seemed appropriate to rev things up
with a few photos from 2012’s cracking event
prior to this year’s Revival, which will be taking
place on September 13-15th. It all happens at
the Goodwood racing circuit and is not to
be confused with the Goodwood Festival of
Speed, which takes place earlier in the summer
within the grounds of Goodwood House a
couple of miles away.
In the first place, being a circuit, rather than
a hill climb, there is proper multi-lap car
and motorcycle racing. Secondly, the event
has become a major nostalgia-fest in which
all the people and vehicles involved celebrate
Goodwood’s 1940s, ‘50s and ‘60s hey-day
(before its closure in 1966) by dressing up
in a variety of epoch evoking costumes
and uniforms.
146
Goodwood circuit was built just after the
Second World War on the perimeter road of RAF
Westhampnett, an airfield that had been hastily
constructed at the outbreak of hostilities. It was
the place from which the legless hero Douglas
Bader made his last wartime flight as a Spitfire
pilot in 1941 and it remains a fully operational
grass airfield to this day. This adds yet another
dimension to the event – a display of period
aircraft and an appearance by the Battle of
Britain flight of a Lancaster and Spitfires, plus
on occasions Mustangs and Messerschmitts
amongst many others.
Goodwood is a very fast track which rewards
bold overtaking manoeuvres and this results in
the best car racing it’s ever been my pleasure
to watch, especially when it rains. My favourite
is the St Mary’s saloon car race in which brave
little ‘Davids’ in A35s and Minis, duke it out
with massive yank tank ‘Goliaths’.
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The motorcycle race, named after the late,
great Barry Sheene (who won his very last race
here, only a few months before his death in
2003) has been developed into a pair of ‘mini
endurance’ races. In other words, there are two
riders per bike in the hour-long legs, which
take place on both the Saturday and Sunday.
Whereas the cars of all kinds range from pre160
war to 1966, the bikes are all pre-1955, but
they ain’t slow. And last year double World
Superbike champion Troy Corser performed
miracles on a 1936 BMW twin to get on the
podium with partner Sebastian Gutsch.
But there’s much more than mere racing.
There’s music and dancing and fascinating
period vehicles of all kinds, from bubble cars
to steam engines, and even the pushbikes
are authentically old-fashioned. There’s even
a nostalgic old-time Tescos alongside many
more upmarket boutiques and emporia.
A very large proportion of the punters dress
up in their period costume of choice and even
the press and mechanics are required to wear
appropriate clobber. If you’ve never been,
treat yourself – just don’t forget to dress for
the occasion!
Paul Blezard
Further details at: www.goodwood.co.uk
161
ASK A
POLICEMAN
a lot of motoring issues centre around attitude,
habits and awareness. People who get points
and a fine normally get hacked off that they
have been caught, but they don’t address why it
happened in the first place and without tackling
the issue at source the chances are it will happen
again – so bring on the education.
Education Enforcement
This is all about awareness, its easy to say don’t
speed, but its more effective to say don’t speed
as… may happen.
In the motoring world the greatest threat not to
do wrong in the current age is certainly the fear
of getting points on your licence, but its not the
points themselves, it’s the financial penalty for
the fine, (which has now just risen for all tickets),
and as insurance companies add on more and
more for convictions the extra cost over what
can be years at each renewal.
F
or me, the whole basis of crime and
punishment is to be afraid of the
punishment and therefore not commit
the crime, (not to mention our own personal
morals).
This works in principle, but history has shown
us that it can still make little difference to those
who have nothing to lose or have been pushed
into the decision to do wrong, that may be why
we as a nation used to hang for stealing and a
variety of other offences and a fair amount of
juveniles and children as well as adults found
themselves doing the Tyburn jig.
But what is the threat now? I know the maximum
sentence for burglary is 14 years, but when does
that happen?
There is also the group that are institutionalised
and need to commit crime to get back inside for
all the comforts it brings compared to outside
life so no threat there.
162
So if you have your bike registered to you,
have insurance, MOT and the correct licence all
should be well and it’s just your behaviour on
the Queens Highway that you need to worry
about, but we all speed… without a doubt
anyone who claims they don’t would certainly
not be telling the truth, but it’s a matter of how
much speed, when, where and if you get caught.
In my younger day I regularly took my VFR 750
high into three figures on a section of the A2
in the early hours, but my licence stayed clean,
I’m sure it wouldn’t now as technology and
intelligence led tasking leads the way.
The safety camera partnerships work on the
Association of Chief Police Officers, (ACPO),
speed guidelines which can be found HERE but
Roads policing officers stood at the kerb can
apply discretion to a certain level, which usually
raises the lower figure in each band.
So what’s the enforcement angle? As above it’s
the fear of getting caught again, but personally
I feel that this is not always successful because
Safer Roads Scotland have produced some
campaign adverts which can be viewed HERE
I know these are car based, but check out the
previous campaigns at the bottom of the page
as reading the road applies to motorcyclists
as well.
What’s available and how is it applied?
If you’re stopped for a Road Traffic Offence there
are a number of options and courses available,
The course is a diversion from prosecution and
as such is not a conviction or a court appearance,
so unless your insurance company ask or
stipulate you must tell them they don’t need
to know, there are NO penalty points and the
fee covers the admin and wages of the national
company that delivers the course.
In my force we offer the following:
RIDE £95
This is a full day classroom based exercise for
motorcyclists only available for some riding
without due care offences, some endorsable
offences (solid lines etc), and some speeding
offences referred by Operation Achilles.
