A BIKERS ADVENTURE
by Bryan Partridge Apprentice Biker's Tale It was June 1954 and I was six months into my job as an apprentice Industrial Photographer at the Brush Electrical Eng. Ltd. the largest employer in Loughborough, Leicestershire. Most people seemed to either work for the Brush, who made a wide range of heavy engineering machinery including transformers, switchgear, turbines for power stations, diesel electric locomotives, etc. or Herbert Morris Ltd who made heavy lifting equipment. I had always been interested in vehicles, not surprisingly given that my parents ran the High Street garage where I lived in the village of Barrow-on-Soar some 5 miles from the factory.
My father used a number of cars for the private hire service he operated. I can recall a very nice Wolseley 18, a late forties Humber Super Snipe and an early thirties Humber in which the family went to Silverstone in the early 1950's to see the British car grand prix – sadly there was a torrential storm on the race day and the Humber sank to the axles in the mud. We were eventually towed off.
The mechanic at our garage owned a big Levis with which he had regular timing problems culminating in a frequently bruised shin. My brother ran an early OK Supreme and he had a friend with an evil looking and even more evil sounding Indian. I was more drawn towards bikes, and this interest was cemented when I started work to find that my boss John owned an immaculate BSA B33.
As an impressionable teenager I marvelled at the range of bikes in the large motor cycle park at the factory, and the camaraderie amongst the riders. There was a wonderful atmosphere, sounds and smells at the end of the day and if anyone couldn't start their bike someone would always stay on to help. Looking round the park you could see everything from Cyclemasters, BSA Winged Wheels, 2 speed Excelsior's, James, Francis Barnett, big singles, Ariel Square Fours, Triumphs through to a lone Vincent Black Shadow. As this was before the Mini there were also a number of sidecar outfits including M21's and Panthers.
Having just passed my sixteenth birthday I was desperate to be one of the boys and ride my own bike to the factory. The problem was one of very limited resources. I sold my Rudge Pathfinder pushbike for six pounds to which I was able to add eight pounds in cash. The Brush factory was located next to the Railway Station and straddled between the two was a branch of Colmore Motorcycles. Clearly, even in 1954 I was not going to get much for fourteen pounds and after some haggling I settled for a 1949 single speed Brockhouse Corgi in sound running order and complete with a metal lunchbox fixed over the rear mudguard.
Following a weekend's familiarisation and absorption of my family's criticism/disdain I was ready for the maiden trip to work. When I arrived at the factory the other bikers who were dismounting or parking their bikes were aware of my impending arrival due to the Corgi's straight through silencer. When I came into view I was greeted with a mixture of cheers, laughter and shaking of heads. I should point out that I was already 6feet 6inches tall and when combined with my ankle length PVC coat, ex RAF flying helmet and mark eight goggles it was not surprising that I initially came in for some ribbing. However, for me it didn't matter, I had made it, at least to the first stage.
Apart from a running battle with the Barrow and Sileby constabulary over the persistent lack of a rear light, life with the Corgi was fairly uneventful – it proved reliable for work and for travelling to local village dances/pubs. The only time it let me down for work I abandoned it and took my brother's Corgi – he had bought one after me but rarely used it. Because I was late for work I omitted to ask if I could borrow it for the day. You will not be surprised to hear that this was to be the time for my first accident. On the way home I was confronted by a car pulling out of a side road. With more experience I would have let him go and gone round the back of the car, or with better brakes I would have stopped, but what I actually did was try and get round the front – it didn't work, I was knocked off and the bike ended up in a ditch. The bike was unrideable and I had a badly bruised and cut leg.
Luckily for me one of the bikers I knew from the factory and who also lived in the village stopped on his Matchless G9, dealt with the car driver and gave me a lift home, leaving the Corgi fairly well hidden in the ditch. When I got home everyone was sympathetic, none more so than my brother Peter. Having satisfied himself that I was not badly injured he said I hope your bike is ok, and that's when I had to point out that it was his Corgi, not mine. Having weathered that particular storm there were more repurcussions on the horizon. I had to give my bike details to the village bobby and as I was only insured for my bike I gave him the details of mine rather than Peter's. It was a small village and a couple of days later I was out on my own Corgi just as the bobby was passing our garage. He stopped me and commented on the remarkable progress I had made in getting the bike fixed. He gave me what I suppose you would call an old fashioned look which meant that we both new the truth of the matter, but for this one occasion I was being allowed to get away with it.
