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Miscellaneous Anecdotes and Recollections
Yamaha RX125: School of Hard Knocks - Lesson 1I was still on my learner's licence and restricted to a maximum of 70km/h but that was not too much of a problem as the open road speed limit at the time was only 80km/h. The plan was to ride my bike to Te Aroha to visit some friends there.
My mother was not too keen on me riding out on the open road alone, considering I had not long got my licence, but I was confident that I would be OK.
I set out along Ruakura Road, got to the open road sign and took the bike up to 70 with no problem and was looking forward to the adventure of my first ride between towns.
The road curved to the right and I leaned the bike - but not enough for the speed I was doing. I went wide and ran off the hard surface onto the gravel on the shoulder. In panic, I grabbed the front brake to shed some speed...
The front wheel locked and washed out in the gravel, vanishing away to my left. The back of the bike came around as I went down and I suddenly found myself sliding along the road on my right elbow and hip.
My left hand was dragging along the road, bouncing up and down slightly on the rough surface, my boots were scraping along the road and I could see my bike sliding along and gradually slowing behind me.
A black disc that I realised was the bottom of my tachometer rolled past me and vanished off to the side of the road.
When I came to a stop I got to my feet, shaking - Dad was going to kill me, I thought. I went back to the bike and, with considerable effort, managed to get it upright.
The right peg was bent out of position and the handlebars were bent, my gloves boots and helmet were scuffed and my clothes were torn, exposed skin on my elbow was abraded and oozing blood.
I managed to get the bike started and rode slowly home, compensating for the twist in the bars.
Yamaha RX125: School of Hard Knocks - Lesson 2
The RX was repaired and I had healed and I'd gained a bit more out of town riding experience with no mishaps so I figured I'd ride out to visit my uncle at his farm on Waingaro Road.
The trip to Ngaruawahia was without incident. I crossed the bridge and turned onto Waingaro Rd then headed into the Hakarimata Scenic Reserve. The road hilly and twisty and I took it easily, especially through the gully just before Glen Massey where the sunlight seldom reaches and the road always seems wet.
I crested the hill into Glen Massey and descended to the corner at the bottom. I slowed but I still managed to go wide and hit the gravel shoulder.
As before, I made a panicked grab on the front brake and the front wheel washed out. I flew over the handlebars, arms stretched out in front of me in best Superman fashion. My hands and the chin guard of my helmet impacted with the road first, followed rapidly by chest then legs and I slid to a halt.
The first time I had crashed I had been scared of my father's wrath but this time I was angry - mainly at myself. I returned to the bike and yanked it to its wheels, fuelled by adrenalin, and took stock: The handlebars were bent to the right and the right foot peg and brake lever were both bent.
I was not in much better condition, I was sore all down my front and my clothes were a wreck: there were deep gouges (from the gravel) in the chin guard of my helmet (I felt glad I was not wearing an open-faced helmet), my PVC wet-weather trousers were torn at the knees, the palms of my gloves were scuffed and the shell of my jacket had torn away and was dangling down in front of my thighs.
I was miles from home and I had a fair way to go to to my uncle's house, the bike was a mess and I was injured so I figured I'd go and find assistance or a telephone.
There was no one answering at any of the houses I tried so my only recourse was to return to my bike and attempt to ride it the rest of the way to my uncle's house. I couldn't kick-start the bike as the peg was in the way so I had to kick it a few times to bend it out of the way of the kick-starter.
I rode from Glen Massey to my uncle's house at a crawl; arms positioned unusually due to the bent handlebars and feeling somewhat shaken. It was a relief when I finally was able to turn into my uncle's driveway. My uncle and aunt were quite perturbed when they saw my state.
My aunt dressed my wounds and made me a coffee while I blathered non-sequiturs and random thoughts in adrenalin-fired post-traumatic shock.
Then I tried to do a very simple thing - pick up a photograph between thumb and forefinger - and excruciating pain shot through my right hand.
My aunt bundled me into the car and drove me to the doctor in Ngaruawahia who twisted my wrist abruptly and asked if it hurt. The fact that I screamed like a banshee and instinctively cocked my left fist was a bit of a give-away so, rather than saying "yes", I answered "does that answer your question?" through clenched teeth.
The doctor then referred me up to the hospital where a few x-rays confirmed that I had broken my wrist. They also determined that I should have a couple of stitches in my leg where the skin had split open from impacting with the road but they got so involved in getting my arm plastered that they forgot all about my leg.
Yamaha RX125: First Wheelie
I had not long got my full licence and I was now allowed to carry pillion passengers so I had a friend known as "Fox" on the back of the RX. We were heading down Mill St towards the Whitiora Bridge and the lights were red at Victoria so I stopped the bike.
Across the road was another motorcycle - a large sports bike - and the primal desire to prove myself to this other biker took control. For some reason I just had to show him that, despite the little 125, I was one of the "big boys" now.
The lights changed to green and I opened the throttle (a tad too much) and let out the clutch (a mite too hastily) and the front of the bike jolted skywards as I shot forward.
The wheelie was short-lived and the wheel slammed down again quickly but I got enough of a fright to get the adrenalin pumping and was on a high as I rode across the bridge, turned down Casey Ave and parked up at home.
We got off the bike and removed our helmets and then Fox asked "was that the first time you've done a wheel-stand two-up?"
"That was the first time I've done a wheel-stand, period," I replied - and promptly got a well-deserved clip around the ear.
