The Suzuki GT 250 – GT stands for Grand Tourer. This was my first ever motorbike at the age of 16 in 1975. When I bought it I did not know how to drive a motorbike so I had a friend come and drive me home on it. I was so excited, I could hardly sleep that night, and then first thing I was down in the street, with my stiff new motorcycle jacket and shiny new crash helmet. I had read the instructions and was ready to go. It was kick start only, but after around 40 or 50 kicks it still would not start.
In the yellow pages, I discovered a motorcycle garage around half a mile away from my house, mostly uphill. So I pushed my new bike there, sweat dripping off me, the guy who sold me the bike had charged the battery enough to start the bike, but the battery was pretty much dead and needed replacing. So I was then out-of-pocket first thing. I was nervous to start the bike and drive away from the garage as this was my first ever attempt, so when they were all busy I pushed the bike another 300 yards until I was out of sight, and then kicked it into life. I drove it home the next few hundred yards moving from first gear (one down) back up through neutral to second and third, mastering the clutch and brakes, and trying not to stare at my feet rather than the road.

Later that morning I got stuck in neutral after pulling away at traffic lights, panicked, and drove into a stairwell, much to the surprise of an older lady who was just leaving her house. Ruined my jeans, took the heel off my boots, bent the handlebars, scraped the foot-pegs and exhaust, and my crash helmet. Drove home slowly and nursed my scraped knees for the rest of the day.

I really enjoyed the Suzy, had lots of great trips down the crazy winding coastal road from Edinburgh to North Berwick, and even up to the highlands for a bed and breakfast touring holiday. I had a few more spills and thrills but nothing too dramatic.

When Honda brought out their 250 Dream, I knew right away that I would save up and buy one of them.

However, they only had this model available for one year in 1977 in Scotland, before it was replaced by the Super-Dream. By the time I’d saved up the new model was out and was getting decent reviews, it was smaller, lighter, faster, and better engineered  – so I went for it in 1978 and bought a brand new from the showroom Honda 250 Super-Dream, my first ever brand new motorcycle. From the 2-stroke Suzy to the 4-stroke Honda was a fairly big change in power delivery. The Suzy could rasp away from traffic when sliding the clutch at 7-8000 rpm, whereas the Honda was steady on acceleration, but had a higher top end.

Two days out of the showroom and I was driving up towards St Andrew’s Square, Edinburgh, when a taxi did a u-turn in front of me, and then continued to do a second u-turn without looking, bumping me off my bike and onto my rear end, before he parked with his front tires on my front forks.
He leaned out of his window and asked me “whose fault was that mate?” I had just got to my feet and was taking my crash helmet off. I could see my front forks were badly bent, the bike would be M.I.A. for at least a few weeks now.

I threw my helmet down onto the ground and stormed over toward him, furious. He held his hands up and said, “ok, mate, yes, it was me, my fault, sorry”.
He took me in his cab to the motorcycle garage where I bought the bike. He was going on holiday the next day, so he gave the mechanic a cheque for four hundred pounds as an estimate for the repairs and asked him to make the repairs as soon as he could. I called my insurance company to have the bike taken to the garage and spent the next four weeks on public transport.

It was a great bike for Edinburgh streets, in and out of traffic, easy parking, and fast out of trouble. I loved the freedom, often just driving around late at night. For a time I worked the night shift at the local railway station, and would spend my breaks polishing my bike, it was always gleaming. I worked day-shift in a burger bar as the short order cook and parked my bike around in another street. One day when I finished my shift I went to get my bike and it was not there. I thought for a moment I had parked in a different place and ran around to two or three spots I used regularly, but it was gone, stolen. I went to a police box in Rose Street and reported it stolen, then called my insurance company. I was well out of pocket by the time the insurance company settled. I had taken out a loan to buy this bike and so I still had a fair bit of interest to pay even after the settlement. So I walked, and worked, and paid, and saved.

My next bike was a custom job – I so wish I had kept a few photos. It was a Yamaha RD 400cc – 2 stroke again. Seriously fast from a standing start. My friends, (yes I had started to make a group of good friends that had motorcycles and we hung out a lot together) had a Kawasaki 900cc, an old Ducati 760cc, a Kawasaki 650cc  a Yamaha XS 500cc, and a Suzuki 1000cc. None of them could get near me in traffic. The Ducati was an older bike, beautiful, but the wiring was always a problem. I have a permanent memory of the seat being up and wires everywhere as my friend Gary tried to get it going again in the rain. Happy days.