I was employed as an Apprentice Industrial Photographer which was a fabulous job - the work was interesting and it involved working in all areas of the factory, travelling round the country to various installations and meeting some wonderful characters. I was able to do a detour whilst working in the factory and visit some the biking machinists and tool makers on the shop floor. This was frowned upon by the foreman in one area and I was unceremoniously chased out. However this pales into insignificance when compared to the time I wanted to leave work dead on time. This meant getting to the clock machine before the due time and waiting for 5.30pm. to arrive. On this occasion I was approached by the Transformer Shop Superintendent who grabbed me by an ear and frog marched me through the whole of the workshop to my senior boss the Publicity Manager. The reason for his action was he thought I was encouraging some of his workers to indulge in the same practice, and to be fair it was not the first time I had arrived at the clock a couple of minutes early. Fortunately for me the manager thought I had suffered enough humiliation in front of the cheering workers.
By mid 1955 I was determined to swap my Corgi for something bigger. Shortage of funds was still a problem partly due to an overspend on nights out. I can't recall why I particularly chose Leicester but I found myself at a place called Leicester Motor Auctions(LMA). I went with my boss John and decided to purchase a 1952 BSA C10 rigid model – not what I really wanted but I saw it as a step forward and at £55 pounds I could afford it albeit on hire purchase. The trade in price for my Corgi was to be agreed on the day of changeover. John and I set off separately to collect the BSA. I got to within 2 miles of LMA when the Corgi expired accompanied by a large pool of oil on the ground. It refused to restart so I pushed it all the way to the garage where John had been waiting for some time and was starting to get worried. I explained what had happened and was panicking in case LMA would not accept the Corgi in part exchange. Before taking it in I had another attempt to start it and it fired up straight away. I kept it running while John found the salesman who took one look at it and said "oh it works then" and promptly confirmed a trade in price of twenty pounds – I couldn't believe my luck, I had actually made a profit.
I rode the BSA home very pleased with myself. The BSA was undeniably slow and with the Corgi having been paced by John on his new BSA Gold Flash at 38mph flat out, the C10 was not that much faster, but it felt like a proper bike and again it was very reliable. It took me further afield to Derby for my day release course. I can remember little of the course but I vividly recall the lunchtime roller skating sessions at the Derby Trocadero.
Whilst John and I worked hard there were moments of light relief and mischief. At one stage John found a large amount of redundant lead covered telephone wire hanging off one of the factory buildings. Our darkroom was located at the end of the Packing Shop, brilliant for dust free photographs!! However, we cut the wire into small strips, gently slid open the sliding door and catapulted the wire towards the Packing Shop ceiling from where it descended and landed on an unsuspecting packer called Jim(the name has been changed to protect the luckless victim). Jim was used as target practice intermittently over six months or more. He thought it was coming from the floor above. At one point Jim's manager was called in to investigate as was the local union rep. One or two of the other packers had cottoned on and started throwing the wire at him, and the final insult was when we spotted the manager casually lobbing a piece at him from behind. Jim never got to the bottom of it and we gave up when we noticed he was developing an involuntary twitch.
Early in 1957 I again found myself short of cash and sold the C10 to Jones Garage at Syston – I was destined to do a number of deals with Jones over the next few years. I originally tried to sell it back to LMA in Leicester but the same salesman who sold it to me (who clearly didn't remember me) said that 1952 was a bad year for the quality of metal used in the bike and rejected it. I pointed out that he had not said anything about this problem when he sold me the bike – he looked mildly embarrassed and just walked away. I received £38 for the C10 which paid off my outstanding HP and gave me some cash to purchase much needed home photography processing equipment. I had thoughts of making a fortune in my spare time doing portraits and film processing and using my parents' shop as the marketing outlet. I did make some money but soon got fed up working in the evenings when all my mates were out having fun.
