| The Way we Were (and Later) by Jim Hunter |
| Ottawa Section CVMG |
THE WAY WE WERE by Jim Hunter
Much has been detailed in print in the motorcyclist press over the years
of the glory days of motorcycling in both Britain and the USA. Now its time
for a few reminiscences from Canada. Of all the small towns in Ontario in
the mid 1950s, non would be more typical than Port Perry, then a village of
1800 souls. Nestled on the shores of Lake Scugog amid a proliference of
large Maple trees, few prettier spots could be found. It was my privilege to
have been born and raised there.
It was in this environment that as a teenager I began to have the need
for transportation, and being far too cool to continue to ride my bicycle, my
thoughts turned to a car. I found a great deal on a 1935 Chev, but when the
subject was broached with my parents, it was shot down in flames. My Mother
astounded my by saying "why don't you get a motorcycle. I always wanted
one". I had never really considered a motorcycle up to that point, but
suddenly it seemed like a great idea. I knew a few guys who had one,
so began to ask a few questions as to price, my main consideration; and
availability.
The flames of interest in motorcycling were fanned when September of
1956, on the first day of Grade 12, cool Ron Larocque blasted away from
good old Port Perry High School on what I know now to be a pre-war Ariel
Red Hunter. That ensuing week, my desire for a bike reached fever pitch when
Eric Scriver, a friend for many years, gave me a ride home from school on the
"Big Harley" of so many motorcycling legends. That was it. I was hooked.
That weekend I made my move, buying a 1948 Matchless G80 from my pal
Lorne "Wilk" Wilkins for $50. What a turkey that bike was. I never even got
one ride on it. The Prince of Darkness and the Prince of Everything Else
struck all at once. I always had a good mechanical aptitude, but this one
was too much for a 17 year old shade tree mechanic, and the Matchless, an
ex-dirt tracker that Wilk had bought from someone in Oshawa named
"Spaghetti", sat idle over the winter denying all attempts to breath life
into it.
George "Corky" West, and his nephew Bill Brown, had motorcycles. They
were brand new, and, Corky told me, were called Ariel Square Fours. Boy, did
I like those machines, and I still do 37 years later. I resolved that
ownership of an Ariel Square Four would be my goal. However, they cost an
unheard of (to a high school student) $1100.00. When my neighbour's
brother came to visit him, however, in April 1957, he rode an Ariel. I was
surprised to learn that all Ariels were not Square Fours, and this was a
rather small machine with a one cylinder (I knew that, because thats what the
lawnmower had) engine. I also found out that it was 350cc, whatever that
was. Was it smaller or larger than the "Big Harley" which I knew to
be 74 cubic inches? My neighbour's brother told me that it was for sale
for $75.00, and my heart lept! He started it for me and my Dad and I
listened to it, and it sounded good. I offered him $50.00 for it. (I was
big and naive, but not stupid) To my amazement, he accepted the offer, and
we tidied up the deal under my Dad's scrutiny. I had arrived. It was not
a Square Four to be sure, but a step in the right direction. It was, so
the ownership certificate said, a 1950 Ariel 350, model NH. Wow! This was
it!
Learning to ride was no big deal back then. My Dad did not know
motorcycles, but between the two of us we quickly figured out the clutch
and the gearshift. The engine always started easily, and Dad showed me how
to use the spark advance on starting, as the 10-20 McCormick-Deering
tractor we had worked the same. Starting the engine and engaging first
gear proved to be no problem. Releasing the clutch and getting rolling
was. Dad solved this dilemma by pointing me down the hill in front of of the
house, instead of up the hill, and away I went, managing clutch and throttle
quite nicely. It was a beautiful spring evening, that April evening in 1957
when I became a motorcyclist.
Dad had given strict instructions that I was not to take the bike to
school until I got a little riding experience under my belt, a logical move
and one that I as a father would mandate to-day. I did not take the bike
to school for two weeks as was the deal, but came home at noon hours and
after school to practice, putting quite a few miles on it in the process.
Soon, I was allowed to take it to school where I was one of two
motorcyclists. Wilk had recently bought a 1952 plunger framed BSA 500
twin. We never saw Ron Larocque's Ariel again, and he always had some tale
of woe as to why he was not riding it.
Wilk and I continued to regularly ride the bikes to school. Soon, Don
Popert, whose Dad owned the Pool Room, got the bug and bought a pristine 1949
Ariel 500 Twin from an elderly (everyone is elderly when you are 17) English
gentleman in Toronto. Don's Dad took us to Toronto in the car to pick up the
bike and get my opinion, "as I was an expert now"; as to the condition of the
machine. It turned out that it was a beauty, absolutely original and in the
best possible condition. I rode it back to Port Perry for him. During the
following week, Don was dismayed by a tack-tack-tack noise that the engine
made, and it leaked oil along the cylinder head gasket. During troubleshooting, I had him run the engine, and I
observed it closely, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. That I did. The cylinder head was moving noticibly
up and down, and the noise was that of a leaking head gasket. Surprising what a little torque will do for loose
head bolts. Having now established myself as "The Wrench", I had earned my place in the school mechanical
community.
Bikes began to appear at school and around town as if by magic. What
kind of a trend had I unleashed? Grant Cawker picked up a very nice 53
Harley K at Russell Winter's shop in Toronto, having sold his body into
servitude to his father to do so. Bill Mitchell, who had finished school,
showed up one day with a 1949 Harley 61. Bill was never big on
maintenance, and this was reflected in his machine, which always looked at
best; kind of ratty. But it ran and ran. You could always tell when Bill
was behind you on a night ride as the headlight would bob up and down. It
was loose, and "the slack" was taken up with hockey stick tape.