This is the standard bike……

When I first bought it in 1979 it was a second-hand model. Plain black. Fast. I was driving up towards Tynecastle on a summer evening when an Austin Allegro failed to stop at a junction and took me out. I went over the handlebars, over the car bonnet, and down the road on my back sliding into the side of a double-decker bus on the opposite side. People came pouring out of shops and cafes to stand and stare at the accident – no mobile phones those days though. My motorbike was in several pieces and well-twisted in general. I jumped to my feet – a normal reaction already at 18 years old. I refused the ambulance and later walked a few miles to the nearest Emergency ward – where my shoulder was relocated. The police arranged for my bike to be taken to a repair shop. And I went home eventually to take a few weeks off work and lay on my back – not even bright enough to get any pain meds.

So the rebuild was on, and I worked and saved hard. A six-gallon alloy tank, single-seat, rear sets, clip-on bars, full fairing, rebored engine, upgraded carburettors, and matt black expansion box exhausts. The fairing was hand-painted black gloss with gold coach lines, and twenty individually applied coats of lacquer. An oblong halogen-quartz headlamp was years ahead of its time and the name YAMAHA in white letters in a gentle curve above the head-lamp. It was a stunner, a head turner, people stopped and took photos, with real cameras. Where to keep it safe though?

A friend of a friend knew a lawyer in Edinburgh New-Town that had a lockup he never used, and so a deal was done. I would go along on winter nights when the roads were too icy to ride and just polish and work on the bike, changing brake pads and oil, etc, getting ready for the Edinburgh spring sunshine days.

We rode flat-out down the winding coastal roads on Saturday evenings, hard over on the bends, sparks grinding off the side stand, gouging the tar, knee a half-inch from the road surface pushing harder and harder. One day too hard, and off I came, slapping my thigh on a hidden fencepost stub in the verge of long grass as my bike slid on its side for another fifty yards. The pain was remarkable. And the journey to save and rebuild started the next day after I had driven home at around 15 miles an hour trying to hold parts of the bike together. The rebuilt bike was even better, and the guys in Dalkeith that helped me took the bike to the next level in detail. Winter was coming and so back to the lockup on a foggy winter’s night we went.

The very next day the lock-up padlock was broken when I got there, the door slightly ajar, and with a hollow stomach, I opened the door fully to see nothing but an empty lock-up. Gone again, stolen.

I think I cried. I went to the police but they held out little hope. The insurance would only pay the value of the standard bike, and so I was months of money out of pocket, and no transport. Back on the bus in my leather jacket, with memories of summer runs all I had to keep me going.

But when you have a passion, nothing will stop you really. And so the dream was born again and I spied a Suzuki GSE 550cc with a straight four-into-one exhaust, that I fell in love with instantly. The game was afoot! I worked days as a short order cook and nights packing shelves in a supermarket, setting a target in 1980 of saving forty pounds a week. The bike was for sale for five hundred and fifty pounds – secondhand. Every chance I had I would go past the salesroom on a bus, or walk and look at the prize I was aiming for. Always scared it would be gone.

Within fourteen weeks I had saved up the cash. I still remember getting to the showroom at about four forty-five on a Friday evening, a broad elastic band keeping the twenty-seven twenty-pound notes and one ten-pound note together in my zippered pocket.

He (the grey-suited salesman) looked irritated when I asked him about the Suzzy 550. Like he wanted to ask me to come back on Monday. I let him prattle on a bit and gave nothing away. Finally with a bit of an eye-roll and a sigh he invited me into his office and started to pull out loan application paperwork. Still, I said nothing. This was my moment, and timing was everything.

Slowly I put my hand up to my inner pocket and pulled out a tightly wrapped bundle of cash. I actually think he rubbed his hands together, everything changed, and I was transformed into a valued customer. To be honest, I did enjoy that moment, even as a nineteen or twenty-year-old I could have my private moments of humor.

Driving out of the backdoor of the showroom was a very fine moment. I had my open-face helmet and goggles with me, and loved the summer sun in the busy Friday traffic, no-one knew my journey to this point, I was just another guy on a bike. But for me, the moment was savory. I went around all my motorbike friend’s houses that Friday night, hanging out, telling tales, and laughing, I was back. Oh, I loved that bike, it rode so smoothly and had enough power to get ahead of most traffic and if I dropped a gear it would thrust itself through the tightest spaces and hold its corners like a pro. I think this was my only motorbike that was never involved in a crash, although there were a few close calls for sure. I had a lot of motorbike friends and we would just go out for long drives late at night, sometimes across the whole country. We could make a half pint of lager and lime last two hours as we told tales and spoke in bikeese.

