|
LBIE’S PARENTS WERE NOT AT ALL HAPPY when their one
and only son arrived home that wet Saturday in June without his
motorcycle, having left it at the garage on Cromer Road to be repaired,
following his accident at West
Runton! Had they made the right choice in allowing him
to have a motorbike in the first place, they asked themselves? Was
he far too dangerous to be let loose on the roads by himself,
they wondered? What if he hurt himself, they worried? Albie,
of course, assured them he was a perfectly safe motorcyclist –
after all, he had passed his test first time – and the
accident was just unfortunate and nothing to do with him! He just
happened to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But his mother and father were far from convinced. However, Albie
promised he would be more careful in future and would try
to keep his speed down, which wouldn’t be at all difficult
as his Zundapp motorcycle was becoming increasingly sluggish...
ALBIE’S
MOTORCYCLE WAS OFF THE ROAD for the best part of two weeks whilst
the garage sent away to Germany for a new mudguard and front forks.
Eventually it was returned – repaired, repainted – emerging
from the garage workshop as good as new, much to the lad’s
satisfaction. But when he rode it away from Hill’s Garage on
Cromer Road it just didn’t seem the same bike! It was
so slow, he thought, so he took it straight back.
“Nothing
we can do about that!” the garage man told him, in no
uncertain terms. “We repaired your bike free of charge –
what more do you want?”
“But
it wuz all right until your car got in the way,” Albie
told him, “but now that feel like there’s a spud up the
exhaust!”
“Tha’s
the way you ride it,” the man replied angrily, “probably
needs a decoke, that do – but that’ll cost ya!”
So
Albie decided to ‘do it himself’ – but was a bit
puzzled how exactly to go about it.
Towards
the end of July, Albie mentioned it to Mike, the head designer at
Jarrolds, who, in the past, had ridden a BSA
Golden Flash combination. If anyone would know the answer Mike
would, Albie told himself!
“I
really wouldn’t have thought your bike needs a decoke,
yet,” Mike told him, “after all, you’ve only had
it four or five months, haven’t you?”
“Yes,
I know,” replied Albie, “but that jist won’t go,
that won’t – sometimes even cyclists pass me!”
Mike
scratched his head. “Well, let’s see, does it misfire?
You are keeping the plug clean, aren’t you? Two strokes
do tend to oil up the spark plugs. A good rule of thumb: always
check the plug first!”
“But
I hev,” Albie replied, “I check that every week, an’
I’ve even put a new one in but that made no difference whatsoever.
Tha’s still lifeless an’ the exhaust’s all
woolly.”
“Nothing
for it then, Albie,” Mike decided, “you’ll just have
to ‘take the head off’ and clean the carbon off the piston
and the exhaust ports – a simple Saturday morning job!”
“P’raps
I’ll do it this weekend,” Albie told him, “’cause
I start my holidays next week...”
Mike
looked at the holiday list on the wall, running his finger down
the chart to Monday 30 July.
“I
see you’re off for two weeks,” he said, “Going anywhere
special then?”
Albie
shook his head: “No, nothin’ planned really, just out
and about,” he replied, “but I want my bike right by then
– I dun’t watta be stuck indoors for a fortnight, do I?”
ALBIE
DOES A DECOKE
The
following
Saturday, 28 July, Albie decided to ‘bite the bullet’
and give his Zundapp a thorough health check. A habitual ‘fiddler’
when it came to anything mechanical – with a well-deserved
reputation for ‘taking things to bits just to see how they
worked’ – he was quite looking forward to the challenge
of working on his motorbike for the first time!
“Yew’re
up hoolly early for Sat’dy,” his mother declared as Albie
put in an appearance at half-past-nine in the morning, much earlier
than usual for a weekend. “Coon’t yew sleep then, boy?”
“Tha’s
not that,” he replied indignantly, filling a breakfast bowl
with Force
wheat flakes and adding milk and spoonfuls of sugar, “I’ve
got work to do.”
“But
tha’s not your Sat’dy in work, is it?” his mother
asked, pouring a cup of tea for her son and giving it a quick stir.
“Do that is, yew’ll be hoolly learte.”
