Oh how distant seems the day when I first became absorbed by the mystique of our mutually beloved form of transport, the sublime Motorbicycle.
How many are the years which have passed since I made that fateful first decision- conscious or unconscious- to allow myself to include those wonderful devices in my life, and, despite a few years in various Institutions For The Partially Buggered, what a fortuitous and fruitful decision that was. However, I have found myself wondering over the past few days just when it was that I became a Real Motorcyclist. You see, it all started when I saw my first Triumph...
It was Robert Lancaster's birthday party and I was a mere child. Robert's mother had been divorced (or so I believe, due to the reluctance of my parents to discuss such matters those days) and Robert was blessed (or, perhaps, cursed) with a succession of uncles. The one who was present at the time of said Celebration of the Natal Anniversary owned a Triumph twin (I remembered the machine so well that I recognised the model as a Thunderbird when I later saw it in a 1955 sales brochure) and, as a treat for all of us wee whelps, Uncle Anonymous took us for a spin around the block.
When my turn finally came, I stood beside the idling machine with Trembling Trepidation, my height allowing me to stare directly at the Triumph logo on the handsome tank. I had been literate for a few years so I read the name aloud.
"Triumph. Isn't that when you win something?"
"Blood oath," laughed Uncle Whoever, looking down at me with obvious interest and amazement in his eyes.
"You've done better than winning the bloody lottery if you own one of these!" They were powerful words. My father's entire future seemed to revolve about winning the lottery. I accepted the hand he reached down to me and, with the ease which comes with practice, he raised an eager youngster onto the pillion of his pride.
I'll never forget that ride as long as the Gods allow me to draw breath. The thunder of the engine, the wind in my face as I peered around Uncle Nameless' back, the smell of hot oil, the spectacle of the horizon tilting as we made the turns, the aroma of a well-worn leather jacket and the feeling of emptiness as I was finally lifted down remain with to this day.
Peter Smith Mr Smith p115