I still have such great memories of this motorbike – it was fun, fast, and furious. But the time came when I wanted to trade up again and so sadly I sold the bike as the autumn slipped into winter and I started to dream of the spring and what wheels I would have by then.

A silver Yamaha 750 triple, shaft drive, three into one grabbed my attention.

What a beautiful sound the straight-through three-into-one exhaust made. I lived on this bike for the first few weeks I had it, but then problems started to appear and I was back at the salesroom three times in one week, asking for repairs. The bike was in the workshop more than it was in my life. Eventually, I had enough and asked for my money back. To say the sales guy was reluctant, was a world-class understatement. But I was fed up missing out on runs with my friends, and having to get the bus everywhere and the summer weeks were precious. So a deal was done and a new bike entered my world – well not brand new, but fairly new.

Same model, different colour, 750 cc shaft drive, and the top speed that I could get was around 128mph. DOHC means double overhead camshaft. Still have no idea what that means, but I did talk about it then like I was part of a pitstop crew. This bike was such a work-horse, plenty top end, a bit slower out of the blocks, but working the gears could get some exciting rides. It would slither a little on corners and was a little heavy on tight roads. But all-in-all gave a decent account of itself once we were traveling at speed.

I started to love driving up to Fort William early in the morning on my days off – leaving at 3 am in the summer and then staying with my foster father for a few days before driving back to Edinburgh late in the day so I was back in time for work then next day. One night I picked up a friend at 4 am, the Yammy had just been serviced and we were heading up north for a week’s holiday at my foster father’s house.

The sun came up early and we were flying up the motorway section between Edinburgh and Stirling, heading for the turnoff for Crianlarich.  My mate Steve on the pillion kept dozing and his helmet would clunk against the back of mine as he fought to stay awake. I was worried that when we got to the bendy roads later he would not be leaning with me and would cause me problems on some of the tighter bends.

At one point he gave me a heavy clunk in the back of my helmet, and my eyes went downwards and at that very moment the oil light came on. Instinctively I pulled in the clutch and freewheeled to the hard shoulder, we had been close to top speed so it took nearly a minute to come to a halt. Lifting my visor I told him what had happened as we both dismounted. On checking the engine with the kick start I discovered it was seized.  Wow – if he had not clunked me and I had not seen the oil light the back wheel would have locked at 100+ mph and we would have gone into a ridiculous speed wobble from which there could be no recovery. Should I be grateful or angry? the bike was just serviced – how could this happen?

The engine released a bit and we drove back to Edinburgh at 30-40 mph with the bike making a horrible noise. I parked it at the mechanic’s and walked home, I would call him on Monday. Well, I was on holiday for two weeks and had no bike again and so later that day I went to Portobello to have a walk along the beach and settle myself for the call to the mechanic on Monday.

I walked up towards a cafe and put my hand in my pocket to get my money – I had all my holiday pay in a wad of notes in my pocket, except that I didn’t. It was gone, lost somewhere, somehow. I was so distressed, with no bike, no money and two weeks with nothing to do, no way to even buy food. This was going to be fun hey? As usual, somehow I got through the struggle, The mechanic was a nightmare to work with, taking no blame for the damage even when it emerged that the bike had hardly any oil in it – telling me it was my responsibility to check that before traveling, despite having paid for a service. I was young and naive In the end, an amazing friend gifted me the several hundred pounds needed for repairs. It had a nearly new engine that had to be run-in,  at low revs. I did keep that bike for another year or two and avoided any serious accidents, although I did have a couple of spills in traffic.

At this point in my life, I moved up north to work and went without a motorbike for a year or so before I was settled enough and decided to get back in the saddle.

I really wanted a Moto-Guzzi 850 having been watching CHiPs on TV. But the only v-twin I could afford was a Honda, CX500, v-twin, water-cooled beast. Slow, heavy, and hard on the bends. Anyway, at least it was a bike. I would drive it like a madman on the local narrow tight-bend roads. One crazy January winter’s night having left the pub at 1 am I took it for a spin and had on my jeans and a t-shirt, no helmet. At the top of a mountain pass at close to 2 am, minus 10 degrees Celcius and down I went, cracking my head on the tar and ripping my head open, knee skin peeled back and wrists like raw meat. Unlikely to be anyone on this road till 5 am now. I was in serious trouble, 10 miles from the nearest house.