Graduation came in June, and at last came time to enjoy the bike over
the summer. As a result of riding together on so many occasions, it was
the consensus that we should form a club. Therefore, "The Ravens" Motorcycle
Club was born. Eric was elected president, crests were bought; large of
course, with a large black raven shown with wings outstretched. The menacing
words "The Ravens, Port Perry" struck fear into the hearts of the citizens,
as everyone knew how bad motorcyclists were as a result of the Marlon Brando movie two years earlier. We
even had a club room in the basement of the pool room, on which Don had painted a large black raven.
It was very good. I wonder if it is still there?
The Ravens continued to ride together and had some good times. We had
heard of a race England where they named all the corners, so we did the
same. We had our own impromptu races through the town "just like in
England" (and usually at night). Starting in front of Beares Garage, we
would drag east to the Beer Store corner, through a 90 degree turn and
south to the Massey-Harris corner. Then another 90 degree turn, and west
to Gabby Gibson's corner. Usually Gabby was in front of his house to lend
moral support. The home straight was north from Gabby's back to Beares
Garage, with another 90 degree turn and across the finish line which
stretched from the Simpson-Sears Order Office across to the Garage, and was
marked by an overhead hydro line. Racing could never have been this good
on "some island off the coast of England".
Having no one to guide us in the ways of motorcycling except for
Marlon Brando and the odd well thumbed copy of "The Enthusiast", the
Harley-Davidson publication, did not pose much of a problem. We were for all
intents and purposes isolated from the motorcycling mainstream. No kindly
hand of a paternalistic older gentleman rider was available to guide us. We
were on our own, and rode as we pleased. Then it happened.
Port Perry got a new Chief of Police and things changed rapidly. Our
new Chief was Mr. Archie Menzies, an awe inspiring 6'6" and about 250 lbs.
The Port Perry Grand Prix and the drag racing on Cochrane Street came to an
abrupt end in the form of a quiet warning, which was typical of the way he
operated. Not only was he an impressive man, he had an impressive new police
cruiser, one of the new V8 Chevrolets. Try and get away from that
on a 350 Ariel, Red Hunter Specification or not! Mr. Menzies had four
sons, so in retrospect I think he understood young people. I joined the
Royal Canadian Air Force in September 1957, and parked the Ariel until my
first leave at Christmas. Once home, sub-zero temperatures or not, it was
time for a ride. In the winter days of early darkness, I found myself on the
way home when lights were required. You guessed it. The Prince of Darkness
had, with the assistance of my personal neglect of the battery, struck. No
lights. The generator didn't work, so I used a total loss system. It would
have cost $25.00 to fix the generator, so the Ariel dealer, said. I made it into town and the safety of the
streetlights, but whom do I meet but Mr. Menzies who stopped me and counselled me on the fallacy of riding
without lights. No ticket, no dramatics, but he did insist that I push the Ariel the rest of the way home, about four
blocks.
After joining the Air Force and becoming "instantly affluent", it was
time for a new bike. No, not one that would outrun Mr. Menzies' Chev
necessarily, but something new, fast and classy. I was the ripe old age of
18. This was a big deal! The Ariel (of course) dealer was P.A. McBride in
Toronto. In March 1958, my Dad and I loaded the 350 into a neighbour's
pickup and went down to Toronto to get a new motorcycle. After looking at
a few used Square Fours, the salesman, Mr. Percy Mann, showed me a new unsold
1956 model Ariel Huntmaster 650 twin. It was a beaut, and at $675
it was a good deal too, especially since they would allow me $250 for the 350
Ariel. The balance was financed on "the McBride easy payment plan" at
$50.00 per month. Instant indebtedness! My first experience.
Words could not describe my feelings as I drove the 50 miles back to
Port Perry on my lovely new Huntmaster. It was sunny, but still rather
cool on that spring day, but not uncomfortably so. I therefore decided to
take a slight detour to Uxbridge to show off the new machine to a rather neat
lady I knew named Jeanette. She was always interested in the bike,
and I think that given any encouragement, she would have liked to have ridden
it. If she rode the bike like she drove her father's '49 Monarch,
it was probably best that she not ride the bike. I can still see her, with a
big smile on her face, and me in the passenger seat probably looking very
nervous, doing a burnout on Uxbridge main street.
The summer of 1958 was also a great one. I was stationed at Camp Borden
involved in my trade training as an Aero Engine Technician, and riding the
Ariel home to Port Perry on weekends. It was a 60 mile ride,
and included quite a few miles of gravel at that time. It was not a
difficult journey, but it made a real mess of my sparkling pride and joy
due to the dust; and if it rained, you can well imagine how much concern this
caused me. I hated getting bikes dirty then, and nothing has changed over
the years. There were a few other bikes at Borden during that time, but I never got to know the guys that well as I
went home on the weekends. Bob
Dawson had a Vincent Rapide, "one of the 150 mile an hour ones" that
are the basis of so many motorcycling tall tales. It was usually U/S
(unserviceable in RCAF talk), and as a matter of fact, I can't even
remember having seen it run. I remember it sitting forlornly against the
fence beside the Guardhouse, for if you didn't have insurance, you couldn't
bring it on the Station. John Armstrong had a 54 Triumph Thunderbird, and
Jean Chaput had a 55 Ariel Huntmaster. We shared a rented garage on the
station at a cost of $5.00 per month, the idea being to split the costs.
That worked out quite well until it came to John's turn, when he figured that
the RCAF wasn't for him and took his release (and his share of the
rent) with him. John, if you read this, I still want my 5 bucks! Then
there's also the matter of interest from 1958 'til now!
Scotty Cole (the pride of Little Heart's Delight, Newfoundland) had a
Harley, and he was a good guy for a RCAF electrician. He and I rode together
quite a bit during the week, when we should have been studying. I therefore
decided I would take him home on the weekend to meet The Ravens and show him around a bit. I never did that
again, as my sister took a shine to him. How
would you like your sister to get tangled up with a Harley rider?