In
between mouthfuls of cereal, Albie explained it was necessary to
do some work on his motorbike as the brakes, amongst other things,
needed to be adjusted. However, he decided it best not to mention
tuning his Zundapp to make it go faster!
“Do
yew think tha’s a good idea?” his mother asked, remembering
his ‘do-it-yourself’ escapades in the past. “When
yew took my bike to bits, all those years ago, you coon’t
git it back tergether agin, could yew?”
A
sore point with Albie, a time he well remembered having taken the
front forks out of her bicycle and losing most of the ball bearings
in the process, but he was certainly not about to let history repeat
itself.
“That
wuz diff’rent,” he replied angrily, “I wuz
on’y young then, but now I’m experienced that’ll
be easy – besides, Mike at work told me tha’s a simple
Saturday mornin’ job, that is!”
 After
breakfast, Albie went to the shed at the bottom of the garden, where
his motorcycle was kept, and began to make a start. After checking
the brakes – front and back – and taking a bit of slack
out of the cables, he turned his attention to more important matters,
that of decoking the engine to make his bike go much faster!
“Better
close the shed door,” he said to himself, shutting the door
and locking it behind him, “can’t hev Mum barging in...”
Sorting
through an old box of spanners Albie eventually found one that fitted
his bike and began undoing the nuts that held the engine together.
Some were rather tight and he had to hit them with a big hammer,
but soon they lay discarded on the floor as he lifted the cylinder
head.
“Cor,
tha’s hoolly mucky,” he declared, looking at all
the black carbon deposits coating the inside of the head and the
top of the piston.
“That
piston’ll hatta come out to be cleaned,” he said, lifting
off the cylinder to free the piston. However, try as he might, he
could’t quite work out how to free the piston from the
thick rod that connected it to the rest of the engine. Then he noticed
a pin going through it, fixing it to the connecting rod, and the
little spring clips on either side.
“Now,
if I prise these out,” he said, levering away at the
little clips, “I reckon that there pin’ll push out...”
With
that a clip ‘pinged’ out of its seat, flew through the
air, and disappeared into the darkest corner of the shed to land
somewhere between the bags of corn for the
chickens and the seed trays and flower pots.
Turning
his attention to the pin holding the piston in place, Albie discovered
it refused to budge, in spite of his best efforts, so he decided
to apply a bit more force.
“I’ll
give that a quick hit with a hammer an’ chisel,” he declared,
choosing the biggest hammer he could find, “that should do
the trick!” And, following an almighty wallop, the pin flew
out and the piston dropped onto the dusty floor of the shed accompanied
by the tinkling of a couple of a dozen tiny, shiny bits of metal
as the needle-roller bearing disintegrated!
After
scraping the carbon off the cylinder head and the piston with one
of his father’s best wood-chisels, Albie began rubbing the
aluminium piston with a Brillo pad, ‘borrowed’ from the
kitchen. When satisfied that no more carbon remained, although replaced
by a series of scratches in the soft metal surface, he began burnishing
the parts with Brasso until he could see his face in them. After
a couple of hours work he was ready to put the engine back together
again, or that was his plan!
“Hmm
– now, let’s see...” Albie said to himself, gathering
up as many of the needle-rollers he could find, “I wonder
how many of these there were? Though I don’t suppose it matters
much...”
Then,
cramming as many into the connecting rod eye as he could, Albie
then tried to refit the piston, but, try as he might, he couldn’t
get the pin back in, as it was such a tight fit!
“Nothing
for it,” he said, reaching for the large hammer again, “I’ll
hatta drive it home – one good thump should do it!”
“Tha’s
it – careful now,” he continued, holding the piston in
position with one hand, whilst hammering home the pin with the other.
“Got it! Now, where’s that little clip got to?”
Rummaging
around on the floor of his garden shed, lugging sacks of corn, brushing
aside the accumulated dust and mouse droppings, and moving piles
of seed trays and terra cotta pots, Albie couldn’t to find
the errant clip anywhere.
“Never
mind,” he convinced himself, bearing in mind how tight a fit
the piston pin had been, “one should do, tha’s
never gonna come out again is it?” And, with that, he compressed
the piston rings with his hand and lowered the cylinder back into
place, and, with the top bolted back on, hey presto, the job was
finished!