Yamaha RX125: School of Hard Knocks - Lesson 3
It was the morning of my last day of work at my summer job and I was heading along Peachgrove Rd towards work.
As I approached the intersection of Te Aroha St, Peachgrove Rd and Ruakura Rd I was in the inner lane for straight-through or right-turn traffic. There were cars ahead of me so I figured I should change to the outer lane in case someone was wanting to turn right.
I checked the lane to my left to see if there was a gap then looked ahead just in time to see that the car in front of me was stopped and indicating to turn right.
I grabbed the brakes but it was too late to stop, the front wheel slammed into the rear of the car and I was flung over the handlebars. I slid up the boot of the car (the "trunk"), leaving black marks from the plastic beading around my helmet, then bounced off and landed on the road beside my fallen bike.
To say I was shocked would be an understatement.
I turned to survey the damage to my bike and noticed that my right shoe was lying on the ground beside the bike - somehow I had leaped out of it during the crash.
I heard "Jon, Jon are you all right?" and looked up to see one of the young women from work coming up the road - she'd been behind me and had seen the accident.
Seeing her "materialise" at the scene was too much for my overloaded brain so I just stared and screamed a startled obscenity. She jolted as if struck and fled to her car.
The bloke whose car I hit helped me get the bike safely to the side of the road which involved both of us lifting the front end and dragging the back wheel as the front wheel was vaguely heart-shaped and pressed hard against the engine.
After my previous crashes, despite bent handlebars and pegs, I had been able to ride the bike to safety but this time the bike was unrideable. The front forks were bent back, the wheel was out of shape and the front fender was bent onto the tyre.
The bloke went to park his car and grab a screwdriver with which he hoped to prise the fender off the wheel so the bike could be rolled along. While he was gone, the adrenalin that had been keeping me going wore off and the pain struck - I had caught my groin on the speedo and tachometer as I went over the handlebars. The bloke returned to find me sitting, doubled over, on a fence and clutching my family jewels.
Fortunately the damage I did to myself in this accident was minor. I had been wearing track pants under light work trousers and when I crashed I gripped the tank hard with my legs as I slid forward. The raised plastic "YAMAHA" badges on the tank tore through both trousers and track pants and ripped the skin on the inside of both my thighs - I still have the scars.
After this accident, dad took the bike and repaired it and I bought myself the Suzuki TS125.
Suzuki TS125: Times Track
My friend Charley also had a road-trail bike - a single-cylinder, four-stroke Honda SL125 - and he and I used to "hoon around" together of an evening or go down to the riverbank on the weekends.
One night he said "follow me" and led me out to Avalon Drive to the "Times Track" - a tract of undeveloped land next to the Waikato Times' printing plant that had a huge mound of earth over-grown with grass and blackberry and criss-crossed with motorcycle tracks.
There were others there on their bikes when we arrived so we waited our turn and Charley led the way.
I had never been on the track before and it was after dark so I was on unfamiliar territory with a narrow tunnel of visibility and only the intermittent light of Charley's tail light to guide me. Fortunately the tracks were well established.
Charley's tail light vanished but I wasn't too worried because I figured it would appear again in a moment. Suddenly the front wheel of the bike dipped downhill and I found myself riding down a vertical "wall" for about one and a half lengths of my bike. It gave me a hell of a fright but I didn't have enough time to panic. The front wheel came up as the track curved back to horizontal again and I found my headlamp illuminating a solid wall of blackberry vine with no clue as to which way to turn. I slammed on my brakes, slid to a stop and stalled the engine.
Before I could get my bearings a light appeared from my right - Charley rode up and laughed "get a bit of a fright, did we?" then spun his bike around and took off.
That was It! I stamped down on the kick start and roared off after him, determined to catch the cheeky bastard and, and, and... OK, so I didn't have much of a plan beyond catching the cheeky bastard but I wasn't lacking for determination.
I pursued the intermittent red light around the track, oblivious to my own safety. I still could see no more than what the cone of light from my headlamp revealed but I was high on adrenalin after the vertical dip and focussed on catching Charley.
His tail light appeared and shot up a rise so I opened the throttle and followed. The TS went airborne at the top as the ground levelled off abruptly. The rear wheel touched down and I brought the front wheel down to see Charley was stopped and everyone else was there - we had got back to the starting point at the table on top of the mound.
I stopped the bike and got off. Charley was laughing fit to wet himself. I was too exhilarated after the ride to do more than call him a rude name.
Regrettably that was the only time I ever went on the "Times Track". I always meant to go back during daylight and have a proper play around but I never got around to it and it was eventually levelled.
Suzuki TS125: Bloody Van!
For those who have read the "School of Hard Knocks" stories above and are perhaps thinking that motorcycles are unduly dangerous:
Fox was on the back of the TS and we were heading north along the inner lane of Victoria Street when the red van in front of us stopped suddenly without signalling.
I was following a tad too close - we all were: the car behind me was practically up my exhaust pipe and the lane to my left was packed with cars all following each other too closely. To the right, the two oncoming lanes were likewise packed.
I couldn't stop and I had no clear lane to move into, I was still relatively inexperienced and I had the mass and balance of another person to worry about in addition to myself and the bike.
To this day I don't fully recall what happened.
I vaguely remember making a desperate grab on the brakes to buy myself a little more time before swerving to the left and then I found myself on the painted lines between the lanes with the solid wall of the stationary van to my right and cars flowing past me to my left. The bike was labouring as I was in entirely too high a gear for the speed I was now doing and the whole bike was swaying from side to side as Fox was repeatedly punching the side of the van and hurling obscenities at the driver.