Full day, classroom and practical for without due
care offences involving a collision.
Driving 4 Change £95
2¼ hours practical only for some due care
offences and some endorsable offences where
there is no collision but a skill deficit has
been identified.
What’s Driving Us £95
3½ hours classroom based and mainly for those
who have an ‘attitude problem’ (not to the
officer, but towards the offence).
We also had a Young Drivers Course for those
under 21; this is currently not available but will
be back in 2014.
You can only attend a course once within
three years of the date of the original offence,
but if the offence is different you can attend a
different course!
So, speed in your car… Speed Awareness.
Speed on your bike… RIDE.
Speed Awareness £95
About 4 hours, classroom based.
Mobile phone… Driving 4 Change.
Driver Alertness £150
And so on.
163
CMS is a Banham Group Company dedicated to looking after
properties by providing rapid response Key Guards who attend the
premises following alarm activations or specific requests.
Key Guards are despatched by motorcycle to avoid traffic
hold-ups and therefore ensure prompt arrival to the premises.
For more information visit: cmskeyholding.com
More details can be found at the National
Association of Driver Intervention Providers
HERE regarding who provides which courses in
what area.
Now the cost of Fixed Penalty Tickets has risen
(£100 for not wearing a seat belt or having
an illegal number plate etc), the courses are a
fantastic opportunity to pay less and not get
points - although I suppose this means cost of
the course will be rising soon as well.
“Funny, informative and thought
provoking. A great travel guide and a
great read” - Nich Brown, The Road
“This refreshingly anecdotal
book reads like a mate down
the pub who’s travelled
and can tell a good story”
-Adventure Bike Rider
The world enters economic meltdown. A global flu
pandemic looms. An historical US presidential election
is taking place and, somewhere in the Americas, a
lone Irishman is coaxing his temperamental Italian
motorcycle through another electrical breakdown…
164
bing”
“humorous yet totally absor
- Motorcycle Monthly
adventure
“a seriously funny
way you
novel written in a
to”.
can actually relate
or Cycle
-International Mot
“We are seeking legal advice”
- Puerto del Faglioli Tourist Board
“A fantastic account
of life on the road
and
an antidote to celeb
rity
overland adventur
es – I
laughed out loud
many
times and felt like
I was
riding pillion.
Can’t wait for the
next
adventure.” - Mot
orcycle
Mojo Magazine
There is, of course, voluntary education you can
arrange yourself. BikeSafe is a national police
led project and having enjoyed a BikeSafe
workshop or ride out, the next natural step that
we actively encourage is post test motorcycle
training from either the I.A.M. (Institute of
Advanced Motorists) RoSPA (Royal Society for
Prevention of Accidents) or E.R.S. (The Enhanced
Rider Scheme).
More info HERE
So if you look in your mirror and see the
reincarnation of Albert Pierrepoint (the ‘Last
Hangman’) in high vis, not all is lost; our first
priority is to try to put you on a course, as it may
improve the way you drive or ride for the next
20 or 30 years, and with a fatal collision costing
about 1.5 million and serious life changing
injuries costing more, we need to reduce all the
collisions we can.
Graham Pierce
PC 1009
This 342 page book has an additional 12 pages of colour photographs that compliment an already
vibrant story and is available through www.paddytyson.com, or by calling 01926 844064.
You can also purchase it from Amazon and all good bookshops for £9.99. ISBN 978-0-9564305-1-9
165
166
167
168
169
BOOK REVIEW
With an Eagle on the Back
by Jonathan Boorstein
S
ometimes I think my life
is ruled by synchronicity.
Synchronicity is a concept
developed by Carl Gustav Jung
in the 1920s, although he didn’t
devote an entire paper to the
subject until 1952. Synchronicity
is a sort of pointed serendipity.
It is seeing or experiencing
a relationship or meaningful
coincidence between or among
a number of events or objects.
Although the connections are
made by meaning, causality is
not excluded. Meaning may be
provided internally or externally.
In this case, synchronicity took
the form of the black leather
jacket. The experience felt
less like serendipity and more
like stalking.
To begin with there was,
Motorcycle Cultures: Fashioning
Bikes, Building Identities, an
exhibition at The Triangle
Space of the Chelsea College
of Art and Design that
accompanied the recent
conference of the International
Journal of Motorcycle Studies
170
(IJMS), covered
in the last issue
(181) by The
Rider’s Digest
editor and
Fearless Leader
Dave Gurman
(The Clever Girls
and Boys’ Club).
One of the artists whose
work created a buzz here at
The Digest was Tom HelyarCardwell, whose Battle
Jacket project analyzes and
interprets the customization
of the black leather jacket in
terms of popular, personal
and political iconography, as
well as its roots in heraldic and
military traditions through his
art work. The project includes
the customized decoration
of ‘rocker’ and ‘metal head’
jackets as well.
The black leather jacket also
played a small part in the
summer exhibition Punk:
Chaos to Couture at The
Costume Institute at the
Metropolitan Museum of Art,
in New York. The show was
less than successful, but the
jacket’s place as desiderata for
proper Punk dress was noted:
at least in passing.
In addition, Mick Farren died.
He was more than just a
professional provocateur in his
career as a writer, activist and
performer, his social history
of the black leather jacket has
become as much a classic as
the jacket itself.