“Tha’s
a good job well done!” he declared proudly, brushing himself
down and opening the shed door.
“Yew’ve
certainly tearken ya time!” his mother told him when he went
back indoors. “Hard, wuz it? I hope yew din’t hev no bits
left over, did ya?”
“No,
I didn’t,” Albie replied, choosing not to mention mislaying
one small – and, as it happened – absolutely vital spring
clip“That wuz a piece o’ cake that wuz – all I gotta
do now is to give it a test run...”
“Not
afore yew’ve hed ya dinner, Albie,” his mother told him,
“an’ just look at yar shirt! I en’t hevin’
yew indoors lookin’ like that – yew’re covered in
oil, yew little waarmin!”
THE
CROMER TT
Later
that afternoon, Albie decided to go for a ride on his Zundapp to
see if his ‘tune-up’ had been successful. Wheeling the
motorcycle out of the shed and up the garden path he parked it outside
the front of his home, Regis Cottage. With one quick prod on the
kickstart the little engine burst into life, sounding far more lively
following its decoke.
“Shan’t
be long,” Albie shouted over his shoulder to his mother, standing
by the garden gate, “just goin’ for a quick ‘burn-up’
along the Cromer Road.”
“Jist
yew be careful!” she shouted back, wringing her hands with
worry, “I don’t like yew a-tearin’ about on that
thing...”
But
Albie was halfway up the road by then, and failed to hear his mother’s
words let alone pay heed to them.
“This
is more like it!” he said, exhilarated by his bike’s
newfound performance. “You little beauty – now you’re
really a little flyer!”
At
Briton’s Lane he turned off the Cromer Road with all its twists
and turns, heading uphill in the direction of the main road to Holt,
which was much straighter and ideal for putting the Zundapp through
its paces. After a minute or two he became aware of another motorcycle
gaining on him and, turning in his saddle, he could see it was another
Zundapp, although a sports model and painted bright red.
“Wanna
race?” shouted the other rider as he pulled alongside Albie.
“Last one to Cromer buys a Cokes!”
As
the two riders turned onto the main Holt to Cromer Road the race
began in earnest, with much spinning of wheels, clouds of blue smoke
and the acrid smell of burnt rubber. Albie was going at a cracking
pace, head down in true racing fashion, and soon he was well in
the lead. By all accounts, it seemed his first attempt at
being a motorcycle mechanic had been most successful as his
machine was performing brilliantly.
Reaching
the outer limits of the town, minutes ahead of his rival, Albie
rode proudly, but sedately, into Cromer carefully sticking to the
thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit, to be joined by the other rider
a few minutes later.
 After
parking their Zundapps next to the Parish church, Albie and his
racing companion strolled the short distance down High Street to
the Jetty Coffee Bar.
“I’d
rather hev an Espresso than a Coke, if tha’s all right,”
Albie said as they stepped into the coffee bar. “Arter all,
I reckon I won fair an’ square, dorn’t you?”
His
newfound friend just nodded, then, introducing himself as ‘Pete
from Uppa
Sheri’num, said: “You may a won this time – but
how’s about we hev a return match on the way home?”
“Tha’s
OK wi’ me, Pete,” Albie replied, full of confidence that
his machine was the faster, more highly-tuned, of the two, “but,
say we raise the stakes a bit – how about twetty fags for the
winner?”
“Phoaw
– dunno ’bout that,” Pete replied as they sat together
drinking their coffee, “well, OK then – even if you do
hev a tiger in your tank...”
“BP
Zoom, actually,” laughed Albie.
ALBIE
GOES OFF ROAD
Albie
was neck and neck with Pete as they raced through Cromer; up Mount
Street past the public toilets and along Loudon Road, before turning
into West Street and heading for the road to Holt once more. Pedestrians,
waiting to cross the road, leapt for the safety of the pavement
as the two motorcyclists approached at breakneck speed, in total
disregard to the statutory speed limit.
Up
the hill they flew: racing past Cromer Beach station where passengers
were streaming off the late-afternoon train from Sheringham; flying
over the wide red-brick railway bridge spanning the line to Norwich;
kicking up dust as they roared, side by side, past the iron-gated
entrance to the old cemetery at the top of Davey Hill, with their
speedometer needles almost off the dial!