All I could do was stare fixedly at the narrow gap between the front of the van and the line of traffic that was overtaking us - a glance either side would have had us heading in that direction to our detriment. "Where you look, you go" - so I was looking at that gap with a dedication that trained observers can only dream of.
After a subjective eternity we got past the front of the van and I was able to swing right again into the empty gap between the van and the car it had been following. A change in the movements coming from behind me indicated that Fox, now robbed of his punching target, was making do with vigorous hand signals of a sexually explicit nature.
I was now able to take stock and drop down a few gears so that the engine wasn't straining.
To this day I do not know how I managed to get the bike into the gap between the lanes without hitting, or being hit by, one of the cars in the outside lane. I certainly did not do it consciously - it was what I wanted to do, but I have no conscious recollection between beginning the swerve and realising that I was safely (relatively speaking, compared with being sandwiched between the van and the car that was behind me) between the lanes.
It was like my primal survival instinct had cut in, kicked my conscious mind out of the way and taken control of the bike for the crucial bit. Somehow it had compensated for the presence of a pillion passenger as well.
I certainly could tell I had gone into "fight or flight" mode - I had enough adrenalin coursing through my bloodstream afterwards to wake up a medium-sized town.
If I had been in a car, we certainly would have crashed into the back of the van - we were following far too close to stop and I could not have moved the width of a car around the back of the van, let alone fitted it between the lanes.
I'll leave the reader to imagine how much of a gibbering wreck I became once in the safety of my house...
Suzuki TS125: The Other Way Home
The Powers That Be had decided I had been on the dole for too long and, since I was listed in their database as a Computer Programmer, they put me on a 6-month work scheme making pathways around various parts of Hamilton.
We were working out at the Hamilton Rose Gardens near Cobham Drive Bridge and I used to commute from my home on the corner of Treloar St and Casey Ave in Fairfield on my TS125.
One of my co-workers, however, has to get the prize for "Most Dedication to a Crappy Job" - he used to walk from somewhere on Ulster St (across the other side of the river and further North than my place) and back home again every day.
One afternoon after work I offered to give him a lift part of the way. Needless to say, he accepted.
I had no spare helmet so I couldn't take him on the road, which left only the riverbank. Back then, only parts of the riverbank had paved walkways - we were working on that, but for the most part it was grassy parkland with the most frequently trafficked areas worn through to dirt.
I started the bike, he jumped on the back and I left the paved area and headed down the track to the Cobham Drive Bridge. The ground was dry packed dirt and easy going, even when it dipped abruptly to pass under the bridge.
We emerged from under the bridge to a mix of dirt and grass and I followed the riverbank down to Hayes Paddock (often called "Wellington Street Beach" despite being on Jellicoe Drive) where the path was paved with the same rectangular concrete blocks we had been laying elsewhere.
People strolling along the riverbank stared at us as we passed, no doubt thinking "look at those cheeky buggers!"
From Hayes Paddock it was paved all the way under the Victoria Bridge to Memorial Park, so I only had to watch out for people and dogs.
We emerged onto Memorial Drive - the northern-most end of River Road - where I had to stop and let him off or risk a fine for having a pillion without a helmet.
It was a great ride along the riverbank - it's not quite as much fun now that it has been paved all the way from the Rose Gardens to Memorial Park...
Suzuki TS125: Riding Lessons
One of my friends, Pauline, had long been interested in motorbikes despite her father's hatred of them (I still have photos from one of my parties when we were teaching Pauline how to ride my RX125 - see "Gallery") and one day she called me up and asked if she could go for another riding lesson.
It used to be that if I took her for a ride on the bike I'd have to park down the road with a spare helmet and she'd walk down to meet me to hide the fact she was going for a bike ride from her father but it had reached the point where he would grudgingly let her go on the back of a bike.
He would have had a conniption if he realised she was going to be riding the damned thing, however, so I picked her up from her house and we headed off up the road to a safe place to practise.
I sat on the back while Pauline rode slowly up and down the street a while and then we headed off to her boyfriend's house with her riding and me on the back. She managed the traffic and the corners quite well and we arrived safe and sound.
Half way through having a coffee, the rain started. We stayed a while with no sign of the rain letting up and her boyfriend said that it might be safer if he took her home in the van rather than me risk taking her home in the wet. As I had semi-knobbly tyres on the bike and had already had some sphincter-puckering moments with wet roads, I agreed this would be a safer option and headed home.
I headed north along Grey St towards the intersection with Clyde St. Ahead across the intersection the road dipped gradually to Bridge St; to the left, the river end of Clyde St dropped sharply to a dead end and access to the riverbank.
The lights ahead changed and I started to brake. The semi-knobbly rear tyre skated on the wet road and the back started to fish-tail so I let off the brake. I was still moving towards the intersection, albeit at slightly reduced speed, and cars were already coming from the right off Clyde St and turning down Grey St towards Bridge St.
I was terrified to touch the brakes again lest I wipe out, so I planted my boots on the ground and dug my heels in. I slowed, but I was still skating towards the intersection and I could tell I was not going to stop in time.
My last recourse was to turn the bike to my left to avoid the turning traffic from the right and guide the bike into the empty dead-end piece of Clyde St. I missed the traffic by a comfortable margin, skated into the bottom end of Clyde St holding the bike upright only by the strength of my arms and came to a stop against the curb a few metres down the hill.
