Under the Tarpaulin Something Lurks

The slow reveal…

“Hey Dad, take a look at this. What do you think is under here?”

I was on a video call with my son, Will. He’d just moved into a house he’d bought in Rochester. He was showing me a blue tarpaulin in the garden.

What could it be? A pile of old bricks? An old barbecue? I had no idea.

“Tell me Will, what’s under there.”

He pulled back the covers. And there was an old motorbike. Rusting, flat tyres, but basically looking complete. He was laughing and poking it and bits were falling off. He was zooming in on bits that were so rusty they looked absolutely beyond repair.

“It looks like an old BSA Bantam,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s got a BSA tank badge on the other side.”

“It’s going in the skip,” he said.

“No way! Will, I’m afraid that old beauty is coming home to Syresham!”

We ended the call, and as I sat there, memories came flooding up from deep down. From 50 or more years ago. Sunny days on the farm. As a 10-year-old and younger, riding motorbikes, racing with my friends. Just the pure unadulterated joy.

And one of those motorbikes was a BSA Bantam.

I thought I was rescuing an old motorbike. I didn’t realise what else I was about to drag back into the light.

Hidden damage

I started to think about the reality of the path I was about to embark on. The rotting pile of junk making its way from Rochester to Syresham. My wife, Janet, almost certainly not going to be pleased as another chunk of the garage is lost to a project.

And why was I doing it? Yes, I have a love of things mechanical. Yes, I used to have fun on motorbikes. But I hadn’t ridden a bike for 45 years.

As I sat there contemplating the path ahead, I could never have predicted how the journey would affect me.

From a few metres away, the Bantam didn’t actually look too bad. But as you got closer, there was hidden damage.

And not just on the Bantam.

By the time I was 17, I’d been riding motorbikes for about 12 years. And in April 1980, I was riding to Tech and going about 30 mph, when a car pulled out from the left, crashed into the side of me, pulverising two inches of my leg. I took a flying dive and hit the tarmac about 15 feet away.

The recovery was painful and lasted many months. In October that year, I started riding again. And in November, I was virtually stationary when my foot slipped on some ice. I fell over and broke my wrist.

And that’s when I decided I wouldn’t ride bikes anymore.

The restoration

I didn’t have a plan beyond getting the bike going again, bimbling around, having a quick ride on it. I definitely was not taking biking seriously in any way or inviting it to be part of my life. I just wanted to get that bike going again. That was all I wanted.

Eventually, we got the bike back to Syresham. The rust was flying off as the wind found its way all around its newly exposed body. Broken and rusty parts everywhere. Once I got it in the garage, it soon became clear this wasn’t going to be a quick job. Spark plug out, fill the cylinder with WD40, but the piston was stuck. Solid. This bike’s problems were more deep-rooted than met the eye.

I started to realise this was going to be a job I wouldn’t be able to see through myself. I’d been watching Bantam restoration videos, and there was a guy called Dean who runs RetroMechanica. From his videos, his love of Bantams and early two-strokes shone through. I didn’t know where he lived. I wrote to him and said what had happened, and asked if he was interested in helping me. We agreed an hourly rate, and my daughter Sophie and I stripped the bike down and removed the engine so we could deliver it to him.

Eventually, after much heartache, sweat, blood and tears, the engine was working again. We delivered the rest of the bike and asked him to continue with the work. You can watch Dean’s videos here.

I had a realisation that no matter how much money I spent on it, this Bantam would never be perfect again. The hidden crevices where rust lurks would always remain. So I decided to go with a well-worn rustoration look. The old beauty could show its years unashamedly. And say: this is who I am.

I was lying on the couch chatting to my osteopath, while she was twisting and pulling my neck. She’s really into cars, and we often talk about mechanical things. I’d been telling her about the Bantam and how the engine was running, and it would only be a few months before the thing was back together and running. 

And then she said, “So are you going to ride it around? Are you going to go to classic bike meetups and things like that?”

This was something I hadn’t properly contemplated before that moment. It wasn’t just a project of getting the bike going. She was asking me: to what end? What was I going to do? Where would I ride it to?

I started to explain that actually I wouldn’t be able to ride it on the road because I hadn’t got my test – because of the 17-year-old and 250cc and L-plates and all that. And she said, “Well yeah, you’ll have to get your test then.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Somehow, that was the first proper conversation I’d had with anybody about the actuality of riding my bike on the road. The proper contemplation of actually going and taking the test. But it seemed like I didn’t have a realistic option to do anything else. One foot in front of another, keep going until someone says stop. The next logical step was to get the test.

Passing the test – Part 1 The CBT and Theory

So I embarked on that little side challenge.