That led me to go to get my
copy of The Black Leather
Jacket (1985) off the shelf,
only to discover Farren’s book
was but one of more than a
dozen volumes on the topic
I had picked up over the
years. As for jackets and their
customization, Farren himself
also observes: “Bike jacket
decoration became the new
171
And last and definitely least, I
had to take my black leather
jacket to the tailor to replace a
torn pocket. He conceded that
a 15-year-old jacket probably
did not need to be cleaned as
well. Or at least there was no
way I’d have it cleaned.
Of course, all that may
just be apophenia (seeing
connections where there
aren’t any).
There is nothing apophenic
about the ubiquity of the
black leather jacket. It is as
much a staple of a complete
wardrobe as the little black
dress or the navy blue blazer.
It can be as quintessential as a
Schott Perfecto or as ‘this year’
as what’s on a fashion week
catwalk. “Together with jeans
and T-shirts, the leather jacket
has managed to establish
itself as one of the cult
items in the contemporary
wardrobe,” observes AnneLaure Quilleriet (p.9) in The
Leather Book (2004), which
has a picture of the Perfecto
on the cover.
172
“A biker himself, he had no
qualms about scuffing jackets
with sand paper and putting
them in the washing machine”
(p.336).
jacket provides them with
an ability to move between
their various life roles” (From
Renegade to Regular Joe: The
Black Leather Jacket’s Values
for Bikers, Volume 6, Issue 2:
Fall 2010).
heraldry” (p.54). Noting the
parallel between the leather
jacket and medieval armor, he
says, “The armour confers both
a purpose and an identity”
(p.18).
“What makes the Perfecto
The Real Thing is its Bad Boy/
Girl, wrong-side-of-the-tracks
image. That and the fact that
it is a classic, anti-fashion
garment, virtually unchanged
in its design for some five
decades,” Ted Polhemus points
out in Street Style (p.11). Street
Style (1994), the catalogue
from an exhibition at the
Victoria and Albert Museum,
documents forty different
street styles since 1940. Close
to half of them include a basic
black leather jacket as a way to
identify a lifestyle, if not mark
territory or assert authenticity.
In an article in the IJMS,
Marilyn DeLong, Kelly Gage,
Juyeon Park, and Monica
Sklar conclude that “The black
leather jacket remains the ‘goto’ uniform of bikers”. They add,
“[Bikers] find their black leather
That aspect of the black
leather jacket has been noted
by others as well. Polhemus
quotes Johnny Stuart: “The
fancy fashionable versions of
the Perfecto which you see
all over the place these days
water down the significance
of the thing, taking away its
original magic, castrating it”
(p.12).
While DeLong, Gage, Park,
and Sklar point out that there
is more to wearing a black
leather jacket than just the
protection it provides, they
shy away from addressing the
near-sacred status it has with
some riders.
After all, “Riders who do select
gear for practical reasons are
more likely, however, to order
a Darien jacket made of 500
denier Cordura Gore Tex with
a fleece lining and Scotchlite
reflective tape in hi-viz lime
yellow, or a BMW Motorrad
Club Jacket made of rugged
polyamide impregnated
for water resistance with
removable safety armour in the
elbows and shoulders. Modern
fabrics – more lightweight,
durable and waterproof – have
supplanted leather for rider
protection,” (p.181) Steven
E. Alford and Suzanne Ferris
point out in Motorcycle (2007).
A close analogy of the
significance of the black
leather jacket might be the
belt of a martial artist. Tradition
has it that the belt holds the
martial artist’s rank, power,
and knowledge. The color,
the bars (patches) sewn on,
how worn it is, are the martial
artist’s history, if not his or her
résumé. The belt (unlike the
uniform or gi) is never washed
or cleaned, lest that power
and knowledge be washed
away. Tying the belt on is a
near sacred, almost ritualistic
assumption of that identity.
While the black leather jacket
isn’t quite that layered with
significance, it comes close. It
protects and projects the rider,
a mix of personal safety and
public billboard. It’s a résumé
of who the rider is in style,
scratches, and scruff marks.
Quilleriet quotes couturier
Jean Colonna as saying, “In a
black leather jacket it is easy to
pick out the fakers. The jacket
is there to protect you and
to say who you are” (p.337).
She observes about Colonna,
The lost magic is authenticity.
Polhemus observes, “If today
more and more people use
their dress style to assert ‘I am
authentic,’ it is simply evidence
of our hunger for the genuine
article in an age which sees
to so many to the one of
simulation and hype” (p.7).
Going from subversion to
submission, from outsider to
insider, in less than seventy
years is quite an arc for an item
of clothing that didn’t even
exist before World War I. Farren
notes, “The black leather jacket
has always been the uniform
of the bad. Hitler’s Gestapo,
the Hell’s Angels, the Black
Panthers, Punk rockers, gay
bar cruisers, rock ‘n’ roll animals
173
and the hardcore mutations of
the eighties, all adopted it as
their own” (p.12).
It went from the military to
the militant, from street to
chic. “It has been a comforting
companion to first motorists
and aviation heroes, a
manly symbol for bikers and
thoughts, and a powerful
erotic armor for fetishists,”
Quilleriet adds (p.8).
Some want to trace the origins
of the black leather jacket to
prehistoric cave dwellers
dressing themselves in animal
skins, which is a bit like PoohBah tracing his ancestry to the
primeval ooze.
More common is to trace
the leather jacket back to
the buckskin jackets of the
American Wild West. This historic
line goes as far as to see the
origins of mixing denim and
leather as well. It seems about
as likely as saying the origins
were in the leather waistcoats
worn for warmth in Spain even
earlier in the nineteenth century,
a point curious enough that the
Duke of Wellington commented
on it to Philip Stanhope years
later (1836).