Shaken, I turned the bike up the hill and waited at the lights to continue my journey home.
I managed to get home with no further incidents and had just stepped in the door when the phone rang.
I pulled off my helmet, picked up the phone and managed a shaky "Hello?"
"WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS MY DAUGHTER?" Roared the voice on the other end of the phone.
"What?" I was utterly flabbergasted.
"You were supposed to bring my daughter back here and you left her around at her boyfriend's place!"
Ah, so he already knew where the bloody Hell she was...
"She's not allowed to go there!" He continued. "They think I don't know what goes on in that Den of Iniquity, but I'm not stupid! What do you mean by taking her there? You were supposed to be responsible for her!"
This was just too much on top of the near accident. I was wet, shaking (both from the near miss and from adrenalin) and not in the mood to be screamed at when I had gone out of my way to be "responsible".
"Now listen!" I snapped. "For a start, I did not know she wasn't supposed to go there - nobody informed me. We went for a ride, she suggested going there and I saw nothing wrong in that. While we were there it started raining and her boyfriend suggested that it would be safer to take her home in the van than on the bike. I agreed that it was the safer option considering the condition of the roads. I made that decision as a responsible rider with her safety in mind.
"For your information, I bloody-near had an accident on the way home and it took everything I had to keep the bike under control with just myself on it. I bloody-near died out there today and if Pauline had been on the back at the time we'd both be in the hospital or the bloody morgue. At least you know that your daughter is safe and alive."
There was a deathly silence followed by a rather contrite, "Err, yes, you're quite right, you did take the responsible course of action. Good day to you."
Suzuki TS125: Another Kind of Lesson
My friend David used to have a terrible habit when riding pillion on the back of my bike: he'd anticipate the corners and shift his position outwards just before I started to lean the bike. As he generally rode holding onto the waist of my jacket, this had the effect of twisting me around on the seat. No amount of lecturing on my part could convince him to change this.
One day we were riding from Hamilton to Te Aroha and I had endured this distracting behaviour all the way to Morrinsville, so I'd had enough of it. I wanted to do something to convince him he did not have to do anything but sit on the back and go with the bike and my knowledge of the road ahead provided a devilish answer.
We left the 50km/h zone and I took the bike up to the open road limit of 80km/h. Ahead of us the road to Te Aroha went up and over a small bridge but just before the bridge, Horrell's Road curved sharply off to the left.
I deliberately maintained 80km/h and stayed just to the left of the centre-line - as if intending to go straight ahead over the bridge - and then leaned the bike hard to the left, taking the corner onto Horrell's Road.
At 80km/h, the little TS125 was pretty much maxed out and I didn't have a lot left in the throttle to power it around the corner. I scraped my peg but even then I went wide, crossing the centre-line on a blind corner - fortunately there was no one coming the other way.
All I could hear was a loud WAAA-HOOOO! from David on the back.
I got the bike safely around the corner and back onto the left-hand side of the road then slowed to a stop.
"See," I said, "all you have to do is sit still and go with the bike."
Suzuki TS125: Crossed Up
I was heading down Ruakura Rd towards the lights at Peachgrove Road. I was going a mite fast, as was usual back then, and the lights ahead changed.
It must be acknowledged that this was during my phase of being terrified of the front brake (see "School of Hard Knocks" above for the reasons why) so I only ever used the rear brake - not good considering they reckon around 70% of your braking is on the front wheel.
So anyway, I jammed on the back brake and the back wheel broke away to the right. I turned the front wheel to the right but I could see a low-side coming up fast if I didn't succeed in controlling the bike.
The rear wheel was still drifting out so I was at about a 45-degree lean to my left, front wheel at hard lock to the right, skating sideways down the road towards the red light - "crossed up" MX-style - and expecting the bike to low-side any moment or shoot out into the intersection.
Contrary to my greatest fears, the bike remained on its wheels and slid to a halt about a metre from the intersection. The woman in a car in the adjoining lane was staring at me and I felt quite the lad, having successfully stopped the bike in a sideways drift.
I was The Man! A real pro, just like the MX boys.
Then I quietly toppled to the road.
As you do when you stop at around a 45-degree lean and are so overcome with your own brilliance that you forget to put your frigging foot down!
The woman frantically wound down her window and yelled, "are you OK? Are you hurt?"
I got to my feet. "Only my ego."
Yamaha RD350: Fear Factor
I was travelling along SH26 to Te Aroha, the road was deserted and I was approaching the straight between Waitoa and Waihou, so I figured it was time to find out what the old RD was capable of.
I knew that when they first came out they were capable of 115mph and I wanted to see how fast I could go.
I started from a dead stop at the beginning of the straight and gave the bike everything it had in all the gears, throttle wide open all the way. The 350cc 2-stroke twin screamed and it accelerated with its usual alacrity in the lower gears but as it got up into the higher gears the power dropped away dramatically.
As it passed 70mph it began to shake and twist under my body and it got worse as it slowly crawled up from 70 to 80 (128km/h).
The speed maxed out at 80 with the throttle wide open and the bike was shaking like a demented thing - it was more terrifying than exhilarating. The twisted frame that a more experienced rider had cautioned me about was making its presence known in no uncertain terms.
I held it at 80 long enough to determine that it wasn't going to get any faster - and that I wouldn't want to do so anyway - and then throttled off quickly as it had taken most of the way to Waihou just to get it up to 80mph.