A bit of Google-fu, and I spoke to Simon at Rider Training in Brackley. “Get the CBT, do the theory test, four days of training, then the Mod 1, then the Mod 2. Bish bash bosh.” Simon made it sound simple.

The day of the theory arrived. I announced myself at the desk and the lady said, “Is it the motorbike theory or the car theory?”

Up until that moment, I had not realised there was a separate theory test for motorbikes. Whoopsie! Half-guessing, half-trying to use common sense, I gave my answers, certain that I had failed. Anyway, I passed. I headed for a coffee shop and a well-earned latte.

The day of the CBT arrives. It’s a Saturday morning, the sun is shining, life is good.

Waiting outside the rider training centre is a mother and her 17-year-old son, taking the CBT together. What a nice thing to do! As we’re chatting, I realise they’re properly kitted out – Kevlar riding jackets, Kevlar jeans, proper motorbike boots. I’m feeling somewhat behind the pace with my elderly walking boots and ordinary jeans. Oh well, I’m here now.

The exercises in the playground go surprisingly well. Before long, I was doing figures of eight, stopping and starting, hardly ever stalling, feeling pretty much in control.

Everything is looking good.

And then Dave, the trainer, says, “Now we’ll head out for our open road ride.”

I hadn’t really known this was going to be part of what we were doing. I felt a slight tightening in my stomach. I’m not ready for this. But I’m with these other two people who have never actually ridden a bike before, and they’re completely happy following Dave out onto the highway.

I grit my teeth and follow.

We hit a roundabout, we turn right, we turn left, we go down a high street, out into the country, along some open roads, 50 miles an hour, the wind in my face. I’m still feeling slightly panicky, but also rising in me is a feeling of elation.

Of course, I’ve had a car for 45 years. I could always go anywhere I wanted in my car. But there was something deeply different about the feeling I was getting on the bike that day.

The sun was shining, the roads were dry, the wind was in my face. I was free and I really could go anywhere!

Passing the test – Part 2 Big Bikes, Mod 1 and 2

With the CBT and the theory safely under my belt, the next stage begins. Day one of my four days’ training is a 125 refresher day, before we move up to the 700s. I’m feeling okay about this, remembering my elation on the CBT day.

The day was split into two parts: supervised riding, then free riding. The supervised riding was great – connected by helmet intercoms, guided by Simon. This was fun. I loved it.

After lunch, Simon said we were going out for free riding. I’d somehow thought he would be coming with us, just riding in a less structured way.

But when he said, “Right, off you go now, you can have two or three hours and come back by four o’clock,” I got on my bike and felt definite unease.

I rode out of the industrial estate, up onto the main road. My unease was rising all the time. There was a quiet road I knew – a massive cul-de-sac with no houses on it. I thought I could just ride up and down, no traffic, and that would be fine.

I rode up and down a few times. I sat at the side of the road and took my helmet off. I felt drained.

I got back on my bike and started to head towards town, feeling more and more unhappy the longer I was on the road. The danger was all around and it was real.

It was a hot day. I saw some picnic benches near an old railway station that’s been turned into a café. I parked, took my helmet off, sat on the bench, and waited there an hour and a half for the time to expire before I could go back.

I felt dejected and defeated. This was not how I’d imagined it going.

That night, I thought about everything that had happened. And I had a realisation: somehow I was much more badly affected by my accidents 45 years ago than I had ever understood.

The programme I was on had three more days in quick succession, followed by the Mod 1 and Mod 2. I shut my eyes and thought, and came to the conclusion that there was not a hope in hell I would be able to have those remaining days, pass the tests, and be done. It was just not going to happen.

I wrote to Simon. I said I needed to slow it down. I said I was thinking about getting a 125 so I could get more hours on the road. He confirmed what I already knew – of course that was a good idea. I needed more hours under my belt. I needed more elapsed time. I needed to reorient myself to riding bikes again.

I found a Yamaha WR125R on eBay for about £3,000. So I bought it.

I thought this bike was going to be nothing to me. Just a tool to pass the test. But as the delivery guy rolled it off the back of the van, I felt a little tingle. This bike looked cool. He started it up, and I felt the excitement, the anticipation.

I had a bike.

My plan was to ride it round our garden, doing all the slow speed stuff. Looking back, I’m sure I was creating a reason why I didn’t need to go out on the roads. I was doing the easy thing. Recreating the playground from the CBT.

After a week or so, I thought: there’s no reason why I can’t go out on the road. So I got insurance, bought some proper kit, and went out.

I stuck to the back roads. And it was amazing. Quiet, plenty of vision, nothing coming fast because they’re so twisty. I rode many, many hours and I loved it!