I graduated from Camp Borden in August, and was transferred to RCAF
Station Uplands, Ottawa. As I had not had any leave, forbidden during
training, I now looked forward to a months vacation. It was only natural
that a motorcycle trip be considered. I had been invited to visit a young
lady named Gwen in Bowling Green, Ohio, so with the Ariel gleaming, I set off
on a really great September morning (eat your heart out, Neil Diamond) in
those pre Highway 401 days, along Highway 2 to Windsor, through Detroit and
then south to Bowling Green. (How is it that all those memorable days so
long ago were sunny?) During the trip, the Ariel ran really well, and having
spent "some quality time" in Bowling Green, it was time to ride on home. I
left in the early afternoon and had decided to return via the south shore of Lake Erie. Reaching Cleveland in the
early evening, amid what I remember as light post rush hour traffic, I was surprised, when at a red light, the bike
lurched forward and stalled. Puzzled, I pushed the machine to the roadside. Broken clutch cable. Hoo Boy!
What now?
Almost immediately, I was alerted by the welcome sound of a Triumph engine. (No valves rattle like a Triumph's)
Help had arrived in the form of a fellow motorcyclist, who guided me to the local Ariel Dealer; luckily just about
to go home. He didn't even hesitate in removing a clutch cable off a new
Ariel Cyclone in the show-room and sold it to me. My new friend on the
Triumph gave me a hand to install it, under the light of a streetlight, as
now it was dusk. The smart thing to do would have been to take a motel,
but that didn't come about. I decided to head for home, on a warm if
somewhat buggy evening, arriving in Port Perry at 3 o'clock the following morning.
I remember that Triumph rider in Cleveland very fondly. That was the
first time I had ever required assistance, and a fellow motorcyclist was
there for me. His assistance and generosity to me provided a model that I
have followed ever since. Its things like that make motorcycling what it
is, and motorcyclists what they are. Shortly after the Ohio trip, and still on leave, I found out how painful stupidity
can be. In my absence in Ohio, the Ravens had found a new form of competition, Dirt Tracking; with one on one
competition taking place at Port Perry Fairgrounds. Popert and Wilk had gotten "quite good", and were even
getting brave at the occasional broadsliding. Not bad, actually, when you consider that these were fully equipped
road bikes,
complete with saddle bags and windshields. Never one to pass a challenge,
I thought I'd give it a try, after all, the Huntmaster was more powerful than
Wilk's 500 BSA twin, or Popert's 500 Ariel Twin. I had them both by a
hundred feet through turn two, and was rapidly outpacing them when I went
into turn 3. Laying it over in good form, my elation was interrupted when
I noticed a pile of sod and earth left on the track by fairgrounds
maintenance personnel. The next thing I knew, I was airborne, with the
bike beside me rather than under me where it should have been. I felt the
impact, and a crunch in my left shoulder; then, nothing but dust, and
silence. My pals came to my rescue, helping me to my feet. My first
concern, naturally, was the Ariel. I knew I would heal. I wasn't so sure
about it. Examination, after the dust settled, showed that my pride and
joy was badly damaged. A secondary consideration, I was too; as by now the
shoulder was beginning to give me some serious pain, so I was trundled off to
the hospital a short distance away. It did not take too long, as Jeanette
had her Dad's '49 Monarch.
I spent the rest of September and half of October 1958 in Sunnybrook
Hospital, (then a military hospital) in Toronto with a broken collarbone.
The Ariel spent the same time in Percy McBride's hospital for sick Ariels.
While it was fixed as good as new (and so was I) by mid-October, I never felt
the same about the bike. It was time for a change. I was nineteen then, but
I still get the same feeling every few years.
The Ariel spent that winter in a garage I had rented in Ottawa with some
other lads from the Station. The spring of 1959 renewed my feelings
of the requirement for a new machine. One fine spring day, when I was
working evening shift, I took advantage of the morning to pay one of my
frequent visits to the local motorcycle shop. This particular one was a
typical small shop of "the fifties", English Motorcycles Reg'd, in
Eastview, now Vanier, adjacent to Ottawa. I didn't usually buy much, but
to meet other motorcyclists and get caught up on the news. The shop was
owned by the usually amiable (thank goodness) Basil Watson. There at the
same time was a gentleman with a really nice l958 Triumph TR-6, the hot-rod
of the Triumph line in 1958, and in essence a single carb version of the
Bonneville, which was to come on the market for 1959. It was an apparent
mutual admiration for each others machine that led us to a trade, with me
throwing in $50. While I had really liked the Ariel, with time its appeal
had lessened. I guess this happens when you are 19. It still happens at
54!
The Triumph was like a breath of fresh air into my motorcycling
activities. It was a completely different machine to the Ariel. It was much
faster and sportier, but did not handle as well as the venerable Huntmaster.
Its engine was also much more mechanically noisy. Back in Port Perry on the weekends, the Triumph was
admired by what was left of the Ravens; time, family, wedding bells and work commitments having depleted their
numbers. It was tough to find someone even to ride with, as it seemed they always had something non-related to
motorcycling to do. Subsequently, my trips home now were more to see my family, and not so much to see the
remainder of The Ravens. I made quite a few interesting trips on the Triumph, some of them quite speedy. One
that stood out was a 3 hour and 40 minute run from Port Perry to Ottawa, exactly 200 miles. I remember seeing
118 MPH on the speedometer on that run, on another one of those great sunny days. My active association with
the Ravens was supplanted by
a new club (I have always been a club person) in Ottawa, the Sunset Riders.
Membership in this organization made me many friends that I still have to-day, although the club is long gone.