Never again did I dare take the RD above 60mph.
BMW R100CS: Test Ride
I had loved the BMW horizontally-opposed twins since I was given a kitset model of a WWII BMW R75. There was just something about them that captured my imagination.
1:9 scale kitset 1940's BMW R75 - this, and a smaller-scale one with side-car and MG-42, is what I "fell in love" with.
Down at Hamilton Motorcycles, back in the days when they were located on London St and before all the roundabouts were installed on Tristram Street, was a beautiful BMW R100CS and I got it into my head that I would give it a test ride.
I strolled down to the shop and tendered my licence, had my photo taken for security purposes, signed a form and they gave me the keys.
I told the guy I loved "Beemer" twins because of the WWII R75 and he informed me that I had held my age well.
Now, I wasn't an idiot. I was well aware that this was an unfamiliar bike and had a bigger engine than anything I had ridden so far (the biggest to that point being my brother-in-law's Suzuki GT550 triple). I generally was rather cautious even on smaller bikes until I got used to their handling so I resolved to take it very easy until I got to know it.
The speed limit was 50km/h so I rolled out onto the road and took it up to 40 as I tested out how the bike responded to throttle and steering.
I stopped at Tristram St with no dramas and headed North, gently at first then took it up to 50. The bike was comfortable and responsive, the power was definitely there but not aggressive, the twin engine was smooth - it was a joy to ride.
I was approaching Mill St where I wanted to turn so I chopped down a gear. The bike yawed wildly to the right - a by-product of the engine's powerful torque - and gave me a hell of a fright. I straightened the bike quickly enough and slowed it with the throttle for the next, far more gentle, gear change. All subsequent down-shifts were executed with due respect for the bike's torque.
I turned right onto Mill St and headed across the Whitiora Bridge to Casey Ave and home where I got a friend to take a photo of me with the bike. (You don't take your first 1000cc bike for a test ride without getting photos!)
Here I did an experiment under controlled conditions: I fired up the engine and revved the motor while it was still in neutral. The engine's torque tilted the bike to the right as it had when I chopped down suddenly. I gave it a few revs to get a feel for how much it moved in response to the throttle. Perhaps if I'd given it a few decent revs like that before I left the shop I wouldn't have had the sudden fright on Tristram St.
Reluctantly I took it back to the shop, feeling now that I had at least gotten a feel for the way the bike behaved.
Going back across Whitiora Bridge I took it up to 80 as I usually would have done on the TS125 or the RD350. As I reached the end of the bridge the lights at Victoria St changed to amber so I slowed and stopped. Back up to Tristram St and then down Tristram St to London St at 80 - as I said, this was before the roundabouts went in so I had a straight road and the right of way. This was also back when my friends and I thought nothing of blatting around Hamilton at 80km/h if there was no traffic around.
I parked the bike at Hamilton Motorcycles, shut off the engine, dismounted and had one last loving look before surrendering the keys...
That's when I got the second big fright for the day - the speedometer was calibrated in miles per hour!
I was struck by the sudden realisation that I had just raced across Whitiora Bridge and down Tristram St at 80 miles per hour, not 80 kilometres per hour as I had assumed (based on the fact that the Germans had been using the metric system since, like, forever and it was a German bike so of course it must have been calibrated in km/h...)
Later, with the aid of a calculator, the full implications were revealed to me: instead of a sedate 40km/h, I had rolled out of the shop at 64km/h (already exceeding the speed limit), taken it up to 80km/h along Tristram St where I changed down too suddenly and had my quick lesson in physics and then later had raced across Whitiora Bridge at 128km/h, stopped from that speed in the short distance between the end of the bridge and the lights at Victoria St and then raced back down Tristram St at 128km/h.
How could I have not known how fast I was really going? Bear in mind that the only other time I had attained 80mph had taken most of the Waitoa-Waihou straight and involved a lot of shaking and juddering, whereas the BMW attained and stopped from 80mph with no more effort than accelerating to and stopping from 80km/h on pretty much any other bike I'd ridden. Also, the roads were practically deserted that morning and there was no other traffic heading in my direction to compare my speed with.
I had nothing to alert me to the fact that I was going 60% faster than I thought I was.
Puch SR150: Resurrection
When I bought the Puch from a friend's father it had been sitting in a lean-to beside their garage for around five years without having been properly "laid-up" or given periodic runs, so it had to be brought my place by trailer.
I checked it over and it seemed in pretty OK condition, except for a bit of rust and the fact that there was no pipe between the exhaust manifold and the muffler, so I made up a mix of petrol and two-stroke oil and poured it into the tank.
A friend of mine, Lance, turned up just as I was about to try starting it and I told him it had not been running for five years but it looked OK, then asked what he thought the chances were of it starting first time.
"Not a chance," he replied.
I pumped the button on the carburettor a few times to get some fuel mix through the line then kicked down hard on the kick-start with the throttle open.
The engine roared explosively into life and actually made the TS125 seem like a quiet bike. Lance gave a shout that I scarcely heard over the roar of the engine and leaped backwards in fright.
We reckoned later that he'd come close to clearing the fence behind him.
The next two tales come from the same trip down to Wellington:
Honda CB360: Bloody Waiouru!
I hadn't had the bike long so I was still getting used to the way it handled when I decided to pack some clothes and head down to Palmerston North and Wellington to visit my sisters.
I had two packs (one worn, the other bungee-strapped to the tank) and two helmets: my full face and an open face with a pair of replica Mk VIII Royal Air Force goggles (just in case I saw an attractive hitch hiker on my travels.)
