It all started with a pub a few miles from home, I have decided retrospectively. (For my friends around the world, pub is an abbreviation for Public House or Bar.) I could get there quicker with an engine between my legs than I could by pedal power alone. Besides which, arriving at a pub on a bicycle was simply not ‘cool’ in those days.
In fact I had spent a lot of time on bicycles in my early teenage years. Riding around Surrey, England, in ever increasing circles, filling in time when not at school, may have also fuelled a desire to travel to places unknown. I certainly enjoyed the rides. My first school holiday job was repairing and renovating bicycles for a charming gentleman called Mr. Ballard. I got pretty good at stripping them down to a bare frame, repainting, polishing everything, and putting them back to together. After that I sought a succession of holiday jobs cleaning cars, stacking supermarket shelves, working in various shops selling plastic things, kitchen furniture, and clothes *, as well as sweeping floors in a department store. All of which helped me save enough money to buy my first bike, with an engine.
Strictly speaking it was a 49cc. moped, but I imagined it was a Norton Commando, the stuff of dreams. In a crouched position I could almost reach 50 miles per hour. Although it terrified my mother, it gave me a whole new sense of freedom. I could travel further and faster, and look ‘cool’ too. However, I am ashamed to admit that I gave no consideration to the drink-drive laws which I now abide rigorously. Journeys home from that pub, from time to time, included deviations over a golf course fairway, occasionally sliding sideways, and trying with increasing speed each time, to get air between me, the bike and a certain humpback bridge.
Disgraceful Mark!
My first ‘bike’. A Yamaha FS1E, known as a Fizzie. (Photo courtesy of someone’s restoration)
The Fizzie was mostly reliable, but had an aversion to rain. It left me powerless on a number of occasions, with no choice but to push it all the way home, getting ever more drenched, as well as miserable. It was time for something bigger, better, and able to deliver me that 50 miles per hour experience.
A Suzuki TS-90 entered my life. A motorbike, not a moped. Now I was really ‘cool’.
Suzuki TS-90.
I took the tank off and re-spayed it a different shade of blue, just as I had done with Mr.Ballard’s bicycles. The chrome absorbed a lot of polishing time, and after a while I repainted the black exhaust. Although I reached 50 miles per hour easily, it failed to achieve my new goal - attracting women. I couldn’t even find one who was interested in riding pillion with me, but noticed a number of friends were enjoying success because they had a car. The bike got sold shortly after the piston seized on me, and after several attempts I managed to pass my driving test. Up until that point I only needed a ‘provisional’ license to ride bikes up to 250cc. in the UK. Just a piece of paper, obtained without any training whatsoever.
My first car achieved my new goal; taking women for a ride. So much so that I did not miss the bike.
My Mini. Basic, reliable and comparatively inexpensive. That’s me on the left, looking ‘cool’, with Nick and John from college. We all achieved our ‘goals’.
A year or so later I met Sue, and my life changed. Thoughts of another motorbike were put aside in favour of a succession of ever larger cars, for the ever increasing needs of a family. One summer holiday we remembered well. It was in 1992. The Renault Espace was loaded with kids, bicycles and camping gear for four. We were stuck in a jam on a French motorway when Sue, observing how motorcyclists easily filtered past us en route to their holiday destination before us, announced “Mark, one day I want you to get a big bike, and ride off into the sunset with me on the back. Just the two of us”. So that was how the next bike chapter started.
I took my test, passing first time, and we bought an old BMW R90/RT.
The first bike in my ‘born again biker era’. A BMW R90/RT. Still looking ‘cool’ of course.
In fact we did not use it as expected. An hour or so at a time in the countryside around us was all Sue could manage before feeling uncomfortable.
A hired Honda Goldwing for a week in Nevada and Arizona one year pointed to a better future for her.
We then traded-up to a much newer BMW R1100RT in 1997. That was really when the bug bit. We toured a good deal around Europe, down to Germany and Switzerland, as well as dashing down to Cassis, near Marseilles, several times. I also rode up to John O’Groats from London just for a long weekend.
The BM eventually gave way to the first Triumph Rocket. An early example from 2006. The first trip was to the Isle of Man TT, where a ‘tank-slapping’ moment braking too hard for a corner on the mountain course on Mad Sunday almost ended everything.
Tours around Europe increased exponentially. Morocco, Italy, Turkey and most countries in between, were lapped up with relish. We added a custom pillion seat and intercom to make life on the road all the more enjoyable. One year, we flew the bike to New York and rode it in a giant zig-zig across the States to Los Angeles. The variety and range of experiences and emotions on that trip were remarkable. Quite by chance we learnt that the Bonneville Salt Flats had just opened to the public that year. We rode out to the middle, not trying to set a record, but stopping for a photo.
Our 2006 Triumph Rocket on Bonneville Salt Flats, Utah.
Still looking ‘cool’, people say, but in fact my hair was swept back because I was sweating so much. Sue was shielding her eyes from the sun, and the Rocket maintained a magnificent pose.
A Harley Sportster 883 Iron followed. It looked and sounded good, but otherwise did not really excite me. I missed the Rocket, but used the Harley for commuting mostly. The next bike was a Triumph Tiger; comfortable, agile and dependable, but something was still missing. The Rocket.
A casual glance at Triumph’s website the day before I took the Tiger in for a service, left me frothing at the mouth. I drooled over an image of something called a Rocket X - a tenth anniversary special addition, all in black. The second mistake I made was telling the chaps at Jack Lilley, my Triumph dealer, that I had seen it on the website the evening before. They replied, “Like that one over there!”. I turned around and my legs gave way from under me. It look less than a minute to decide. “I’ll have it”.
The huge grin returned immediately. The one I missed so much after the first Rocket was sold. The colossal road presence, weight, and pot-hole absorbing ability made commuting in London once more such a joy. The torque did its best to throw me off the back when I flicked the throttle with vigour; probably more often than I should have tried.
But the commuting came to an end when our company died. Then Sue died. Then I got on the Rocket X and rode it around the world. You know this part of the story by now.
Proudly standing beside my Triumph Rocket X at Uluru, Australia.
This Rocket X enabled me to change my life, or perhaps I changed because of it. Either way, my life would not have changed without it. And for the better.
*****
* I took a Saturday job working in a clothes shop in Kingston called “Mates, by Irvine Sellar”. He started selling clothes from a market stall and later developed a small chain of clothes shops. His business model was ahead of its time, selling mens clothes on the ground floor and womens clothes on the first floor. I did not get to know him well but he gave me a few useful tips on selling. Much later I learnt that he sold his shops and started a property development business. His greatest challenge, and greatest success, came towards the end of his life when he developed “THE SHARD” in London - the tallest building in the UK. Bravo Irvine.