Wild Will
03-21-2006, 09:38 PM
There's a Triumph mechanic I know, usually found astride his 1953 Triumph with his dog, Sprocket, sitting in his open tank bag. Dangerous Dave says it's the same bike that Brando is sitting on in that famous movie poster from that era. The bike's wine red and pretty clean, but by no means restored. He can do rings and valves and be finished just after lunch. He's helped me out time and again with my second '70 Bonneville. Dave worked for the guy who owned GP bike shop near to where I live, but the guy sold out and went to work for a big time Brit iron shop in the South Bay, I think called Rabers. I used to suspect the guy liked to dress up sometimes because he'd sometimes have a thin line of red lipstick where he'd neglected to wash it off from time to time. Each to his own, says I, and I just smiled inwardly and proceeded to pester Dave to get something or other done on the T120 before the regular scheduled bikes arrived. Dave always accomodated me.
The shop was not pristine, but was full of cool stuff and had antique sheet metal hanging all over the walls, and rows of old Brit parts galore. Anyway, Dave soon moved to another town nearby and went to work for Fred, a 6'6" Brit who had an old, fast Norton International single and a yellow Commando. Fred had all sorts of neat bikes in a dusty row in his chicken coop shop. I watched him rebuild Black Shadows, JAP singles, Nortons galore, and one
SS 80, the kind Lawrence of Arabia rode. Fred was always railing on about yuppies, having come from the north of London, where a few quid was something to be considered. He moved in to a rural Sonoma County farm town where prices went up every year and the less monetarily gifted moved north further still. Fred was a good companion and never missed happy hour at the local pub, run by Brit ex-pats. All those guys could drink and ride.
About once a month, the "invited" would gather at Fred's shop and everyone would throw $20 into a basket. That was your "buy in", and allowed you to race the lot for the proceeds in the basket. There were usually 8-12 guys from as fgar away as San Francisco. Nowhere were there any Asian machines; all were European bikes. All were covered with the patina of hard riding, but rubber was all good, cables stout and compression satisfactory.
The deal was to follow a backroads route of about sixty miles along impossibly beautiful countryside, past farm driveways and around rolling manure spreaders, etc. going from pasture to pasture. Fred was quite a sight, making that Commando appear as a Schwinn with his six and a half foot frame, mantid-like legs, and beat up open face helmet. Fread was usually out front, but Dave was always close behind him, complete with Sprocket, who had goggles. Dave had a real stout heart for his animal, and since he'd had little luck with the high maintenance women around these parts, he probably gave most of his affection to the dog, who never came close to falling out of the nasty tankbag. Nobody's gear was new. Boots were scuffed, ripped and resewn. Leather pants were ditto - burned and greyed by too much road rash and kneeling on greasy shop floors. Jackets were patched and had no armor, kind of like what we see Hailwood wearing in the photos, but much more worn. Gloves were holed in at least one finger, with tape covering the open area. Goggles were the preferred kit, and they were leather and glass, with each side having two pieces of glass joined at an angle. Thye bikes were usually resplendent with a vast collection of the entomological offerings of the area from San Jose to Humboldt County. Nobody had a chain oiler contraption, but everything was covered with a fine film of dirt and oil, including the racers.
The route went from the area around Graton, west to the coast on the tightest country lanes replete with scant traffic as I said. North on the coast to Meyers Grade which ascended to the ridge top on perfect, if narrow, asphalt, along the ridge which twisted and cavorted like a frozen copulating snake. Then down the dark gulch to old logging town Cazadero, where there's a shop that restores Willys 4 wheel drive rigs for big money, and a whole bunch of hippie characters seated along the porch sipping and smoking in the morning sun. Then like an explosion from a distant land, these denizens of triplex chain, Amal gas guzzlers, torn fork spring covers, and old Brit chrome would well up in the distance and the sound would build until it explolded past the Saturday morning traffic in Cazadero (usually an old pickup or two and maybe an early 70's Datsun with a rainbow bumpersticker and a bean bag ashtray on the dashboard piloted by an aging love child wrapped in a fetid sarong or Mexican blanket, reeking of Patchouli and B.O.).
No quarter was given to traffic, for there was that pot awaiting the first back to fred's shop! These guys hung it all out as they navigated past centuries old redwoods and rickety river side shacks standing on impossibly thin and tall 4 X 4 posts, north side covered in perma mold and moss. Back to River Road and the backroads that lead to Fred's monument to grease and the Olde Worlde, TT Motors. Usually the winner was Fred or Dangerous Dave. I swear I've seen Fred kick Dave in the side cover, but to no avail. Dave and Sprocket were resolute, seeing the road through the green tinged vision of $240, plus or minus. Then, gin was poured, ice was nowhere to be found, and the group would ride to the local Brit ex-pat pub, to remain until all the old songs were exhausted and the darts no longer came close to the board.