This was my first big trip down State Highway 1 by bike - the furthest afield I had ventured to that point had been down as far as Tokoroa on the TS125 back in the days of the 80km/h open road limit, which was pretty much as fast as the little TS could go. The speed limit was now 100km/h (around 60mph) and the CB360 was more than capable of it - in fact, it seemed to prefer 70.
I set out late in the day so night had fallen by the time I hit the infamous "Desert Road". The temperature had dropped dramatically and it was sleeting - a horrible sticky stuff that seemed to glue itself to my visor rather than sliding off.
Desert Road is narrow and winds up hill and down dale. The surface was wet and slippery, I was frozen and I could scarcely see so I was reduced to a crawl - 20mph - which served only to prolong the torture.
At one point was so sick of not being able to clear the sticky sleety crap from my visor that I stopped and took the goggles off the spare helmet, slid them down onto the chin guard of my helmet, opened the visor and slipped the goggles up onto my face so that I was looking through flat sheets of glass rather than a curved visor that distorted my view of the world.
That did improve the visibility but now the sleet was hitting my face as I continued my journey.
The sleet finally let up and I rolled slowly into Waiouru, frozen to the bone, in the wee small hours of the morning.
There was only one service station open at that hour of the morning and it didn't have a pie warmer. It didn't even have frozen pies and a microwave.
I decided I'd make do with refuelling and see if I could find warm food further South, so I pressed the button to release the tank flap. there was a sharp metallic crack and the button bounced across the concrete forecourt.
Bloody Hell, I thought. I'd heard in school that it gets so cold in Siberia that metal becomes brittle and snaps but I never expected to experience it here in New Zealand.
I borrowed a screwdriver from the attendant and attempted to carefully lever the catch to open the flap. There was another crack, the flap opened and the catch bounced on the forecourt.
Well, I had it open but now I couldn't close it again.
The attendant had a look around and found a long spring and, after filling the tank, I fastened the flap by hooking one end of the spring on the hinge, passing the spring over the flap and hooking the other end to what was left of the locking mechanism.
Frozen, hungry and somewhat demoralised, I resumed my journey.
Honda CB360: Taihape Hill
The road up the hill just south of Taihape was hated by many car drivers because it was so twisty.
I had managed to locate a wayfarer's café open at that ungodly hour of the morning and had consumed a hot pie; the temperature was warmer than it had been in Waiouru so I was feeling a lot better when I kicked the engine over and headed South out of town.
I dropped down the dip to the bottom of the hill and opened the throttle, the CB climbed steadily and I leaned around the first turn. There was a stream of cars coming slowly down the hill towards me as I gently rolled the bike from side to side around the sharp corners, climbing at a steady pace.
The bike handled like a dream and I felt one with the machine. Somewhere on that long and often uncomfortable journey I had gotten "the feel" for the bike and the proof was in the lack of effort it took to wind my way up that often despised hill.
Regrettably, that was the one and only time I rode the original winding road out of Taihape because not long later the road was straightened out as it was deemed to be "too dangerous" - the phrase "bloody whiny-arsed cagers" springs to mind.
Kawasaki CSR250: On a Shoestring
Alan was getting married and sent me an invitation to attend the ceremony and post-wedding booze-up in Wanganui.
I did not have a functioning bike of my own but my friend Georgina had said I could borrow her Kawasaki whenever I needed it. I confirmed that the bike would be available on the weekend in question and sent the RSVP form back marked in the affirmative.
Georgina's Kawasaki CSR250.
The Friday before the wedding arrived and I set off down SH1 in the late afternoon, secure in the knowledge I had a full tank and around $50 in the bank - enough, I figured, to get me there and back and buy some food along the way.
It was already dark when I made my first fuel stop in Taupo. I topped up the tank and tendered my EFT-POS card to pay for the petrol.
DECLINED.
We tried again with the same result and I ended up leaving my watch with the service station attendant as a guarantee that I would return while I rode to the nearest ATM to check my bank balance. I had some funds but not enough to cover the cost of the petrol. I was devastated - I had thought I had sufficient funds to get there and back and now it was evident that I would not have enough funds to get to my sister's house in Palmerston North, let alone Wanganui the following day.
I returned to the service station and paid what I could on the fuel from the EFT-POS terminal and was organising to pay the rest at a later stage when a young woman stepped in and offered to pay the rest. I remember her clearly as she had pierced ears, nose and lip.
I thanked her very much for her kindness and set off again (with my watch), unsure of how I was going to get to my sister's house. I could see myself stranded in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.
Around Waiouru I was getting low on fuel again so I stopped at a service station. I figured I would fill up (ah, the days before pre-pay service stations) and then when the card was declined I would come to some arrangement to repay it later.
I topped up the tank, wandered into the shop and tendered my card. Accepted! I concealed my surprise and left. I then figured out what had happened: it was after midnight and back in those days, the banks' computers were in the midst of updating in the early hours of the morning so were unable to give an accurate balance - therefore, by default, they accepted the transaction.
I had put myself in overdraft. I didn't have an overdraft facility, so I was going to pay for it in punitive bank fees later but the important thing was I had fuel.
I arrived at my sister's house in the early hours of Saturday morning. My sister was used to the hours at which I preferred to travel so she just brewed a coffee and found a spare bed for me.
