Life has a way of sorting itself out and somehow, we all made it back to England. My mother got back to her usual high-pitched soprano from the wedding-induced contralto, and life carried on. Dickie loaned me his Honda CBX550 so I could get around, and just when things were beginning to pick up another little faux pas was about to happen…
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The work was dirty and laborious, but there on the dock sat the reward for my day of toil- a rather ratty Yamaha XS360 four stroke parallel twin. Once the day was over, I would have the pleasure of riding it across town to the duplex where I was staying, in what could be described as a slightly dodgy part of town. My Landlord Jimmy owned the bike, and a Triumph chopper, which is actually how we met, although thinking about it his sister Debbie was the reason we met. I guess she thought we’d get along because we were both into motorcycles. Debbie was actually married to Crazy Laughing Dave Wainright, who was Jimmy’s best friend, and he had a Honda 550 chopper so we all got along swimmingly.
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With the tuned motor, lowered gearing and motocross bars, the RD400 wheelied through the first three gears, and immediately began jacking adrenaline through a system going through intense motorcycle withdrawal at an alarming rate. Thankfully, the RD quickly ran onto reserve (the method used before fuel lights) and I flicked the petrol switch and carefully burbled back to the storage area to hide it while attempting to come down off the high. Wow! If you’ve never twisted the Go Handle of a tuned up two-stroke twin on a narrow English street, I would advise going straight out and giving it a go. It’s shocking!
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‘Where ignorance is bliss tis folly to be wise,’ should have been stamped on my birth certificate. Spinning down into my hometown on a beautiful late summer’s morn, around the crack of eleven, on a new 1983 Honda CBX550, all in the world was well. August in South Devon, England is charming, and my friend was waiting at our local café on the terrace to share his latest horse racing system that was going to make us rich. Having found the joy of credit, credit cards, bank loans and financing, we were basking in the joy of fast motorcycles, pockets full of drugs, and the other accoutrements of our newfound wealth.
We just hadn’t figured out how to pay it back yet.
Riding my 1973 Honda SL125 onto the ferry back to mainland England from the Island of Jersey with the hangover from hades, just seven days after arriving, the prophetic words of the not-so-friendly policeman we had met were ringing embarrassingly true. Accompanied by my Nit Wit Mate Wibbly, on a slightly newer Honda XL125, our only mission now was figuring out how we could sneak back into town unnoticed: Especially after the fanfare of the local newspaper announcing our “round-the-world” motorcycle trip just two weeks earlier.
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Recently a message on social media brought me the sad news that my dear friend Steven O’Brien, affectionately known as “Wedgie,” had passed away. Having been in my orbit for close to 40 years, and a major part of my formative motorcycle and travel years, it was a huge personal loss. Memories of racing to London on our Japanese 550cc four-cylinder sport bikes, strafing the lanes of England, he in the saddle of his big Ducati V-twin and me on my Laverda triple will be always be there to remind me of my fun loving, gregarious friend. With his laugh, demeanor, his zest and love for life, Wedgie was, without a doubt, one of the largest personalities you could ever hope to meet.
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That little Yamaha TT-R125L proved to be absolutely bullet proof, and apart from oil changes, air filter cleaning, chain lubing and adjusting, the only time it needed any wrenches turned was when something got too bent to ride. My son Luke had a unique ability to provide not only the most spectacular laps, but also more bent parts than the rest of us put together. So it was no surprise that the TT-R ended up on the ground in a pile of dust and limbs more times than any of us could remember while thankfully always surviving to ride another day.
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“Of course, when the Russians kidnapped me, they held me at gun point for 36 hours, but I’ve got to go…” as the phone line went silent. My mind drifted back to the day I crossed the Carpathian Mountains on my old KLR 650 and down into the city of Bucharest in search of my old friend, Simon. The year was 1996 and I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since the mid ’80s when we ran together in our hometown on the coast in South Devon, England.
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As the torrential rain relentlessly pounded the slippery dirt road beneath my boots, I watched in horror as the BMW F800GS in front of me dived into some deep water, churned and ground its way forward, then spat a submerged rock from under the front wheel causing it to lurch sideways. Desperately trying to use forward momentum to right the bike, the rider found himself stalling out in thigh-deep water, left leg submerged and sinking into the sand with his right leg stuck over the bike as it attempted to push him down under the fast-flowing water. With the two of us alone, now long separated from our group, I had to act quickly as I had no idea how long he could last in such a precarious position.
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