Читать книгу No Room For Watermelons - Ron Fellowes - Страница 8

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Easy Rider

A middle class upbringing in New Zealand after World War II taught me how to be resourceful, and that I could achieve anything I wanted — if I worked hard enough. From a young age, I earned money delivering the morning Herald. Customers tipped generously for my marksmanship: I could lob a rolled and bent newspaper onto their porch from the kerb 10 metres away.

On frosty winter mornings, I stuffed a few newspapers — hot off the press — down my shirt to ward off the cold. And, in what I thought was a stroke of genius, I filled the handlebars of my bicycle with boiling water and plugged each end with a cork. My hands stayed warm for at least 10 minutes, and two or three nine-penny meat pies staved off hunger until I made it home for breakfast. I worked at after-school jobs and on weekends I picked strawberries. During the holidays I apprenticed for an electrician. Despite my good work ethic, I was caned regularly at school and my most favourable school report read, ‘Ronald is a born leader. It’s just a shame he leads others in the wrong direction.’

At the age of 12, I rode on the back of a family friend’s motorcycle, an experience that left me with a burn on my leg from a hot exhaust pipe and a fire in my belly to ride a machine of my own.

Within a year, I’d saved enough to buy my first motorcycle: a war-issue Harley Davidson, which I secretly stored at a neighbour’s house. I spent every spare moment taking the engine apart and rebuilding it until I understood what made it tick. But it never saw the light of day; I couldn’t afford a battery and wasn’t even strong enough to kick it over. I gave the motorcycle back to its previous owner, and moved on to something more my size.

Too young to hold a licence, I made a go-kart from scrap and practiced honing my skills on a vacant piece of land. A scoria quarry nearby provided an excellent racetrack for my unbridled enthusiasm.

I persuaded a mate, whose parents were more well-heeled than mine, to let me test ride his Dot, then, later, his cool Norton Dominator. I was hooked on the exhilaration of riding, and dreamt of little else. But my father forbade me to own a motorcycle.

‘They’re dangerous, you’ll bloody kill yourself,’ he barked, rolling another cigarette. When Dad finally relented, he made one stipulation: my first bike could only have a maximum capacity of 175cc. A turquoise and cream N-Zeta scooter wasn’t fast, nor did it match the image I had of myself as a boy racer, but it did have two wheels, and that was a start. Tearing up and down the streets with a gang of friends — whose motorcycles dripped oil and reverberated through the neighbourhood — pretty soon earned me a reputation as a hooligan.

Despite being sorely tested, my parents finally capitulated and agreed I could have a real motorcycle. Over the next couple of years, I acquired a side-valve Indian, a ’56 Matchless, a DKW, a Velocette, a ’34 and a ’35 single Royal Enfield, and the bones of a highly prized Grey Flash Vincent.

The Vincent’s tank and forks needed painting and I was confident I could achieve a baked enamel finish by doing the job myself. I rose early one morning, carefully heated an aerosol can of paint on the kitchen stove, and, when the paint was warm enough I gave the can a vigorous shake. BOOOOOM!

The arse blew clean out of the can, spraying grey paint all over my mother’s newly decorated kitchen. The blast woke the family — in fact most of our neighbours. My ears rang like a smithy’s anvil. Mum took one look at the chaos, burst into tears and ran back to the bedroom, leaving Dad and me to clean up the mess.

My Mum, bless her, soon forgave me and suggested I learn a trade. I had to agree. It made sense for me, as an avid collector of motorcycle junk, to become a mechanic. But my appetite for thrill-seeking continued unabated. Before long, I was trying my hand at trials riding, scrambles and beach and road racing. On one occasion, like a fool, I sped across Murewai beach with my right leg in plaster — the result of a recent crash. By the end of the day, the sodden cast had disintegrated. I wasn’t game to go back to the hospital and admit to what I’d been up to, so I took the philosophical approach: if my broken ankle hadn’t healed by now it probably never would.

My mate Grant ‘Hickey’ Innes and I excelled at falling off bikes and acting like clowns. While whistling and showing off to a group of schoolgirls one day, Grant spun the back wheel of his 500cc BSA and the two of us flew over the handlebars, landing in an embarrassing heap in front of the girls. They fell about laughing at our display of machismo, and laughed even harder when we offered them our autographs.

By the age of 21, I was a certified diesel mechanic and had met my future wife. Happily, Lynne shared my love of motorcycles, which was just as well, as my idea of a night out was to roar around the speedway circuit astride a Vincent sidecar, then have my date push-start my old Fordson van so I could take her home. Whether it was the sight of me in tight leathers, or the smell of racing fuel, that had Lynne smitten, I don’t know, but six weeks after our first date we married.

Eventually I outgrew racing, being attracted more towards vintage motorcycles. Over the years, I painstakingly restored a 1924 single and a 1922 800cc V-twin AJS, adding a sidecar to the larger bike for family holidays and regional rallies, and a 1970 Kawasaki H1 Triple, the fastest motorcycle of its time.

I also rebuilt a 1950 Norman motorcycle for Lynne. On the first outing her bell-bottom trousers tangled in the chain, bringing the bike to an abrupt stop at the traffic lights. Mortified, she tried to drag the bike — still attached to her leg — away from eyeshot of bemused motorists. With the assistance of a bystander who had raced inside for a breadknife, she extricated herself from the chain and rode home with one trouser leg hacked off at the knee. It was some time before I could persuade her to ride on her own again.

A customer of the garage where I worked stopped by one day and was quite taken when he saw me tinkering with my AJS and sidecar.

‘I have the remains of an old four-cylinder motorcycle I rescued from a disused sawmill,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what it is, but, from the looks of your splendid restoration of this one, I reckon you could do something with it. Would you be interested in coming around and taking a look?’

Four-cylinder machines were rare and my interest was piqued. Most of the bike was missing, but I accepted the challenge and promised to let my benefactor know when I had identified the bike.

Only after I’d loaded the rusty engine and cradle into the car did I consider Lynne’s reaction to another pile of junk being added to my growing collection. With all the sensitivity of a new-age man, I stopped off on the way home to buy a box of her favourite chocolates.