1959 marked the end of my most fondly remembered period of time, "the
fifties". I also consider it the end of a personal milestone, and the end of
my motorcycling apprenticeship. I have retained my interest in bikes to this
day to varying degrees, and at different times. In the sixties, things changed. Things became more complex,
more restrictive and not so much fun. The world was in turmoil in the Viet Nam days. Some of my motorcycle
pals were involved in the protests of just about everything. In the Air Force, I didn't have that latitude. Instead of
protesting nuclear weapons, I was maintaining aircraft to carry them. If I ever pondered the morals of such
employment, it was overridden by the need to put bread on the table; and the reason that I joined the Air Force in
the first place – to make Canada a safer place for motorcyclists. (Tongue firmly in cheek at this point)
What happened to The Ravens? I've lost track of most of them now.
Somewhere in Northern Ontario, Popert's riding skills have been transferred
to a Twin Otter bush plane. Wilk is probably sitting in a bar in Florida,
much like a modern day Ernest Hemmingway, waiting for a lead to a lost gold
mine somewhere. I've heard the odd things about the rest, but nothing to
mention here. Me? I'm still riding and enjoying it. Sometimes the
enthusiasm wears a little thin, but its still there at least.
Non-motorcycling friends ask me when I'm going to grow up. My answer
always is, "I don't plan on it". And yes, the Ravens do know who the
motorcycling Ghost of Scugog Island is, and what really happened. But our
lips are sealed forever.
THE WAY WE WERE A LITTLE LATER by Jim Hunter
In my previous story THE WAY WE WERE, I attempted to chronicle what I
considered to be my motorcycling apprenticeship during the 1956-1959 time
period, although allusions were made to the early 1960s. To roll back the
clock again and risk possibly becoming Rocky 2 and not prove boring may prove
to be a bit of a challenge, but due to "popular request", here goes.
We left our previous story with my having sold the much-liked Ariel
Huntmaster and taken up with a rip snortin' 1958 Triumph TR-6, a machine that
I remember fondly, and vividly described in the previous story. All the
time, I had this yearning for the fabled Ariel Square Four that had impressed
me so much since I began motorcycling. I had been a little nervous about
losing the chance to have a new Square Four, as to my dismay, production had
ceased in August 1958. Ariel had ceased manufacturing all the big four
stroke models to concentrate production on the new two stroke Ariel Leader.
As it turned out, the North American Market would not accept
"little ring-dings" like the Leader and later the Arrow. McBride's sold a
few, but I never saw one on the road. I never really forgave Ariel for
stopping production of the four strokes to make way for them. Other people
must have felt the same, as the whole business went down the tube when BSA
shut Ariel down in 1965 despite having some potentially innovative
motorcycles under development.
It was with the end of Square Four production in mind that in November
of 1959, I made another pilgrimage on the TR-6 to McBrides to make a deal
on one of the remaining Fours still in stock.
"Yes!", said Percy Mann, the salesman at McBrides who sold me the
Huntmaster the previous year, "we still have two new ones in stock", pointing
to a snazzy beast in Glamour Red finish on the showroom floor,
"and we also have a black one in a crate upstairs". "I'd like the black
one", I said, and the dealing began. We discussed my trade in, the 1958
TR-6, and went out into the back lane to view the gleaming Triumph. "Nice
bike", said Percy, "$495 top price". After I recovered from my shock and was
able to speak coherently again, I stammered, "what, for a year old bike in
that condition? Thats less than half price!". "Best we can do, I'm afraid",
he said. "Not good enough", I said.
As much as I wanted that bike, and even if it was the second last new
one in the store or not, I would not take a beating on the Triumph. I
remember that it was a cold ride back to Port Perry that day, and once
again the sun was shining, as it did even on rather sad days in memory.
Disappointment reigned supreme!
It looked as if I was going to have the TR-6 for a while longer. Its
kind of strange, but I seemed to notice the cold more that day on the ride
back. It was no wonder that on that day my thoughts would turn to buying a
(gasp!) car. That doesn't warrant further description here, except to say
that the next weekend I bought my first car, a 1953 Mercury, and the
Triumph spent the winter of 1959-60 cosily in a garage in Ottawa rented by
some of my Air Force pals.
The spring of 1960 was a late one, with a final "last gasp" snowstorm on
the fifth of May. My throttle hand had been twitching since late February as
it usually did in anticipation of the riding season. We had been on the road
since March, but winter's final blast grounded us for a week. One day, when
I was cleaning the TR-6 up a little in the parking lot in front of the
Airmen's Barracks, Pete Willis, whose Dad was stationed also at Uplands, pulled into the parking lot on a 56
Square Four. He was admiring the glistening TR-6, and I the Square Four, when the subject of a trade came up.
After some skillful negotiation, he drove away on the Triumph, and I had the Ariel and $250! I had arrived. At
last I was the proud owner of a legendary Ariel Square Four!
I was never sorry to have made that trade, and I came to love the big
Squariel. Smooth, powerful, and it sounded absolutely great through the
new Burgess mufflers that I bought for it. It was not as fast as the
Triumph, but would blow the doors off all comers away from the stop lights.
It was a good sound bike, with relatively low mileage, but the cosmetics,
especially the "Deep Claret" paint, left something to be desired. Rubbing
compound and wax brought it up quite nicely, but it wasn't as good as I
wanted it.
The summer of 1960 was a good one for motorcycling. I had taken the
Triumph to Laconia for the second time on a Sunset Rider's run, and after its
departure to Pete Willis, I enjoyed the Square Four on runs home to
Port Perry on the weekends. Jeanette was convinced that I liked it better
than her, and things cooled off between us as a result. My reassurances to
her to the contrary proved futile.
On the fifth of September, I turned 21. As a birthday present to
myself, I bought another car, a 1957 Mercury four door hardtop, orange and
white. What a beaut! The Square Four useage dropped a bit until the novelty
of the big Merc wore off, but not for long. On the tenth of September, I
returned to work on evening shift after two weeks leave. I was working on F-86 Sabre and T-33 Silver Star
aircraft at RCAF Station Uplands, Ottawa, at that time. That day there was no flying, and we finished up early.