Another slightly odd choice
for the origins of the jacket
174
The postwar adventures of
the black leather jacket are
somewhat better known. As
war surplus or souvenir, the
leather jacket became a favorite
of a range of subcultures that
were not obvious fits into the
mainstream. Many came from
the lower end of the socioeconomic scale and became
rockers or, earlier, café racers.
Here in the States, bikers
tended to band together
in formal or informal clubs
and joined the American
M otorc ycle Association
(AMA). Others formed outlaw
gangs. The more brutish
(or thuggish) favored Nazi
regalia and insignias to annoy
and provoke.
is in lederhosen, a form of male
dress I find less amusing than
most having been traumatized
as a child at Christmas dinners
in German restaurants by
oom-pah bands playing
Silent Night.
While the relationship
between leather jackets
and leather trousers falls
somewhere between obscure
and non-existent, the theory
is at least half right. Alford and
Ferris state clearly, “The black
motorcycle jacket…originated
with German aviators of
the First World War, such as
Manfred von Ricthofen, the
famous Red Baron” (p.181182). It was developed to
keep Germany’s fighter pilots
warm in the open cockpits of
the warplanes of World War I
around 1915.
This makes the black leather
jacket a year or so shy of its
centennial. The original jacket
was longer, covering at least
the hips, and became standard
apparel for dispatch riders as
well as aviators. As Derek Harris
of Lewis Leathers explains in
Or Glory (Horst A. Friedrichs,
2013): “Essentially you’ve got
aviators with no cockpits,
motorcyclists and drivers of
open top cars: the main thing
they’ve got in common is the
need to keep warm and dry,
and leather was obviously a
good medium”.
Quilleriet credits an army
doctor, Major Malcolm C. Grox,
with creating the B3 bomber
jacket in the 1930s. A member
of the Alaska Corp, he felt
restricted by the longer jacket
and had it cut off at the waist.
Farren adds, “This combination
of dash and democracy must
have contributed, at least in
part, to the way in which the
same leather jacket became
the unofficial uniform of the
International Brigade in the
Spanish Civil War” (p.30). It was
also the unofficial uniform of
such pioneering ‘aviatrices’
as Amy Johnson and Amelia
Earhart. (On a less feminist
note, they may have also
unintentionally pioneered the
girls-in-leather fetish.)
Emblems, pin-ups, records of
hits, all personalized the jacket
to its owner.
Eventually, the back of the
bomber jacket became a
blank canvas for the pilot to
express whatever he held
dear or deemed interesting.
While the flight/bomber/
aviator jacket would continue
to embody being one of the
good guys, if not virtue, its
motorcycling sibling went
on a rapid downward spiral,
enhanced by the rise of
Fascism on the one hand and
the film industry on the other.
Alford and Ferris note, “Later
associations with the Nazis
further equated leather (and
the colour black) with power
and domination” (p.182).
Concurrently the black leather
jacket became a fetish item
for the sexual underground
in general and the gay S/M
underground in particular.
The gay biker clubs of postWorld War II California may
have organized the gay
sadomasochistic underground
as well as inspired Santa
Monica born-and-bred
Kenneth Anger, and perhaps
even Tom of Finland.
In their discussion of the
black leather jacket as fashion
and fetish, Alford and Ferriss
quote from Larry Townsend’s
175
Leatherman’s Handbook (1972)
to demonstrate the erotic
attraction of leather in general
and riding kit in particular
(p.185). The quote is from
the opening paragraph of an
entire chapter dedicated to the
gay motorcycling scene (The
Bike and its Owner, p.143-155).
Townsend writes: “Intrinsic
to the leather scene is the
motorcycle and the guy who
rides it. The clothing we all
find so appealing is primarily
designed for the cyclist’s use,
and the organized in-groups
are largely bike groups. There is
no disputing the sexual appeal
of a leather-clad rider on his
great rumbling machine. As
a symbol of phallic might the
motorcyclist is the epitome,
the living embodiment of our
fetish” (p.143).
Townsend was an early leader
and spokesman for both gay
rights and sexual freedom
( i . e. , s a d o m a s o c h i s m ) To
judge from the motorcycling
parts of the chapter, he was
a biker at one time himself.
176
Townsend explains the
relationship between the
organized riding clubs and
the eventual organization of
the s/m scene, often referred
to as leather, and hence the
title of the book. The clubs
were recognized by the AMA
until institutional homophobia
drove them away.
It’s little wonder that the gay
biker look, whether just for
riding or other possibilities, is
credited by some for helping
establish the gay clone look
of the black leather jacket
and blue Levis, later adapted
by straight boys who wanted
to suggest that they might,
just might want A Walk on the
Wild Side.
at the suggestion of Jean
Cocteau, who would go on
to create his own memorable
image of eerie and elegant
motorcyclists two years later in
Orphée. When Anger returned
permanently to the US in the
early sixties, he drew upon that
sub-culture for his cult classic,
Scorpio Rising (1963), which
features black-leather-clad
bad-boy gay bikers sporting
Nazi insignia. The film’s ability
to fetishize the leather and
the bikes was quickly picked
up by bikesploitation movies,
carrying the image and the
message of the black leather
jacket to the mainstream
once again.
Unlike the jacket itself, the
erotic illustrations of Tom of
Finland would have remained
within the gay communities
had it not been for Vivienne
part of an exhibition about
Gaultier at the Barbizon next
year. The Avengers leather
catsuit has been consigned to
the dustbin of history.
