PW_1_2019

Article

Me and Motorbikes The lure of the dusty highway David Lewis , IPA Writers Group My first bike was a police patrol Thunderbird 650 in a distinctive metallic blue. I was only eight and the incredible die-cast metal detail was wasted on me then. But I still remember the tiny tread lines featured on the tyres, the accuracy of the individual spokes, the moving handlebars; even the paper number plate stuck on the front mud-guard mounting. I was hooked, so when my older friends talked about Norton Commandos, Triumph Bonnevilles, BSAs and other iconic British bikes, I listened in awe.

I promised myself that one day I would own such a dream . Just once I rode pillion, helmetless, to the absolute horror of my mother, who was convinced I was being forcibly abducted into a motorcycle gang. Perhaps I had been, because as soon as I joined the police and had a regular wage, I trotted down to a local dealer. I had never ridden a bike before but out I came pushing my very first machine: a Jawa CZ 175 in brown and cream. It was a great big solidly built tank of a thing built in Czechoslovakia, so heavy that I could barely push it the mile and a half back home. But it looked the business and it sounded the business and it was mine. I secured it as well as I could and set out to study the manual. Eventually I worked out how to start the beast, and my love-hate relationship with the open road had begun. Inevitably, and undoubtedly reminiscent of Mr Toad, given my inexperience and the crowded London roads, I came a cropper sooner rather than later. I was riding merrily along the King’s Road, Chelsea to Bow Street Magistrates Court, when the braking of the car in front brought me to a sudden stop. Well, the bike stopped suddenly, embedded in the boot of the car; I continued in a perfect arc to meet the staring eyes of the driver as I passed over the car’s roof and down the windscreen to land on the bonnet.

I remember standing up, throwing down my gauntlets in absolute fury at the driver and marching towards the driver’s door to vent my anger. I took two steps and heard a horrible sounding snap; the rest was an oblivion of pain, which was only relieved by a huge dose of morphine as I waited four long hours in a hospital corridor until I could be seen. I had a compound fracture of the left tibia and fibula. I was off work for six months and sold the bike; my confidence and ego were as shattered as my leg. On recovery, I bought a Falcon 12 speed racing cycle as a replacement, but it wasn’t the same. The lure remained and soon I returned to motorbikes. Actually, it was a second hand Honda 50 cc moped; all I could afford at the time. I had learnt my lesson the hard way and now I decided to start at the beginning and work my way up. I took lessons; the two step programme and I quickly progressed to a Yamaha 90, technically a motorbike but really a very slightly more powerful moped. So far so good. I then progressed to a Honda 125 scooter; a much more suitable form of transport in fact for a confidence-shot wannabe-biker. I passed my test and rather shockingly found myself authorised to ride 1000 cc superbikes. Then, back in London, I had a series of stationary biking incidents. In the first I waited, correctly positioned at a roundabout, as a car stopped on my right foot. I was pinned to the tarmac with the weight of the car slowly crushing my foot. Seconds seemed like hours as he drove off, oblivious to me sitting by the side of the road in absolute agony. I soon recovered, but a few weeks later I was stationary at another junction when a car turned into my front wheel. For once, I came off best as his car was left with a deep mudguard gouge along all four panels of his nearside bodywork. I was undamaged, but it started me thinking that two wheels and heavy traffic were not really made for each other. The final straw came one chilly December morning. After chaining my rear wheel to the down pipe of my house and retiring to bed, I woke to find my pristine machine laying on its side, still chained but effectively wrecked. The would-be thief had smashed the front wheel lock and tried to drive off, not realising it was chained up. “I do hope he didn’t hurt himself,” I thought. My bike was a write-off. At about this time, as I considered my future on two wheels, a notice was circulated at all Met police stations. It read: “Due to the increasing number of serious motorcycle accidents involving our staff, we now have a management and leadership crisis. The following requirements are now laid down for all staff.” The notice went on to lay down the system of registering and monitoring that were to be put in place, all voluntary of course, but with a definite underlying message. It brought home to me just how vulnerable I was on two wheels. I really felt it was time to hang up my gauntlets. I missed my bikes, such as they were. The open road, the feel of freedom, the wind on my face, the throbbing roar of the engine, the gentle rhythmical phut phut even. As I glided along, that sense of power and of beating the system as I dodged between the long lines of stationary vehicles in the London rush hour were all gone. I missed that sense of being in control, going wherever, whenever. I missed the smell of the dusty highway.

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POLICE WORLD Vol 64 No. 1, 2019