The day of my next training came. At 8 o’clock, all my kit on, I think: shall I go down the A43 to Brackley? It’s a dual carriageway. It’s the quickest way.

I feel something rising as I’m riding towards the roundabout. The thought of the lorries thundering past and the cars who almost certainly won’t see me. As I ride towards the slip road, I build up in my head a certainty of something that will happen that defies rational thought.

It’s one of those double roundabouts. I get to the second part. There’s a gateway just before the turn. I’m indicating left to go down the slip road, and I pull into the gateway rather than make the turn.

I pause and think: why am I finding this so difficult? Just go. Just go down the slip road.

I pull out and decide I’m not going to go on the A43. I’m going to take the back roads.

I ride off. Halfway round the roundabout, I say to myself: “Peter, that was pathetic! Just get back round the roundabout, down the slip road, and take the A43”.

So I ride round again, get to the slip road. I let my tyre cross the white lines. Almost involuntarily, I slam on my brakes and come to a skidding stop about six feet off the roundabout.

I’m tense. I can’t breathe, my heart is beating madly and I feel properly panicked.

I scoot my bike round and take the back roads to Brackley.

After that, the training went well. In between training days, I’m riding every opportunity I get on my 125. I go on increasingly distant rides – Stratford-upon-Avon one day, about 45 miles away. I don’t care if I’m out in the rain. I just love it.

The day of the Mod 1 arrives. Disaster. I stalled on the slalom cones – an immediate fail. A small part of me wonders if I sabotaged myself. After that, I felt unsure if I was going to continue. But I decided to anyway.

I passed the next Mod 1. Then came the Mod 2.

I was doing it at the same time as the guy from my 125 refresher day. Simon had said, “Yes Peter, you’re second.” Fine. So we’re sitting there waiting. The tester walks up, brief pleasantries, and then: “Right, which one’s Peter?”

Suddenly it was me. I wasn’t second, I was first. My mental prep, not done. I just had to get on the bike and go.

And when the tester told me I had passed, I was shocked and elated. Side challenge complete.

All coming together now 

With the test under my belt, some other things started to happen.

Janet said, “So are you going to sell the 125 now?”

I couldn’t bring myself to say yes. There’s no rational reason why I would keep it. It’s just the 125 I bought to practice so I could get my test. Why would I want to keep it?

But I did. I wanted to keep it.

The Bantam arrived home. Luke, who’d picked up the Bantam on his trailer from Rochester, volunteered again and we drove to Dean’s house to collect it. We rode it around the garden a few times, and Sophie, my daughter, who’d helped me strip it down and get the engine out, had a go on it. Her squeals of delight as she charged around brought a tear to my eye.

And then I took it out on the road.

I feel bad saying it. But the Bantam, even when it was new, was not an amazing, lusted after bike. And this one, 45 years old, although beautifully restored, mechanically perfect – it’s still like an adventure going for a ride on it. I don’t feel certain it’s going to get me where I want to go, and I definitely don’t feel certain it’s going to get me home again. Probably would. But it’s an adventure.

And if I compare it to the delight I get from riding my 125, they’re in a different class. The emotional attachment I have to the Bantam is deep. But the practicality is not high.

I started to contemplate another bike.

Sophie, my daughter, and Christopher, my son – they’re adults – had been riding the 125 in the garden as well. They started to talk about doing a CBT themselves. And I started to think about going on a weekend break with them where we could all go and do some green laning. What fun that would be.

So of course I would need another bike.

A Honda CRF300L Rally is a very fine bike. For quite a few weeks, this was on my list. But I kept thinking: I did like that 700 cross-plane twin engine in the MT-07 I learned on. And the Yamaha Ténéré is an adventure bike, the same style as my WR125R. That would really be the thing.

I put the proposal rather casually to “finance committee” that evening.

Janet said yes and a few weeks later my lovely new Tenere rolled off the back of another delivery van.

And so…

My story started with the slow reveal of something broken and decayed, hidden under a tarpaulin for 45 years, that slowly but surely was dragged into the sunlight and piece by piece rebuilt so that it could live again.

I never dreamed at the beginning the impact it would have on my life. The joy that I get when I’m out on my Ténéré. The slightly irrational feeling of freedom and the ability to go anywhere.

It’s amazing when I open my garage door and see the Bantam shining there. It was dead and now it lives. It was asleep and now it’s awake. I did that. 

The prospect that some of my grown-up children will also start their own journeys with motorbikes – maybe they’ll love it, maybe it’ll just be a small thing that we do together.

I’m just happy to keep putting one foot in front of the other and enjoy each moment until someone says stop.