Later, all spiffed up and with the Merc gleaming, I headed down to the Ottawa YMCA where a big band dance was
held every Saturday night. This was the place to go to meet ladies of a calibre that you could actually introduce
to your family!
With Al Dion and His Orchestra playing "My Funny Valentine", I found
myself looking into the lovely brown eyes of a 19 year old French-Canadian
girl. Helene and I are still dancing together 40 years later. My plot to
reduce the women of Ottawa to a rubber-kneed swoon with the coolest car and
motorcycle devised by man came apart at the seams that evening.
Our relationship prospered. She had never been on a motorcycle
before, and our first motorcycling date was a run to the Scrambles at
Grenville Quebec on a colourful fall afternoon. She seemed to enjoy the
ride, but I could sense that she was a little apprehensive. She proved to
be a good sport about the whole motorcycling business,and still is!
That winter, the Square Four was stored in the garage at her family home
in Hull. I decided at that time to have it painted black, and to
bring it up to the condition that I desired. The Four was disassembled and
the parts sent for paint and chrome. It was in this disassembled state
when she and I had a rather serious tiff, (a tiff with a French-Canadian lady
can get serious in a hurry) and I stomped off back to the barracks in
a huff. Clever woman that she is, she held my bike "for ransom" until I
would come and see her and make up. It can therefore be said, with a
straight face, that an Ariel Square Four saved our marriage! (She rolls
her eyes when I tell that one)
One beautiful day in May 1961, the newly painted Square Four Gleaming in
the sunlight, I went out on a ride that finished up, as they did on many
occasions, at Basil Watson's shop in Eastview. After a visit and the usual
discussions that solved most of the world's problems, I was just putting on
my helmet when Urgel Jourdain pulled up on his new 1960 TR-6 Triumph. We
were admiring each others machinery, when the devil gave me a nudge and
said "offer him an even trade", and I immediately blurted it out. (I know, I
know, I loved the Square Four and that is why this act was so incredible!) I guess the challenge of trading a five
year old bike for a current model was just enough to overcome my affection for the Square Four. To my utter
amazement, after some contemplation and head scratching, he accepted, and we rode off on each others
machine. In those days, you trusted the other guy to sort out the licencing requirements, a move that would not
be wise to-day.
I came to regret that deal, for as much as it was a challenge from
financial point of view, the Triumph proved to be a real dog, and I have
never warmed to them since. More importantly, I was never able to replace
the Square Four until years later, when I bought and restored my current 1957
model in 1973.
I learned about unpleasant motorcycles from that Triumph. It was a
strange bike, and much in contrast from the 58 TR-6 that I mentioned
earlier. 1960 was the first year of the alternator on Triumphs. The
electrical system was the pits! Luckily it still had a magneto, or I would
have been walking a lot. Light bulbs were either bright and burning out,
or as dim as a candle. The frame seemed to be hinged in the middle. Every
curve and corner was a challenge at highway speeds, relying on sheer
musclepower to manhandle it around. And this was a new machine, with less
than 5000 mi|es on it. Rick Burns, an RCAF Communications Technician that
I worked with, was no stranger to electricity; being one of our more
knowledgeable radio types. He was admiring it (it was a pretty bike, with
the new BUCO teardrop shaped fiberglass saddle bags) on the way into the
Hangar one evening on the way to work, when I offered to trade him even for
his 1956 Cadillac Coupe deVille. We worked out a trade. When Rick got
the TR-6, he was aware of the problems that inhabited the machine. Because
if his background in electronics, he soon had them sorted out. He never
did sort out the handling problems, though. The Triumph finally met its
demise the following year in a small contest of speed with my new BSA (to
be revealed as this story unfolds) on Highway 7A between Manchester and
Port Perry, where it threw a rod.
After the trade for the Cadillac, I had no bike at all, just this
monster of a car that I wanted to unload in a hurry. It was only five
years old, but it had seen a lot of use. It ran well, but had a lot of
electrical stuff on it. I wanted another bike, so I set out to sell it, a
feat that proved harder than I imagined. So I traded it to Slim Dennison for
a very nice, low mileage 1956 Pontiac Sedan. This was hardly the car for a
person of my coolness, and besides, I still had the Merc. I was elated when
I managed to sell the Pontiac for cash to another Airman. The cash wasn't as
much as I had hoped for, but at least it was cash, and I was rid of that
turkey of a TR-6, but in a rather convoluted manner. That was the first of a
number of strange things I have done over the years in the name of
motorcycling, but it wouldn't be the last.
I was working part time for Basil Watson at the shop at that time, and
we sold Triumphs. I thought that one of the new Bonnevilles might be nice
to try, so Basil and I negotiated for one, unfortunately unsuccessfully.
We had a $50 price differential that would just not go away, so I bought a
beautiful new 1961 BSA Golden Flash ("Royal Tourist", it said on a decal
on the top of the gas tank) from our competition, Byles and Company on
Bank Street in Ottawa, two days before Ontario introduced its first retail
sales tax (3%) on July 1. Shortly after that, Basil understandably announced
that my services were no longer required, and there was a coolness in our relationship for a while.
The Royal Tourist was a very nicely dressed version of the Golden Flash.