Later that year my luck changed when my mother gave me £150 pounds from a legacy left by an Aunt of hers. In a manner typical of the way I have always responded as soon as I have any money I raced over to Jones Garage in the hope of spending it all immediately. I came away with a 1956 model Royal Enfield Clipper 350. It was in excellent condition and was barely run in. Jones agreed to replace the single seat with a feridax dualseat and to get it taxed and ready for me within three days. Despite the Clipper being the poor relation of the Bullet it had a fair turn of speed and was held in high regard by my biking mates at the factory who took it out for a spin and were very impressed. The downside of Clipper ownership was the poor finish on the cycle parts and the tendency to deposit oil on various friends and relatives driveways.
In 1958 following a crash between the Clipper and a car which left the rear end slightly damaged I decided it was time for another change. I went back to Jones Emporium and bought a three month old Panther 250 with the Villiers 2T engine. Strange though it may seem to some I loved the look of the Panther and its smooth , lively acceleration to around 55mph. It would cruise easily at 60mph with occasional bursts of 70+. It made a fabulous induction roar as I opened it up as I left the factory and pulled up the short hill and over the railway bridge leaving a dense smoke trail in my wake.
I completed more than 17000 miles on the Panther (where is RJF 925 now?) until I was called up for National Service in May 1960. Apart from the odd decoke, points adjustment etc. and intermittent poor hot starting the bike served me well. Journeys included at least three tours around North and Mid Wales two up. When my wife and I married we went on our honeymoon again to North Wales on the Panther. This journey was marred when we arrived late at night virtually without lights in Talybont to find that there are more than one Talybont's in Wales and of course we were at the wrong one. We had another 40 miles to go before we arrived exhausted at the correct one. Needless to say we abandoned the traditional honeymoon night activities.
When I joined the army I was stationed at Hilsea barracks, Portsmouth and due to my height I was kept in a holding platoon because they had no uniforms to fit me. Having got through the basic training I was seconded to the sergeant's mess as a waiter – apparently the steward had a thing about tall men and always arranged for a number of us oddities to be allocated to him. It was a very cushy number and I was sorry when my uniforms arrived in November 1960 and I was sent off to Blackdown for further training. Following a three months posting to Bicester, Oxford I was sent to TyCroes, Anglesey to carry out photographic and reprographic duties on a Royal Artillery camp.
Having settled in Ty Croes I had to work out the best way to get home at weekends. I felt that the journey from Loughborough would be too much for me and the Panther on a regular basis so it was back to Jones where I traded in the Panther for a six month old Norton Dominator De Luxe 99. Obviously this was my best bike to date but following a number of horrendous trips through Ice , snow and freezing cold together with a close encounter with a fox somewhere near Builth Wells I chickened out and reluctantly went back to Jones and traded the Dommi in for a just second hand Berkeley T60.
Apart from fuel starvation in the Welsh mountains the Berkeley ran well and due to being so low to the ground gave the impression that you were travelling at high speed when in fact you were trundling along at around 50mph. Fairly quickly, after three months' it was clear that it was not up to the job on a regular basis. On one occasion it broke down near Shrewsbury on the A5 due to a snapped drive chain. I left it by the roadside and hitched a lift back to camp. It was picked up three days later by Messrs. Jones and taken back to Syston for repair – it's interesting to note that none of the wheels had been removed, in fact it was just as I had left it which is either a sign of times past or a comment on the Berkeley's lack of appeal to vandals and thieves. Following further evidence of rapid engine deterioration I decided to return to Jones for yet another change. This time my wife baled me out with the purchase of a brand new Reliant van – I would have preferred one of the new Minis but didn't have a car licence and was not prepared to wait for one in case I failed. The alternative of travelling to and from camp by train did not appeal.
The Reliant was utterly reliable if spartan, with the only excitement being travelling back to camp on icy and rutted roads leaving no suitable track for the front wheel. For the first time since my sixteenth birthday I was without a bike and this remained the case until I completed my National Service in May 1962. I returned to biking later that year but will save the account of this and my attempt to get involved with sidecars and solo Classic Racing for another day.
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