Those were rowdy and sparkling days, during the 80's and 90's.
Fred moved to Portugal where he found an old olive orchard with a small house for around $50K 2 years ago. Dangerous Dave can still be seen from time to time. When I see him I stop and we talk a bit. The Triumph is still running sweetly. Sprocket passed away a few years back and Dave has a new dog, an ugly little grease magnet with an attitude like Fred's; he'll snap at you if you pass too closely.
Life's like that sometimes, ain't it!
The shop was not pristine, but was full of cool stuff and had antique sheet metal hanging all over the walls, and rows of old Brit parts galore. Anyway, Dave soon moved to another town nearby and went to work for Fred, a 6'6" Brit who had an old, fast Norton International single and a yellow Commando. Fred had all sorts of neat bikes in a dusty row in his chicken coop shop. I watched him rebuild Black Shadows, JAP singles, Nortons galore, and one
SS 80, the kind Lawrence of Arabia rode. Fred was always railing on about yuppies, having come from the north of London, where a few quid was something to be considered. He moved in to a rural Sonoma County farm town where prices went up every year and the less monetarily gifted moved north further still. Fred was a good companion and never missed happy hour at the local pub, run by Brit ex-pats. All those guys could drink and ride.
About once a month, the "invited" would gather at Fred's shop and everyone would throw $20 into a basket. That was your "buy in", and allowed you to race the lot for the proceeds in the basket. There were usually 8-12 guys from as fgar away as San Francisco. Nowhere were there any Asian machines; all were European bikes. All were covered with the patina of hard riding, but rubber was all good, cables stout and compression satisfactory.
The deal was to follow a backroads route of about sixty miles along impossibly beautiful countryside, past farm driveways and around rolling manure spreaders, etc. going from pasture to pasture. Fred was quite a sight, making that Commando appear as a Schwinn with his six and a half foot frame, mantid-like legs, and beat up open face helmet. Fread was usually out front, but Dave was always close behind him, complete with Sprocket, who had goggles. Dave had a real stout heart for his animal, and since he'd had little luck with the high maintenance women around these parts, he probably gave most of his affection to the dog, who never came close to falling out of the nasty tankbag. Nobody's gear was new. Boots were scuffed, ripped and resewn. Leather pants were ditto - burned and greyed by too much road rash and kneeling on greasy shop floors. Jackets were patched and had no armor, kind of like what we see Hailwood wearing in the photos, but much more worn. Gloves were holed in at least one finger, with tape covering the open area. Goggles were the preferred kit, and they were leather and glass, with each side having two pieces of glass joined at an angle. Thye bikes were usually resplendent with a vast collection of the entomological offerings of the area from San Jose to Humboldt County. Nobody had a chain oiler contraption, but everything was covered with a fine film of dirt and oil, including the racers.
The route went from the area around Graton, west to the coast on the tightest country lanes replete with scant traffic as I said. North on the coast to Meyers Grade which ascended to the ridge top on perfect, if narrow, asphalt, along the ridge which twisted and cavorted like a frozen copulating snake. Then down the dark gulch to old logging town Cazadero, where there's a shop that restores Willys 4 wheel drive rigs for big money, and a whole bunch of hippie characters seated along the porch sipping and smoking in the morning sun. Then like an explosion from a distant land, these denizens of triplex chain, Amal gas guzzlers, torn fork spring covers, and old Brit chrome would well up in the distance and the sound would build until it explolded past the Saturday morning traffic in Cazadero (usually an old pickup or two and maybe an early 70's Datsun with a rainbow bumpersticker and a bean bag ashtray on the dashboard piloted by an aging love child wrapped in a fetid sarong or Mexican blanket, reeking of Patchouli and B.O.).
No quarter was given to traffic, for there was that pot awaiting the first back to fred's shop! These guys hung it all out as they navigated past centuries old redwoods and rickety river side shacks standing on impossibly thin and tall 4 X 4 posts, north side covered in perma mold and moss. Back to River Road and the backroads that lead to Fred's monument to grease and the Olde Worlde, TT Motors. Usually the winner was Fred or Dangerous Dave. I swear I've seen Fred kick Dave in the side cover, but to no avail. Dave and Sprocket were resolute, seeing the road through the green tinged vision of $240, plus or minus. Then, gin was poured, ice was nowhere to be found, and the group would ride to the local Brit ex-pat pub, to remain until all the old songs were exhausted and the darts no longer came close to the board.
Those were rowdy and sparkling days, during the 80's and 90's.
Fred moved to Portugal where he found an old olive orchard with a small house for around $50K 2 years ago. Dangerous Dave can still be seen from time to time. When I see him I stop and we talk a bit. The Triumph is still running sweetly. Sprocket passed away a few years back and Dave has a new dog, an ugly little grease magnet with an attitude like Fred's; he'll snap at you if you pass too closely.
Life's like that sometimes, ain't it!