Beautiful black paint, with gold pinstriping on the tank and around the
perimiter of the fenders. It had the proven A10 cast iron cylinder barrel
and head, a desirable feature devoid of the rattles of the alloy TR-6. I had
been a little short of cash to buy the BSA, but the love-of-my-life loaned me
enough to put the Beesa in my posession. I (blush) was a little late in
paying her back, but finally did 20 years later when I paid for damages she
did when she pranged our VW Beetle. (Just a little "aside" there)
The Flash proved to be one of the best bikes I ever owned. It looked
good, sounded good, and was very reliable. Helene and I spent some very
enjoyable miles on it during the summer of l961, on "our" new machine. One
of the more memorable rides that year was with Harry and Lise Sculland on
their Harley down to the scrambles in Hannawa Falls, New York. On the way
home, we got caught in a thunderstorm and had no rain gear with us. Soon,
soaked to the skin, we had a splashing contest in puddles that had formed
along Highway 16 between Prescott and Ottawa. I guess if anyone won this
splashing contest, it was Harry as those big tires on the Harley can displace
a lot of water. It was a hot day, and we managed to dry out considerably
before we got to Ottawa. When we recounted the experience to Helene's Mom
when we got home, she prepared a couple of her famous 'ot
Toddy (accent on the last syllable of the word) that she made on occasion
of any perceived malady from a hangnail to "la grippe". After one of her
'ot Toddys, problems never seemed to be as bad as before, and somehow even
humourous!
In November 1961, I popped "the question" and Helene said "yes". A wedding date was set for June 1962. The
BSA sat quietly in the garage at her place that winter, but was uncovered, admired and polished quite frequently.
I
had, however; other things on my mind. The wedding was one of them to be
sure, but the RCAF had dropped a small bomb on my extremely satisfactory
Ottawa lifestyle and transferred me to Cold Lake, seven miles from the end of
the road in northeastern Alberta. The effective date was June 1962.
But first things first.
The wedding, June 2, was "the best one I ever had". Surrounded by
family, fellow motorcyclists and assorted Airmen, my carefree batchelorhood
came to an end, and I never really missed it. Due to the impending move to
Cold Lake, we had a short weekend honeymoon (to Prescott) and the next day to
the Scrambles at Hannawa Falls. The following week, I guided the BSA
and our furniture into the moving van destined for Cold Lake.
Cold lake in 1962 was not a fun place for a motorcyclist, with endless
gravel roads in every direction. We did some riding, but my heart was not in
it. Every ride, it seemed, dirtied the machine beyond belief. A rain squall
could leave the roads dangerously slippery due to the famous western
"gumbo". We went down once, on our way to Muriel Lake for a picnic and a
swim, luckily at a relatively slow speed. No damage to person or machine,
but with a new appreciation of the dangers of Alberta mud. The BSA did not
see much use in Alberta.
Marriage does have its attractions, of course, and motorcycling had a
rest. Due to time on my hands, I devoured my weekly copy of "The Blue 'Un"
and was eating my heart about people who could actually ride on paved
roads. The inactivity got to me, so I started a small business working out
of our apartment in Bonnyville, selling motorcycle parts and accessories to
the increasing number of motorcyclists in the area. It was called a "Rider
Agency", and my suppliers were Nicholson Brothers in Saskatoon, and Alberta
Cycle in Edmonton. I didn't make a lot of money, but I had a lot of fun.
Moose Bailey, whom I worked with on the new CF104 Starfighter aircraft
at RCAF Station Cold Lake, lived just up the road from me in Bonnyville.
He had been a motorcyclist in years past, and we talked a lot about bikes
when we were together. One day, a rather decent 1956 BSA B31 turned up in
the showroom of the local Volkswagen dealer, and he bought it. Now I had
someone to ride with, and dust and mud notwithstanding, we made a few good
runs to some rather good fishing spots in Northeastern Alberta and
Northwestern Saskatchewan. For the summer of 1964, Helene and I had
planned a motorcycle trip to Peace River country, but it had to be
cancelled. Our son Douglas was born in Bonnyville, 30 March 1964.
Motorcycling activity was reduced to the occasional fishing trip to Muriel Lake.
We were overjoyed that summer, when the RCAF announced its intention
to transfer us to Zweibrucken, Germany with NATO forces for 4 years effective
October 1964. Wow! Motorcycling in Europe. Visions of BMWs dancing in my
head! My daydreams fomented by reading the "Blue Un" were about to come
true. My cousin in Edmonton agreed to sell the BSA for me, and did so within
a month after we left for Europe. (while he had it, I guess he rode it a
little. He must have caught the bug because he bought a Norton Atlas for
himself the next spring, and still rides the Suzuki Water Buffalo he bought
new in 1975) I placed my order for a new BMW R69S in Zweibrucken in
November, and took delivery at the BMW works in Munich, 15 May, 1965. But
that's another story!
Much has been detailed in print in the motorcyclist press over the years
of the glory days of motorcycling in both Britain and the USA. Now its time
for a few reminiscences from Canada. Of all the small towns in Ontario in
the mid 1950s, non would be more typical than Port Perry, then a village of
1800 souls. Nestled on the shores of Lake Scugog amid a proliference of
large Maple trees, few prettier spots could be found. It was my privilege to
have been born and raised there.
It was in this environment that as a teenager I began to have the need
for transportation, and being far too cool to continue to ride my bicycle, my
thoughts turned to a car. I found a great deal on a 1935 Chev, but when the
subject was broached with my parents, it was shot down in flames. My Mother
astounded my by saying "why don't you get a motorcycle. I always wanted
one". I had never really considered a motorcycle up to that point, but
suddenly it seemed like a great idea. I knew a few guys who had one,
so began to ask a few questions as to price, my main consideration; and
availability.
The flames of interest in motorcycling were fanned when September of
1956, on the first day of Grade 12, cool Ron Larocque blasted away from
good old Port Perry High School on what I know now to be a pre-war Ariel
Red Hunter. That ensuing week, my desire for a bike reached fever pitch when
Eric Scriver, a friend for many years, gave me a ride home from school on the
"Big Harley" of so many motorcycling legends. That was it. I was hooked.