The next morning, my sister gave me twenty dollars for petrol then I dressed in my tidy clothes and slipped wet weather trousers and my army-surplus greatcoat over the top. I set off for Wanganui, keeping pace with the traffic - which in those days before the prevalence of speed cameras was around 115 to 120km/h on average with a few reckless people exceeding that.
State Highway 3 between Palmerston North and Wanganui is a pleasure to ride, the weather was fine and the road surface and visibility were good so I had an enjoyable brisk ride to Wanganui. I stopped at a cemetery to have a cigarette and slip off my leggings and jacket before heading to the wedding.
The wedding was marvellous. Alan - usually with long hair and a beard and casual clothes looked almost unrecognisable: clean-shaven with short hair and an immaculate tuxedo. He looked for all the world like a young English Lord, his slender build and his height conveying a natural lordly elegance. Later, at the reception, he ruined the image by drinking his beer straight out of the jug - this was more like the Alan I knew. It was a relief to see that Lexia hadn't domesticated him too much.
After the reception I rode back to my sister's house in Palmerston North, planning to leave for Hamilton the next day.
The next morning I headed home with a full tank and a little over ten dollars left from the money my sister gave me. I knew it had taken more than that to get down to Palmerston North and I knew that I would not be able to get any money from my overdrawn account so I had to work out some way of getting home on what I had.
I figured that if I shed some speed I would save fuel so I rode at 80 to 90km/h on the open road while cars raced past me at around 115 or more and I slowed to the exact legal speed limit through the towns - 50km/h - while cars raced through at around 60 to 70km/h.
There were a couple of long downhill stretches so I pulled in the clutch, dropped the revs to idle and let gravity do its work.
The closer I got to Hamilton, the more confident I became that I would make it. I arrived back in Hamilton with a small amount of petrol in the tank and a little over a dollar in my pocket and took the bike back to Georgina.
It just goes to show: You don't need a large bike laden with three years' worth of provisions to have an adventure - all you need is a small bike, very little money, and a long distance to travel home...
Suzuki GT50: Car Wars
You've all seen the American movies where the villain tries to ram the hero off the road by swinging their car into the side of the hero's car and it devolves into a battle wherein the hero and villain smash into each other repeatedly and cars get pushed into barricades until finally the hero wins.
In real life only a moron does this.
Especially if they're on a motorcycle and the antagonist is in a car...
I was heading along Heaphy Terrace intending to turn down Fairfield Rd and make my way home. Suddenly the car in front of me - a Morris 1000 - stopped without signalling its intent to turn.
Fortunately I had plenty of time to evade and I gave a blast on the horn to say "Hey, I was behind you" then cruised past the car - and that was when I noticed the gang patch on the driver's jacket...
Just before I hung a left into Fairfield Rd, I glanced in my rear view mirror to see that the gang member had changed his mind about turning right into the side road and was pursuing me. I took the corner fast and opened the throttle, giving the little 50 all it had.
Ahead of me the road turned hard right and behind me the "Morrie Thou'" turned into Fairfield Rd.
Just before I got to the right-hand turn I glanced in my right-hand mirror and saw the car was on the right-hand side of the centre line, level with my rear wheel, and accelerating. I was an experienced rider by this stage and I could read trajectories well enough that I could tell he had no intention of staying on the right-hand side of the road on the corner - he was aiming to beat me to the corner and, if I followed my planned path, I would wind up turning into the side of his vehicle as he crossed back onto the left-hand side of the road.
There was only one thing I could do: I braked as hard as I could, keeping the bike on a straight line towards the rapidly-approaching curb.
The car shot past as I came to a halt and he crossed back into the left lane as predicted, swung his wheel to the right at the last moment and clipped the curb with his wheels as he took the corner.
I saw his brake lights come up and I turned my wheel to the left, let out the clutch, rode up over the curb onto the grass berm, swung the bike around and shot back onto the road in front of an on-coming car.
I raced up Fairfield Rd to Heaphy Terrace, took a quick glance to the right to make sure no one was coming, swung left into Heaphy Tce and then took the next side road to the right and hid around the first corner.
After a few minutes I sneaked cautiously out and took a circuitous route home, my eyes peeled for a certain Morris 1000.
I got home safely, parked the bike, pulled off my helmet and collapsed on the ground shaking and crying in terror - that was the first time (and only time to date) that anyone had deliberately tried to kill me.
It's an entirely different feeling to when they nearly kill you out of stupidity...
Honda CB550F: In Search of Axel (or at least the right road...)
Axel was back in New Zealand on yet another stage of his bicycle tour of the country, I had some time off work, the weather was fantastic and I actually had a functioning bike of my own.
Or, put another way, the conditions were ideal for a bike trip down South.
The plan was simple enough: give Axel a couple of days' head start, head down towards Wellington on the 550, catch up with him before he reaches Paraparaumu and then work out a way of guiding him to my sister's house in Titahi Bay.
The above mentioned trip through Desert Road and a couple of subsequent late night/early morning trips through there on the CB360 had me feeling disinclined to take that route - and besides, I'd ridden and hitch-hiked that road for years and I was bored with it. SH3 looked a more promising route - I had hitch-hiked it a few time and it seemed like it would be nice to ride it.
The route was simple enough, as well: SH3 through Te Kuiti to "Eight Mile Junction" where I turn onto SH4 to Taumarunui, Owhango (where my mother lived as a child) and National Park and then (because I felt disinclined to ride through the Parapara Highway), left onto SH49 through Ohakune to Waiouru and then down SH1 through Taihape etc to Paraparaumu - hopefully catching up with Axel en route.