A local 76-year-old lady who lived in a castle was awoken at 1.30 am by what she thought was a gunshot. So, thinking that poachers were on her land taking some deer she got up and headed out for a reccie. Imagine her surprise when she got to the top of the mountain pass and saw me sitting at the side of the road with my bike on its side half off the road, headlight pointing aimlessly upwards. Somehow she manhandled me into the car and that was the start of my journey to the local hospital, where a surgeon stitched my head back together, and nurses checked my vital signs each hour through the rest of what was left of the night.

Some friends took my bike back to where I lived and within a few days of recovery at home, I was ordering parts and planning the rebuild. It took all winter, and in early May I was back on the road. Off I went to Achnaha, to help a friend there who had a dairy farm. I went out at 4 am to round up the cattle with the cattle dogs doing all the work,  bringing them in for their morning milking – finding them was always an adventure. After a few weeks there helping through their busy season I was heading back to help build some sea cages for salmon farming early on a Sunday morning. The road was single-lane with passing places and often had long stretches where grass and weeds grew through the tar in the middle of the single lane.

Around ten miles into my journey I came across a herd of beef cattle – highland cows, wandering slowly across the road, and I had to very carefully and gingerly make my way weaving slowly through the herd trying to control my bike and praying for no backfire. Then I was through. Accelerating away from the herd I turned back for a milli-second to make a rude gesture and when I turned my head back I was clipping the verge, and then I was on my back, sliding down the road with my bike lazily turning in summersaults right above me until I slid off the road into the ditch and the bike on queue slapped onto the mud facing the right way and upright. A passing motorist helped me drag the bike back up from the ditch onto the road. he laughed as I told him my story. Both my knees were badly scrapped and another pair of trousers headed for the landfill. The bike had some scrapes on the bars and pegs as well as the crash bars – an essential on a V-twin engine.

One more visit to the ditch a few months later while trying to overtake a Mercedes on a tight bend and the Honda was deposited on a concrete plinth – originally meant for a shed, and it lived there for the next two years until a passing postie made an offer and carted it away. I graduated to a BMW R 650cc.

 

This was a fun bike for me, comfortable driving position, solid on long bends, and smooth power delivery that ramped up for a surprisingly long time. I took long travels on this mid-range workhorse. I put panniers and a tank bag on it for holidays and a short fairing to protect me from the constant wind pressure on long journeys. I had one spill in three years – and cracked the rocker cover (despite having actual BMW crash bars affixed). I was stranded in a remote area for a week while the parts arrived, and I also had my first experience with BMW parts prices. In the past, most bikes I owned were suitable for “pattern” parts – which is kind of like the Chemist having their own medicine without the brand name and so very much more cost-effective.

Strangely after all my two-strokes and smaller bikes built for speed, I found myself enjoying the steady purr of the horizontal twin and the smooth power that allowed me to really ramp up the throttle as I navigated accelerating through tight bends. This was to be the start of a lengthy engagement with BMW – and my next bike was a turtle-green BMW R800. Just that little bit more swagger.

But before we go there, I had two bikes at the same time the BMW R650, and as I started to really enjoy off-road motorcycle adventures the Yamaha XT 500, single cylinder wall climbing trail bike. And where I was living on the west coast of the Scottish Highlands there were a thousand miles of forest trails.

Oh my – the adventures. But also the pain. This monster had a kick start only and in the winter it would often kick me back and slap me hard on my inside shin or calf muscle. So many cold mornings saw me hopping around on one leg, clutching madly at the other while whimpers, groans, and the occasional expression of frustration escaped my pursed lips. But I loved this bike, the easy way it handled everything I threw at it, the massive 500cc single sound, and the sheer ruggedness of the build. It was a lion disguised as a cub!

So back to my new beemer. The R800, turtle-green. More go and more top end than the 650cc, but the same comfort, and the same ease on the tightest of bends.

I had so much fun on this bike. I took my wife to be on a date and her first motorbike journey. I loved driving on the winding Scottish roads, on late summer evenings, purring along effortlessly, and going past fancy cars with the ease of oil on glass.
But the winds were changing and the tide was turning. Suddenly I had a young family, and I heard so many news stories of mature men having serious motorcycle crashes. No doubt many were returning to a past passion, and some were taken out by careless car drivers. Some went too fast too often, and many misread the road or the weather.
It was time to hand in my keys. I had spilled and thrilled and mostly walked away. Now would be a good time to stop. I knew it in my knower. And so I did. Grateful for all the memories, the amazing friends, the stories heard and told, and the fellowship enjoyed. I was happy to retire from the throng of two-wheel romancers, and nowadays when overtaken by a motorbike in my family SUV I allow myself the slightest of smiles.