That weekend I made my move, buying a 1948 Matchless G80 from my pal
Lorne "Wilk" Wilkins for $50. What a turkey that bike was. I never even got
one ride on it. The Prince of Darkness and the Prince of Everything Else
struck all at once. I always had a good mechanical aptitude, but this one
was too much for a 17 year old shade tree mechanic, and the Matchless, an
ex-dirt tracker that Wilk had bought from someone in Oshawa named
"Spaghetti", sat idle over the winter denying all attempts to breath life
into it.
George "Corky" West, and his nephew Bill Brown, had motorcycles. They
were brand new, and, Corky told me, were called Ariel Square Fours. Boy, did
I like those machines, and I still do 37 years later. I resolved that
ownership of an Ariel Square Four would be my goal. However, they cost an
unheard of (to a high school student) $1100.00. When my neighbour's
brother came to visit him, however, in April 1957, he rode an Ariel. I was
surprised to learn that all Ariels were not Square Fours, and this was a
rather small machine with a one cylinder (I knew that, because thats what the
lawnmower had) engine. I also found out that it was 350cc, whatever that
was. Was it smaller or larger than the "Big Harley" which I knew to
be 74 cubic inches? My neighbour's brother told me that it was for sale
for $75.00, and my heart lept! He started it for me and my Dad and I
listened to it, and it sounded good. I offered him $50.00 for it. (I was
big and naive, but not stupid) To my amazement, he accepted the offer, and
we tidied up the deal under my Dad's scrutiny. I had arrived. It was not
a Square Four to be sure, but a step in the right direction. It was, so
the ownership certificate said, a 1950 Ariel 350, model NH. Wow! This was
it!
Learning to ride was no big deal back then. My Dad did not know
motorcycles, but between the two of us we quickly figured out the clutch
and the gearshift. The engine always started easily, and Dad showed me how
to use the spark advance on starting, as the 10-20 McCormick-Deering
tractor we had worked the same. Starting the engine and engaging first
gear proved to be no problem. Releasing the clutch and getting rolling
was. Dad solved this dilemma by pointing me down the hill in front of of the
house, instead of up the hill, and away I went, managing clutch and throttle
quite nicely. It was a beautiful spring evening, that April evening in 1957
when I became a motorcyclist.
Dad had given strict instructions that I was not to take the bike to
school until I got a little riding experience under my belt, a logical move
and one that I as a father would mandate to-day. I did not take the bike
to school for two weeks as was the deal, but came home at noon hours and
after school to practice, putting quite a few miles on it in the process.
Soon, I was allowed to take it to school where I was one of two
motorcyclists. Wilk had recently bought a 1952 plunger framed BSA 500
twin. We never saw Ron Larocque's Ariel again, and he always had some tale
of woe as to why he was not riding it.
Wilk and I continued to regularly ride the bikes to school. Soon, Don
Popert, whose Dad owned the Pool Room, got the bug and bought a pristine 1949
Ariel 500 Twin from an elderly (everyone is elderly when you are 17) English
gentleman in Toronto. Don's Dad took us to Toronto in the car to pick up the
bike and get my opinion, "as I was an expert now"; as to the condition of the
machine. It turned out that it was a beauty, absolutely original and in the
best possible condition. I rode it back to Port Perry for him. During the
following week, Don was dismayed by a tack-tack-tack noise that the engine
made, and it leaked oil along the cylinder head gasket. During troubleshooting, I had him run the engine, and I
observed it closely, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. That I did. The cylinder head was moving noticibly
up and down, and the noise was that of a leaking head gasket. Surprising what a little torque will do for loose
head bolts. Having now established myself as "The Wrench", I had earned my place in the school mechanical
community.
Bikes began to appear at school and around town as if by magic. What
kind of a trend had I unleashed? Grant Cawker picked up a very nice 53
Harley K at Russell Winter's shop in Toronto, having sold his body into
servitude to his father to do so. Bill Mitchell, who had finished school,
showed up one day with a 1949 Harley 61. Bill was never big on
maintenance, and this was reflected in his machine, which always looked at
best; kind of ratty. But it ran and ran. You could always tell when Bill
was behind you on a night ride as the headlight would bob up and down. It
was loose, and "the slack" was taken up with hockey stick tape.
Graduation came in June, and at last came time to enjoy the bike over
the summer. As a result of riding together on so many occasions, it was
the consensus that we should form a club. Therefore, "The Ravens" Motorcycle
Club was born. Eric was elected president, crests were bought; large of
course, with a large black raven shown with wings outstretched. The menacing
words "The Ravens, Port Perry" struck fear into the hearts of the citizens,
as everyone knew how bad motorcyclists were as a result of the Marlon Brando movie two years earlier. We
even had a club room in the basement of the pool room, on which Don had painted a large black raven.
It was very good. I wonder if it is still there?
The Ravens continued to ride together and had some good times. We had
heard of a race England where they named all the corners, so we did the
same. We had our own impromptu races through the town "just like in
England" (and usually at night). Starting in front of Beares Garage, we
would drag east to the Beer Store corner, through a 90 degree turn and
south to the Massey-Harris corner. Then another 90 degree turn, and west
to Gabby Gibson's corner. Usually Gabby was in front of his house to lend
moral support. The home straight was north from Gabby's back to Beares
Garage, with another 90 degree turn and across the finish line which
stretched from the Simpson-Sears Order Office across to the Garage, and was
marked by an overhead hydro line. Racing could never have been this good
on "some island off the coast of England".
Having no one to guide us in the ways of motorcycling except for
Marlon Brando and the odd well thumbed copy of "The Enthusiast", the
Harley-Davidson publication, did not pose much of a problem. We were for all
intents and purposes isolated from the motorcycling mainstream. No kindly
hand of a paternalistic older gentleman rider was available to guide us. We
were on our own, and rode as we pleased. Then it happened.
Port Perry got a new Chief of Police and things changed rapidly. Our
new Chief was Mr. Archie Menzies, an awe inspiring 6'6" and about 250 lbs.
