Furiously moving shorts

Large coins in furiously moving shorts

 There’s all manner of debris to be found down the sides of the sofa, and I vividly remember my father hacking away madly at an upturned three piece suite.  He was sure he was on to a winner. This scene is deeply imprinted upon my mind, and no settee since has left my possession without having its guts ripped out. It’s hard to beat the feeling of thinking you are about to get something for nothing…..even if it was actually yours in the first place.

  

For my efforts I have been able to top up my sons LEGO collection, pocket a few small coins, and have amassed bin loads of tissues orange peel and old toast.  Since about the 90’s there has been the subtle introduction of the remote control too. In 10 years time no doubt settees will rattle with MP3 players, memory sticks and dongles……..whatever they are.  

 As a young boy growing up in a public house, my concept of the freebie developed, and I dared go where I imagined my father never ventured. Daily I rummaged round all the seats in the bars after shutting time.  Plenty of cash is left behind by drunken men with loose pockets.  The cleaners were not too thorough and could have doubled their income if they only knew what I knew. Being the son of a publican I also found favour with the locals, who would treat me to crisps, nuts, shandy and free pool.  In those days the jukebox would be refreshed weekly with vinyl. If I timed it right, I could be the sole beneficiary of an instant record collection.

Hooked on my own brand of “recycling”, I walked for miles along cycle paths, which I learned were coin graveyards. Keen cyclists, with few places to stick a wallet, would shove large coins in furiously moving shorts. These coins would shake out unnoticed as the hobbyist flew along, and roll more often not into that conveniently placed receptacle which I had claimed as my territory……..the gutter.

 Growing up in a seaside town in England also had its benefits in the form of gaming arcades.  Everybody has found the odd coin in the "winnings" tray, but I coaxed these glitzy machines through their worst financial moments.  Natural disasters of unknown origin would cause hard cash to fall and I duly harvested their crop into my tiny hands. Neither lookout nor getaway vehicle was needed, just the sanctuary of the nearest sweetshop. Bliss!  

Back in the pub I also developed the unfortunate habit of collecting "drippings". Every spirit bottle, (stupidly hung upside down), beer pump and dispenser had its leaks. I was a leader in the field of recycling long before the word had been invented.  Catching the drips with dozens of containers would have been too obvious, so instead I would meticulously "milk” leaky vessels and taps into my cup.

 Perhaps dad was onto it too. He seemed quite happy to spill and “lose” beer to the drip trays.  These were regularly decanted into large jugs I wonder now if like me he drank his frothy mixed beers, or re-branded them for sales “aftertime”.  Maybe he was in the big league after all.

                                                                             

Maintenance free motorcycles

Maintenance Free!                 

Picture a rider ploughing through the gutter at 22mph on a Suzuki FZ50.  He wears mittens, wellies and a fluorescent yellow jacket. Is he a biker, a comedian, or worse?  Well, since that rider was me, I thought my experiences would be worth telling.

In 1988 I bought an old Honda C70 for fifty quid.  A quick tour of the controls and off I sped into the darkness with no idea and no documents. But hey, twenty years ago you COULD do that SHIT! That tatty bike was liberating, and never skipped a beat.  I assumed all bikes were maintenance free.

Freezing night journeys tortured the hands body and soul.  At my destination I would kick at the door for assistance and greet my girlfriend with the smallest not -so- old- man in history. Had that bike stopped, jumping under the nearest truck would have been tempting. The Honda is lovingly etched in my mind for all time as SHG83IX. One day I looked in the back yard, and some bastard had pinched it.

I bought a T reg. orange and white Suzuki FZ50 for £150, essentially a woman's shopper bike minus wicker basket. The top box permitted the perching   of an unfortunate friend. The feeble FZ50 would do its one gear change at 11mph, and slipped between gears on the slightest incline. I affectionately nicknamed it “The Juggernaut”. I could stop it moving off on full throttle by keeping my feet on the ground. Top speed a thrilling 22mph.  Jeering teens on push-bikes would overtake me.  Hell I was famous on that thing!

The Suzuki suffered a daily 3.5 hour Runcorn to Manchester commute.  Right hand turns meant pulling over on the left to wait for a gap. It overheated and the exhaust melted off. One bleak morning, after being pounded for half an hour, the kick starter snapped off. Ninety pence used to fill her up. Sadly missed.

A £350 Yamaha YB100 was my first “proper” bike, and ignorant of gears and clutches I pushed it two miles to a field near my mums' house.

On my first ride I purposely slid it to the ground as it accelerated out of control.  I knew nothing of the kill switch or neutral back then. The problem was fixed and time for messing about over.  I pointed the bike towards Runcorn and learned to ride “on the job”. My heart was in my mouth, the wheels were in the gutter (a habit from the FZ50 days).  Beeps were heard from fellow road users, (egging me on I like to think)!  Exhilaration and fear merged, and never before or since have I felt more alive.

Back on planet earth I met up with a fellow biker endowed with blue flashing lights. The rear tire was balder than a baby's bum and producing documents proved difficult. However, it was “not in the public's interest” to “do me”!  I duly received a new two year licence. Back in the eighties they really knew how to look after people!

 The Yamaha was jet fighter material compared to the FZ50, and momentously I overtook a tractor on the A49.  The 2 stroke oil use was pushed to the limit and I was often seen limping to garages in pursuit of red bike medicine.

The YB eventually got passed to a friend who promptly wrote it off, along with the normal functioning of his arm.

Twenty years later I acquired a Honda Superdream CB250N. This machine was admired by many and deemed   “bullet proof”.  With no licence I couldn't ride it.    After years of road use I needed the CBT, lessons, the tests, the lot.....very humbling. The 125cc learner’s bike laboured around the test route with eighteen stones on board. The instructor had to wait at the top of hills. But my efforts paid off and I passed the test on a 500cc bike six weeks later. I ditched the anorak look and obtained appropriate clothing, which I noticed was “not designed for personal protection”?

 The Superdream showed signs of age and needed braided hoses, fork seals, chain and sprocket, battery, and more.  Ignorant of a fuel tank leak AND the fuel switch, I pushed the Honda up many a Fell in Cumbria and resorted at one point to having my wife follow me in the car with a spare can.

 “Treat it like an old woman and keep it indoors” advised the previous owner. Well, I couldn't be arsed, but did buy a cover from Argos, which promptly melted onto the exhaust. Handy! The bike struggled with harsh Cumbrian winter conditions and the throttle cable would freeze.  Recent training meant I knew about the kill switch this time round. The choke cable froze and was pulled out by its roots. When the starter motor seized, I came close to collapse running up and down jump starting. Eventually there was little going for the bike, and literally nothing on the bike going!

 It is with much regret that I acknowledge my part in its demise.

Honda shaft drives have been recommended to me as a next bike. These are apparently maintenance free!