Westwood and Malcolm
McLaren printing one of the
pictures on T-shirts in their
commodification of Punk. Tom
of Finland began sketching
pictures of men in tightfitting uniforms – military and
motorcycle – during the Nazi
occupation of Finland. Peaked
caps and leather jackets figure
as prominently as exaggerated
genitalia.
It didn’t take that long for
the fetish look to break into
the mainstream, epitomized
by women in black leather
catsuits. In film, the most
famous might be Marianne
Faithfull who was ‘naked under
leather’ in Girl on a Motorcycle
(1968), sparking adolescent
fantasies among a generation
of schoolboys that were a lot
more interesting than the film
It is not known how much
Anger knew about the
gay biker scene before
he left for France in 1947
itself. The Avengers, starting
five years earlier, did the same
with first Honor Blackman
(Cathy Gale) and then Diana
Rigg (Emma Peel). Blackman,
a former World War II dispatch
rider, had no problems with
leathers, while Rigg ditched
hers after one year in favor of
the knit ‘Emma Peeler’.
The elements of fetishism,
the mix of sex and street cred,
rebellion and rock and roll,
were not lost on rock and roll
musicians, whatever the subgenre. The motorcycle jacket
went from protection against
the road and the weather to an
image of action and attitude.
Gene Vincent, George Michael,
Interestingly, the original
costume was rejected as too
kinky. It made Steed’s second
look like a female Diabolik in
heels. There were also conical
inserts to accommodate
breasts which anticipate
Madonna’s cone bra, designed
by Jean Paul Gaultier for her
1990 Blonde Ambition tour,
by a quarter of a century or
so. Madonna has an updated
version for her current MDNA
tour while the original will be
177
Named Desire than to Richard
Hell on the streets of New York
(p.81) – was often a billboard
for political or pornographic
words or images selected to
confront and offend. Tom of
Finland and the Nazis found a
common canvas.
David Bowie, Elvis Presley,
and Freddy Mercury, among
others, to build or consolidate
their fan base.
It took Punk to mix fascist
and fetish chic, lacing it with
anarchy and nihilism. The
black leather jacket, worn, if
not torn, sometimes studded,
was paired with jeans, always
“For Punks in the street, the
style was motivated as much
by poverty as by rebellion and
was distinguished by all kinds
of DIY customization: cutting,
lettering and safety-pinning,
often evoking the anger of
Dada, the French Situationists
and even early Conceptual
art, while foreshadowing
postmodern deconstruction,”
Roberta Smith writes in the
New York Times.
Needless to say, it was a Tom
of Finland drawing of two near
naked and aroused cowboys
about to embrace that got
Westwood and McLaren
charged with an affront to
public decency and not any of
the purveyors of Nazi regalia.
torn, often black, and heavy
boots, usually Doc Martens.
The white ripped T-shirt –
which Farren suggests owes
more to Brando in A Streetcar
178
Although leather clothing was
shown by major designers by
the 1920s, if not earlier – Jean
Patou is but one example –
Yves St Laurent was the first
couturier to make it truly
fashionable in the mid sixties.
The black leather jackets of
Punk were co-opted before
Westwood and McLaren
adopted it from New York’s
Warholian scene.
But as Smith observes: “At
once trashy and sexy, Punk
provided excellent slumming
opportunities… A Moschino
full-skirted dress made of
shopping bags is a delightful
party gag, one that, fittingly,
evokes Marie Antoinette in
shepherdess drag”.
In terms of street wear, this
became a casual, dresseddown, forever-young look.
Now no couturier or pret-àporter line would be complete
without a black leather jacket.
Somehow that stack of twelve
or so books grew to eighteen
in the course of writing this
piece. At this rate, I’m going
to need a new place for all
these books.
Farren’s Black Leather Jacket is
the best overall book on the
subject. It’s highly readable,
well-illustrated, and, behind
the breezy approach, better
researched than usual. He
wrote of his work in NME
that “What the paper needed
to complete the team was a
gonzo alcoholic who knew the
Bukowski-Thompson opening
tactic of starting a story by
describing the hangover”. It’s a
fair description of the narrative
style here as well, which
quickly goes over the top and
cheerfully stays there for the
rest of its 96 pages. Describing
Mad Max as “Cannibal Apaches
on motorcycles” (p.88) is about
as good a movie haiku review
as it gets.
For him the black leather
jacket – too often abbreviated
as BLJ, which is not an obvious
acronym, but is one letter shy
of obscenity – is about protest
and personal empowerment,
its decorations about identity
and idolatry. The term he uses
to sum all that up is “magic”,
which is what is was for him
from when he was small.
He ends up complaining
about fashion boutiques that
sell “decidedly unmagical
leathers”. Nevertheless he
concludes, “Standard bikers
wear the standard bike drag
and the jackets get more worn,
wrinkled and interesting right
along with the faces of their
owners…. On the gay strips the
black leather jacket continues
to hold its own…. The black
leather jacket continues. At
times it looks like it will go on
forever” (p.96).
Recommnended. If you want
one book on the subject, this is
probably the best choice.
Stuart’s Rockers! (1987) covers
the black leather jacket as part
of its actual subject matter. The
book was discussed in May as
part of the Ace Cafe roundup. It is also a good choice for
reading about the part the
black leather jacket played in
the lives of rockers, café racers,
and other motorcyclists from
the fifties to the seventies.