I deliberately avoided the Parapara Highway as I did not want to attempt a narrow, winding unfamiliar road on an unfamiliar bike - especially since I wanted to be in or near Paraparaumu at a reasonable hour.
The weather was still brilliant when I set out from Hamilton and it was a lovely easy ride to Te Kuiti. I knew that section of the road well as I often visited friends who lived in Te Kuiti.
As I approached Te Kuiti, it occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea of how to get to "Eight Mile Junction", despite having passed through it a number of times with my family or while hitch hiking. Every time I had journeyed south of Te Kuiti, someone else had been driving and I had not paid attention to the route. All I knew was: you go out the south end of Te Kuiti.
I got onto the main street of Te Kuiti and continued south. There was a road heading south out of town so I followed it.
After travelling for a while with no sign of any junction with a sign pointing to Taumarunui I began to suspect I was in the wrong road. I had already gone a fair distance and I was not keen to waste any more time by doubling back so I continued on in the hopes that a signpost would point me in the right direction.
I began to get concerned when I saw sign posts referring to Taupo, which would put me north of the Desert Road at a far later time than if I had merely taken SH1 to Taupo.
I travelled along the narrow, winding road and arrived at Benneydale where I "got in touch with my feminine side" and stopped to ask directions (because, although I'm a bloke and can therefore fold a map, I didn't actually have a map.)
I was advised to turn around and take the first road to the left which would put me back on track towards Taumarunui.
I did as directed and found myself on a narrow and winding road that made the one I just traversed (and the Parapara Highway) seem like an Autobahn. I wound up hill and down dale, went through a stretch of gravel and back onto tarmac, and wound up thoroughly confused as to which direction I was going. A couple of times I was worried that I'd round one of the tight corners too fast and crash into the back end of a maroon-coloured CB550 being ridden by some dumb bugger who had taken the wrong road...
I arrived at a village sign-posted as "Waimiha", which seemed to echo the way I was feeling: "why me, huh?" I had been travelling winding narrow roads for hours and I had no idea of how close to Taumarunui I was getting. A real fear was that I would end up miles from Taumarunui after having wasted most of the morning.
I rolled on through Ongarue and a short while later emerged onto SH4. I was still worried that I had, after all that riding, emerged merely a few kilometres south of Eight Mile Junction.
Fortunately, it did not take me long to reach Taumarunui but I had wasted most the day crawling around unfamiliar narrow winding roads at fairly low speeds. At least I was now very familiar with the bike - I'd got in a lot of practise in the last few hours.
From Taumarunui I headed south out of town and went through Owhango, past Raurimu and climbed to National Park in the Central Plateau. The road was great, the weather was beautiful and I had great views of the "Three Sisters" - the mountains Tongariro, Ngauruhoe and Ruapehu.
A little north of Raetihi I turned left towards Ohakune and Waiouru on SH49. It was a great road to ride and it didn't take long at all to get to Waiouru and SH1. From here I knew the route to Wellington well, having hitch-hiked and ridden it more times than I cared to remember.
I continued vaguely southwards through Taihape to Bulls where State Highways 1 and 3 merge. At Sanson the highways separate again and I took SH1 south through Levin.
Around Otaki I could smell the sea air and I was feeling like I was on the "home stretch". I kept my eyes peeled for Axel's bike in case he had been delayed on his journey but I was beginning to suspect he would be well and truly settled at Paraparaumu by now.
There was no sign of him as I passed through Waikanae and arrived in Paraparaumu, the town of my birth. I knew his plan was to stay at the camping ground in Paraparaumu if we missed each other on the road but I had no idea where that was. My earlier experience south of Te Kuiti left me doubtful of my ability to locate the right road so I continued south through familiar roads, turned off at Porirua and arrived at my sister's house in Titahi Bay.
The next morning I set off early, heading northwards with the hope that I would locate Axel on the road.
There was no sign of him between Porirua and Pukerua Bay and as I rolled up the hill at Pukerua Bay I knew that I was about to get onto the coastal section of the highway - if I encountered him on that section, I would not be able to turn around until I reached Paekakariki.
I crested the hill and was about to descend to the coastal road when I saw a bicycle helmet bobbing up the road towards me. Axel's face hove into view so I quickly signalled to turn left and pulled into a parking area. I tooted the horn and waved and Axel crossed the road to join me. Found him in the proverbial "nick of time"...
I gave him directions to get to Porirua and told him that should have no difficulty locating it because the signage, as I had noticed the previous day, instructs that bicycles must turn off before the main motorway to Wellington starts - he would have get off SH1 at Porirua whether he wanted to or not.
We set off southwards again and I waited for him in Porirua to guide him to Titahi Bay. I didn't have to wait too long as he made good time. I led the way, riding as slowly as the conditions would permit and waited for Axel at the intersections to keep him on the right track. In this wise, Axel got to Titahi Bay where he met my family.
On the return journey I learned to my relief that the Ongarue turn-off is quite a long way south of Eight Mile Junction and the map shows me that I had not actually detoured too far out of my way. If I'd made better time through there I probably would have caught up with Axel before he got to Paraparaumu.
Ever since that journey, my preferred route to Palmerston North or Wellington has been via Te Kuiti (I've since found the correct route to Eight Mile Junction), Taumarunui, National Park and Ohakune to Waiouru and then take SH1 from there.
More stories in Riding Tales 2