As
the wide right-hander approached, Albie throttled back slightly
and, with his Zundapp wailing like a screaming Dervish, he began
to lean his machine into the bend. Glancing over his shoulder he
could see Pete was still beside him, head down and with his feet
on the rear footpegs. Should he brake or not, thought Albie?
It was all a test of strength, a battle of willpower!
Suddenly
they were on the bend! The red tail light flickering on Pete’s
motorcycle indicated to Albie his opponent had ‘chickened
out’ and braked too early for the bend – now was
his chance!
Snapping
his throttle wide open, with sparks flying off his crazily-leaning
bike where it came into contact with the tarmac, Albie leapt ahead
of his pursuer, even though Pete was laying flat on his tank in
a last-ditch attempt to screw that extra bit of power from his bike.
Suddenly,
without warning, Albie’s Zundapp let out a loud scream of protest!
Metal rasped against metal, producing an earsplitting noise not
unlike that of a Vampire
jet on full power preparing for take off. Then, as quickly as
it had started, the noise stopped – and so did the engine!
Luckily, Albie had the presence of mind to quickly declutch at the
first sound of trouble from within!
“Wha’s
up, Albie?” laughed Pete, stopping a few feet in front of him,
“run outta petrol hev ya?”
“Nooo
– there’s suffin’ wrong o’ me bike,” Albie
replied, pulling his Zundapp onto its stand and getting the plug
spanner out of the toolbox on the side. “Gotta be the plug
oiled up again, I shoon’t wonder – nothin’ serious!”
But
how wrong he was to be!
Removing
the spark plug, it only took a quick glance for Albie to realise
that it was not the root of the problem, so he quickly replaced
it and tried to kickstart the bike.
“Blimmin’
thing !” he declared, nursing a bruised shin, “that
din’t half kick back...”
“Let
me hev a go,” Pete offered, putting his foot on the kickstart
lever. “Strewth – you’re right! There’s
no give in that at all!”
Try
as they might, neither of them could even budge the kickstart, let
alone start the bike.
“Let’s
try bump startin’ it,” Pete suggested, running with his
friend’s Zundapp and leaping on as the machine picked up speed.
But when he slipped it into third gear the back wheel locked up
and the stricken bike skidded to a halt.
“Sorry,
Albie,” said Pete, handing the bike back to Albie, “there’s
suffin’ hoolly wrong wi’ your bike – I reckon tha’s
seized up!”
“There’s
nothin’ for it then, but to walk,” decided Albie, facing
up to the fact that his engine had seized, and began pushing his
motorcycle along the Holt Road. It was then that his friend Pete
came up with a novel idea...
“I’re
gotta bitta string here,” he said, taking a length of baler
twine out of his pocket, “I could give ya a tow – I reckon
tha’s strong enough, dun’t you?”
With
that he tied the string onto the handlebars of Albie’s motorbike
and then fixed the other end securely under the seat of his bike.
“There you go,” he said, standing back to admire his handiwork,
“That’ll hev ya gorn again in next to no time!”
Albie
was slightly apprehensive at first, but at least it would give his
legs some rest. All went well at first with the two Zundapps making
their way at a leisurely pace along the road to Aylmerton,
but, just through the village, their problems were about to begin.
 Briton’s
Lane, a winding, uneven stretch of road – quite treacherous
at the best of times – dipped away steeply as it meandered
towards the village of Beeston
Regis, and it was there that Albie began having difficulty holding
his bike on the brakes whilst keeping the tow rope taut.
On
a particularly steep section, Pete, on the leading Zundapp, braked
sharply – which Albie did not – and the tow rope dipped
between them wrapping itself around the front wheel of Albie’s
bike.
“Watch
out!” Albie tried to shout, but the words just froze on his
lips as his machine was pulled from under him!
In
a split second, he was dragged sideways along the hedgerow –
one leg trapped under his bike – and, through a cloud of earth,
leaves and other decaying detritus, watched helplessly as his entire
life flashed before him!
Dazed,
with a cold numbness spreading downwards from his left knee to his
ankle, Albie eventually found himself being helped to his feet.