Stuart was something of an
eminence grise (or perhaps
noire) to Polhemus’s exhibition
and catalogue Street Style,
even to the point of lending
pieces from his own collection
to the show. The influence
shows. Polhemus presents
some 40 different ‘street
styles’, from the forties to the
nineties, from zoot suits to
grunge and beyond. His main
thesis is that ‘working class
street style’ dresses up (teds
or mods), while ‘middle class
style’ dresses down (folkies or
rockers). Some of the styles
he includes seem marginal
(zazous or rockabilly), while
others seem to be omitted
(yuppie or preppie [Sloane
ranger]). To a degree, the style
179
of a surprise that I’ve never
actually reviewed or discussed
it. That gap will be addressed
another time. As for the book
itself, it is recommended
as the ‘go-to’ volume for
any discussion about any
aspect of motorcycling and
popular culture. By necessity
the sections on a particular
aspect of motorbikes and
popular culture will be brief
– fashion, for example, counts
for approximately 13 pages
out of the book’s total of 240
– but are quite informative.
you see depends upon the
street that you walk.
Because he does note all styles
that favor the black leather
jacket in one form or another,
the book provides an insight
into how prevalent it’s been
and for how long. Eighteen
of the styles he identifies use
the black leather jacket as a
sign/signifier of ‘membership’
in what he calls a styletribe. If I
understand the requirements
of each tribe, the jacket would
180
Ultimately, the book is more
likely to be interesting to
the fashionista than the
motorcyclist. I’ll just note it as
important in the literature.
The next seven books take
a different view of the
leather jacket. Rin Tanaka’s
Motorcycle Jackets: Ultimate
Biker’s Fashions (2003) and
Motorcycle Jackets: A Century
of Leather Design (2006); Jon
A. Maguire’s Silver Wings
and Leather Jackets (2009);
Maguire and John P. Conway’s
Art of the Flight Jacket (1995)
and American Flight Jackets,
second edition (2000); as well
as Mick J. Prodger’s Luftwaffe
vs. RAF (1997) are all published
by Schiffer, an imprint
specializing in reference books
for collectors, in this case flight
and biker jackets.
Considering how often I
quote or refer to Alford and
Ferriss’s Motorcycle, it’s a bit
The bulk of the books are
pictures, with captions
providing as full an
not be unwelcome in close
to half of the rest. The reader
might well wonder why
anyone would be surprised it
became a fashion staple.
identification as possible and,
usually, values (prices) as well.
Narrative sections are brief
histories telling collectors
what they need to know to be
informed buyers. Each guide
is prepared by some sort
of expert in the field, either
a dealer or a collector, and
some are better than others.
They are, in a way, coffee table
books with solid research.
Some of the painted decorations
on the flight jackets are
fascinating, others beautiful
(and not a few baffling), but too
specialized for most. Maguire,
Conway, and Prodger’s four
books are fun and informative,
although the target market is
for collectors of World War II
memorabilia in general and
bomber jackets in particular. As
the ancestor of how black leather
motorcycle jackets are decorated,
it’s not without historic interest.
Recommended for completists
and/or those with money
to burn.
On the other hand, Tanaka’s
two books, along with his
history of Schott (2013),
creators of the Perfecto, are
a different matter. A biker
born in Japan, the Californiabased Tanaka is fascinated by
post-war fashion in general
and motorcycle apparel and
accessories in particular.
He has produced a regular
stream of books, some selfpublished, some published
by Schiffer, including two
devoted to vintage and
contemporary motorcycle
jackets. Those books include
old boots, gloves, helmets,
kidney belts, and riding
breeches as well. There is also
181
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the times in which they were
produced.
Tanaka started his research in
1994 when he realized that
there were no books about
old motorcycle jackets, or as
we academic types would
phrase it, when he realized
there was a gap in the
literature. His concept, at least
in A Century of Leather Design,
is to examine both the culture
and the industry. Ultimately,
the books are more about the
products and the companies
that manufactured them than
Unfortunately, many of the
companies were small and
did not last for more than one
generation. The records and
histories are difficult to find, if
not lost forever. Tanaka openly
asks readers several times in
both volumes to email him
with additional information.
Leather Design is in its second
edition. Ultimate Biker’s
Fashions was produced
between Leather Design’s
first and second editions
as a supplement and interim
update. While each book
stands on its own, Leather
Design is more the field
and price guide; Biker’s
Fashions, more the history
and anecdotes. Since the
books are to a high degree
interchangeable, they will be
discussed together.
Both books round up the usual
suspects to thank for help and
contributions. Farren, Harris,
Stuart, and, of course, the
Ace Cafe’s Mark Wilsmore, for
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182
183
Both books provide an
overview of the history of
styles and materials from
zippers replacing buttons to
steerhide replacing horsehide.
Tanaka writes in Leather Design:
“Motorcycle fashions have
always set trends for each era.
The D-Pocket jacket became
the predominant style in late
1940s, but it was expelled from
its popular position by Marlon
Brando’s One-Star jacket after
1953” (p.37).
Citing such companies as
Schott Brothers in New York
and Leathertogs in Everett,
Massachusetts, Tanaka suggests
that “the American motorcycle
jacket was born in the Northeast”
(Leather Design, p.10). Given the
overall history of the United
States, that is probable without
being conclusive.
He begins his history of the
motorcycle jacket in the
184
make them of limited interest
for British readers. Yes, Lewis
Leathers is mentioned. Are
Mascot and Belstaff. And all
favorably. But the products
did not exactly penetrate the
American market, to be kind
about it. And in one of Tanaka’s
rare errors, he identifies TonUp Boys as ex-Rockers. The
chronological reversal aside, I
didn’t know there was such a
thing as an ex-Rocker.
Yellow was a popular color,
and not just with Yamaha.
whom contributing to such
projects as this constitutes
an occupational hazard.
Despite the iconic status of
the Schott Perfecto, Leather
Design is dedicated to Joseph
Buegeleisen, whose company,
Buco, manufactured the J-24,
which Tanaka describes as
“[t]he coolest motorcycle
jacket of the century”.
Edwardian age, which, while
not inconsistent with the
1915 date, does suggest that
the centennial of the black
leather jacket may have passed
unnoticed. Tanaka describes
the first jackets as having a
simple two-pocket style in
front and plain back with no
pleats. By the thirties the style
has changed, becoming more
like what we think of when we
think of a motorcycle jacket.
The front has a ‘W’ collar and
a diagonal zipper, while the
back has a center pleat and a
‘bi-swing’ design. By the fifties,
the pleat has been abandoned
in favor of a kidney panel with
belt loops.
Tanaka presents the fifties as
the Golden Age of motorcycle
jackets. Certainly the brands
have as much magic (in
Farren’s sense) as the jackets
themselves: Schott, Buco,
Langlitz, Indian, and HarleyDavidson. Both motorcycle
companies
produced
extensive – and now highly
collectible – clothing and
accessories for their customers.
He also notes the individual
decoration of the jackets: “In
motorcycle jackets ‘kustom’
means painting what you want
to express, sewing patches on
your jacket that proclaims
your identity, and adding
decorative studs with your
own hands” (Biker’s Fashions,
p.96).
The sixties brought the one
or two-piece racing suit, with
local racers supporting local
manufacturers, who provided
a more conventional custom or
bespoke product. The leather
racing jacket comes into its
own, as do jackets in colors
other than black or brown.
Tanaka’s favorite of this
period may be ABC Leathers.
“The most excellent leather
designer, who rendered the
greatest achievement in
American racing history, is a
woman named Clarice Amberg
of ABC Leathers in South Gate,
California” (Biker’s Fashions,
p.186). His English frequently
goes south but charm,
accuracy and enthusiasm
make up for a lot.
Amberg, who was also
known for her lip-shaped
logo, customized racing suits
for the likes of American
racing legend Kenny Roberts.
However, her most notable
achievement may have been
for Easy Rider (1969). Peter
Fonda told Tanaka, “My jacket
was custom-made by a lady at
ABC” (Biker’s Fashions, p.186).
The books continue up to
contemporary manufacturers
and bespoke tailors.
Vanson Leathers, Fall River,
Massachusetts, gets a long
write-up as does the older,
more venerable Langlitz
Leathers, Portland, Oregon.
A legend in the Pacific
Northwest, Langlitz is more
toward the bespoke end, with
limited general production
and such special commissions
as 45 flight jackets ordered by
Neil Young to commemorate
his 1986 Crazy Horse Tour with
his staff and friends.
Other companies have an
even more limited production
and customer base. As Tanaka
notes in Leather Design:
“[L]ots of Hollywood celebrities
discovered these craftsmen
and ordered special jackets
for movies, stage costumes,
and their private motorcycle
recreation” (p.265). Chrome
Hearts, for example, counts
Cher and Madonna, Iggy
Pop and Eric Clapton among
its clients.
The books are an excellent
overview of the history of
the motorcycle jacket in the
United States, which may
Recommended for those who
want a history of the black
leather jacket that specifically
deals with the motorcycling
life. Caveat for those who
want to collect jackets. Prices
are already out of date by the
time a guide rolls off the press
and the emphasis here is on
American product lines.
Tanaka’s Schott: 100 Years
of an American Original is a
company history celebrating its
centennial. Given Schott’s claim
that it invented the motorcycle
jacket and Tanaka’s position
as ‘the’ expert in motorcycle
jackets, it’s a match made in
public relations heaven.
The book celebrates all things
Schott. It’s not a book to
learn about Schott’s rivals or
reversals, but to look at vintage
photographs, giggle at how
185
Schott of course doesn’t just
claim credit for the Perfecto,
but inventing the motorcycle
jacket itself in 1928 at the
request of a Harley-Davidson
dealership on Long Island.
Irving named it the Perfecto
after his favorite Cuban cigar.
Close to a quarter of a century
later, someone working on the
costumes for The Wild Ones
purchased a One-Star from
Schott’s shop in Los Angeles.
The rest is history, which is
covered in a double-page
spread. And, yes, this would
mean that while the black
leather jacket is about 100
years old, the black leather
motorcycle jacket is close
behind it at 85.
dated old advertising is, and
smile at amusing anecdotes.
The company – identified
alternately as Schott Brothers
or Schott N.Y.C. – was founded
in New York’s Lower East Side
in 1913. Within a couple of
years its factory had been
moved to Staten Island, and a
186
few years later to New Jersey,
where it remains to this day.
Most born Manhattanites
regard Staten Island as part of
New Jersey, but for an accident
of American politics, making
“Schott N.Y.C.” questionable
at best. Regardless, Schott is
the only reason anyone would
have to visit Perth Amboy.
Of course, Dean and Brando
weren’t the only celebrities
to wear what to many is THE
black leather motorcycle
jacket. Tanaka happily lists
such bold names as Slash,
Lou Reed, Lady Gaga, Johnny
Rotten, and Bruce Springsteen.