“You
seem to be all right – at least you hen’t brook
no bones,” Pete told him, offering a few words of comfort as
Albie stood swaying from side to side with shock. “That coulda
bin a lot wuss – but, just look at your trousers!”
Glancing
down, Albie became aware of the cause of the loss of feeling in
his left leg. Through the badly-torn trouser leg he could see his
bloodied knee, cut almost to the bone, with a steady stream of blood
trickling down his ankle. Already the initial numbing effect was
wearing off to be replaced by a throbbing, excruciating pain leaving
him hardly able to stand, let alone walk.
There
was only one thing for it, Pete decided, and that was to
tow Albie and his bike the rest of the way home, but taking a bit
more care this time!
Ten
minutes later, a very bloodstained Albie struggled indoors and collapsed
onto the kitchen floor.
“Oh,
Albie!” cried his distraught mother, kneeling down on
the cold lino beside him, “what hev happened?”
Her
son just lay there, clutching his leg, racked with pain, and unable
to speak.
“I’d
betta git that leg seen to,” said his mother, cutting his trouser
leg with a pair of scissors, “I’ll hatta clean that wound,
an’ git all that muck out onnit – do that’ll go septic!”
Taking
off his motorcycle helmet, Albie suddenly realised how close
he’d come to being seriously injured, as his ‘skid lid’
had done its job well and had given vital protection to his head.
His yellow and blue crash helmet was damaged beyond repair, its
surface deeply cut by the flints and sharp branches in the hedgerow
– he was lucky to be alive!
“Do
yew hold still,” his mother told him, picking at his
bloodied knee with pair of tweezers, “I’ve gotta get all
those bits of grit out – that’ll hoolly hurt, that will
an’orl.”
Satisfied
that all was removed and after washing the wound, she applied a
liberal sprinkling of boracic powder.“Tha’s a good antiseptic,
that is,” she told him, as she bandaged his leg with a piece
of torn-up bed sheet. “That’ll do for now – but,
on Monday, you’ll hatta go an’ see Merry an’ Bright!”
CONFINED
TO THE SHED
Whilst
Albie’s mother had been most sympathetic, his father was not
quite so forgiving when he returned home after a busy day at the
Sheringham Co-op.
As
he opened the back gate the first thing he saw was Albie’s
Zundapp looking very much the worse for wear.
“What
hev the boy bin up to now?” he shouted, pointing
to his son’s motorcycle standing outside the back door. “I
allus said he wun’t searfe to ride one o’ them there dearngerous
things...”
Then
he saw his son, languishing in the fireside chair, leg heavily bandaged
and resting on the leather pouffé from the front room.
“Wha’s
bin gorn on now, Albie?” he fumed, “jist look at
yar motorbike – tha’s in a roight ole stearte!”
“Don’t
go on at him, Albert,” said his wife, clutching at his sleeve
and leading him back into the kitchen. “He’s had a nasty
accident. From what I gather he fell off his bike,” she whispered,
“an’ I reckon he’s lucky to be alive...”
“How
did that happen, Albie?” his father asked, almost displaying
some sympathy, then: “yew hen’t bin hossin’ about
agin, hev yew?”
Albie
thought carefully before replying, not wishing to incriminate himself
further.
“Well,
the last thing I remember,” he told his father, “wuz comin’
down the hill at Briton’s Lane – y’know, just past
the sand pit. Then I skidded. There musta been some sand on the
road or suffin’ – but tha’s all I can remember...”
“I
allus said there wuz an accident waitin’ to happen there,”
replied his father, “just yew wait ’til I see that foreman
in charge...”
“No
– leave it, Dad, ple-ase,” said Albie, realising
being a ‘stranger to the truth’ was likely to get him
into even more hot water. “Thinkin’ back, I reckon that
coulda been my own fault.”
“Oh,
Albie,” said his mother, “yew’ll never
learn, will yew?”
“Yew’ll
learn this,” said his father, “arter I’ve hed me
tea I’m gonna lock up that there bike o’ yours in the
shed where that belong – an’ tha’s where tha’s
gonna stay – jist yew mark my words!”
NEXT:
Albie enjoys himself at the 1962
Christmas Office Party!
Please sign Albie’s guestbook as I would
love to hear your comments –
or email:
|