Such bands as The Ramones
and The Beastie Boys even
made the jacket part of their
stage presence.
The company history itself
includes the family tree, from
Irving (who founded Schott
with his brother, Jack) to his
descendants – the great-
Book covers not just the
black leather jacket, but
also anything ever made of
leather: bags, shoes, luggage,
upholstery, saddles… It covers
how leather is made from
skin as well as the different
kinds of skin used to make
leather. Ultimately it focuses
on industry statistics, with the
emphasis on luxury goods
– Hermes, J.P. Tod’s – though
Schott and Doc Martens are
covered as well.
grandchildren Jason, Oren and
David – who are still involved
with the firm. Every label ever
used gets a nice photo spread
and even non-motorcycle
product lines through the
years are covered. Such special
collections as James Dean or
Kenny Rogers get sections of
their own.
Because the book presents
pictures and pictures of Schott
products and advertising
along with family and old
corporate shots, it’s essentially
a coffee table item with an
‘official tale’ of the company’s
success. To be fair, a successful
business that has been in
the family for a century is
something to be proud of,
at least in this day and age
in North America. Most have
closed or been bought out. I’m
a little surprised that the local
media here hasn’t made more
of the anniversary.
Nevertheless, the book itself
appeals mostly to those for
whom Schott has special
significance, probably a
collector of motorcycle
jackets in general and Schott
in particular.
The rest of the books are
problematic to a greater or
lesser extent. The Leather
Unlike the luxury goods
it admires and promotes,
the book itself is shoddily
produced. Careless translation
is compounded by careless
printing. Page 186 in the
edition I read was still in
French, untranslated into
English. Page 148 credits
Edith Piaf with the lyrics to a
song Quilleriet claims is called
The Man on the Bike. The song
was written by Jerry Leiber
and Mike Stoller and is called
Black Denim Trousers. The
French translation, which Piaf
recorded, is called L’homme à
la moto.
Worse, instead of going
back to the original English
lyrics, the translators, Simon
P l e a s a n c e a n d Fr o n z a
Woods, translate the French
translation into English. “He
187
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wore black denim trousers
and motorcycle boots, And
a black leather jacket with an
eagle on the back, He had a
hopped-up ‘cycle’ that took
off like a gun, That fool was
the terror of Highway 101”
becomes “He wore biker
pants and boots, and a black
leather jacket with an eagle
on the back. His bike, which
took off like a cannonball,
sowed terror throughout
the region”. Crediting Piaf for
Leiber and Stoller’s song is
common among European
researchers, and no less
irritating for all that. The
translation however violates
the Geneva convention. Not
recommended.
The Leatherman’s Handbook
d o e s h a ve i n t e re s t i n g
information about the image
and the history of motorcycles
and gay bikers in certain times
and places. Townsend, an
industrial psychologist, has
taken care with his research.
It is however incidental to
the main point of the
book, which is how to
become a sado-masochist.
le
unforgpeosstibtalebto forget; highly memorable
Recommended for those who
like to have spanners tossed
into their works.
— adj : im
Leather Jackets, part of a
series called Hamlyn 20 th
Century Style, would be called
a coffee-table book if its size
weren’t more appropriate for
a cigarette table. Essentially a
nice but predictable selection
of photos, and virtually no text
beyond the brief captions. I’m
not sure good editing would
have saved this book from
being marginal, but a caption
asking whether Jim Morrison
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188
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189
Back to and
Contents
Page
of The Doors can be taken
seriously in his leather pants
is accompanied by a photo
of Morrison from the waist up
(p.39) doesn’t help matters.
Not recommended.
Punk: Chaos to Couture is the
exhibition catalogue to the
Costume Institute’s show at
the Metropolitan Museum.
It has a bad introduction
by Andrew Bolton; a good
essay by Richard Hell; a
disingenuous one by John
Lydon; and solid piece by
Jon Savage that’s well-worth
reading. The exhibition itself
began with a recreation of
the unisex restroom at CBGB’s
before going on to how
Punk was co-opted by haute
couture, essentially going
from the pissoir to the piss
elegant. Sadly, Savage’s essay
doesn’t save the catalogue
from being a waste of money.
Not recommended.
raw and real, and for the most
part succeeds. Other shots are
a little too studied, too posed
the camera, too ready for the
close-up. The paperback is a
better deal aesthetically and
financially. The shorter cheaper
format forced Friedrichs to
edit, making for a visually
tighter series of photographs
at about a third of the price.
Recommended for the Rockers
and the Rocker wannabes.
Or Glory: 21st Century Rockers is
the edited, paperback version
of Pride and Glory: The Art of
the Rockers’ Jacket. Essentially
a photo-essay of, well, the
studded, patched, and painted
jackets worn by Rockers new
and old, male and female,
some with their bike, some
without. Friedrichs attempts
to make his Rocker subjects
Recession? What Recession!
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Meanwhile, my leather jacket
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for more years of abuse, until
the jacket has more character
than I do.
j o n a t h a n b @ t h e r i d e r s d i g e s t . c o . u k
Simon Gardner
Graphic Design
M A
A G
G II N
N A
A TT II O
O N
N
II M
enquiries:
[email protected]
190
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01666 505295
Email: [email protected]
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Unit 14 nlais, Swanse ) 841765
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Tel: (01 tech.co.uk
ura
info@to
Email:

TRD issue 182

Transcription

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