The Port Perry Grand Prix and the drag racing on Cochrane Street came to an
abrupt end in the form of a quiet warning, which was typical of the way he
operated. Not only was he an impressive man, he had an impressive new police
cruiser, one of the new V8 Chevrolets. Try and get away from that
on a 350 Ariel, Red Hunter Specification or not! Mr. Menzies had four
sons, so in retrospect I think he understood young people. I joined the
Royal Canadian Air Force in September 1957, and parked the Ariel until my
first leave at Christmas. Once home, sub-zero temperatures or not, it was
time for a ride. In the winter days of early darkness, I found myself on the
way home when lights were required. You guessed it. The Prince of Darkness
had, with the assistance of my personal neglect of the battery, struck. No
lights. The generator didn't work, so I used a total loss system. It would
have cost $25.00 to fix the generator, so the Ariel dealer, said. I made it into town and the safety of the
streetlights, but whom do I meet but Mr. Menzies who stopped me and counselled me on the fallacy of riding
without lights. No ticket, no dramatics, but he did insist that I push the Ariel the rest of the way home, about four
blocks.
After joining the Air Force and becoming "instantly affluent", it was
time for a new bike. No, not one that would outrun Mr. Menzies' Chev
necessarily, but something new, fast and classy. I was the ripe old age of
18. This was a big deal! The Ariel (of course) dealer was P.A. McBride in
Toronto. In March 1958, my Dad and I loaded the 350 into a neighbour's
pickup and went down to Toronto to get a new motorcycle. After looking at
a few used Square Fours, the salesman, Mr. Percy Mann, showed me a new unsold
1956 model Ariel Huntmaster 650 twin. It was a beaut, and at $675
it was a good deal too, especially since they would allow me $250 for the 350
Ariel. The balance was financed on "the McBride easy payment plan" at
$50.00 per month. Instant indebtedness! My first experience.
Words could not describe my feelings as I drove the 50 miles back to
Port Perry on my lovely new Huntmaster. It was sunny, but still rather
cool on that spring day, but not uncomfortably so. I therefore decided to
take a slight detour to Uxbridge to show off the new machine to a rather neat
lady I knew named Jeanette. She was always interested in the bike,
and I think that given any encouragement, she would have liked to have ridden
it. If she rode the bike like she drove her father's '49 Monarch,
it was probably best that she not ride the bike. I can still see her, with a
big smile on her face, and me in the passenger seat probably looking very
nervous, doing a burnout on Uxbridge main street.
The summer of 1958 was also a great one. I was stationed at Camp Borden
involved in my trade training as an Aero Engine Technician, and riding the
Ariel home to Port Perry on weekends. It was a 60 mile ride,
and included quite a few miles of gravel at that time. It was not a
difficult journey, but it made a real mess of my sparkling pride and joy
due to the dust; and if it rained, you can well imagine how much concern this
caused me. I hated getting bikes dirty then, and nothing has changed over
the years. There were a few other bikes at Borden during that time, but I never got to know the guys that well as I
went home on the weekends. Bob
Dawson had a Vincent Rapide, "one of the 150 mile an hour ones" that
are the basis of so many motorcycling tall tales. It was usually U/S
(unserviceable in RCAF talk), and as a matter of fact, I can't even
remember having seen it run. I remember it sitting forlornly against the
fence beside the Guardhouse, for if you didn't have insurance, you couldn't
bring it on the Station. John Armstrong had a 54 Triumph Thunderbird, and
Jean Chaput had a 55 Ariel Huntmaster. We shared a rented garage on the
station at a cost of $5.00 per month, the idea being to split the costs.
That worked out quite well until it came to John's turn, when he figured that
the RCAF wasn't for him and took his release (and his share of the
rent) with him. John, if you read this, I still want my 5 bucks! Then
there's also the matter of interest from 1958 'til now!
Scotty Cole (the pride of Little Heart's Delight, Newfoundland) had a
Harley, and he was a good guy for a RCAF electrician. He and I rode together
quite a bit during the week, when we should have been studying. I therefore
decided I would take him home on the weekend to meet The Ravens and show him around a bit. I never did that
again, as my sister took a shine to him. How
would you like your sister to get tangled up with a Harley rider?
I graduated from Camp Borden in August, and was transferred to RCAF
Station Uplands, Ottawa. As I had not had any leave, forbidden during
training, I now looked forward to a months vacation. It was only natural
that a motorcycle trip be considered. I had been invited to visit a young
lady named Gwen in Bowling Green, Ohio, so with the Ariel gleaming, I set off
on a really great September morning (eat your heart out, Neil Diamond) in
those pre Highway 401 days, along Highway 2 to Windsor, through Detroit and
then south to Bowling Green. (How is it that all those memorable days so
long ago were sunny?) During the trip, the Ariel ran really well, and having
spent "some quality time" in Bowling Green, it was time to ride on home. I
left in the early afternoon and had decided to return via the south shore of Lake Erie. Reaching Cleveland in the
early evening, amid what I remember as light post rush hour traffic, I was surprised, when at a red light, the bike
lurched forward and stalled. Puzzled, I pushed the machine to the roadside. Broken clutch cable. Hoo Boy!
What now?
Almost immediately, I was alerted by the welcome sound of a Triumph engine. (No valves rattle like a Triumph's)
Help had arrived in the form of a fellow motorcyclist, who guided me to the local Ariel Dealer; luckily just about
to go home. He didn't even hesitate in removing a clutch cable off a new
Ariel Cyclone in the show-room and sold it to me. My new friend on the
Triumph gave me a hand to install it, under the light of a streetlight, as
now it was dusk. The smart thing to do would have been to take a motel,
but that didn't come about. I decided to head for home, on a warm if
somewhat buggy evening, arriving in Port Perry at 3 o'clock the following morning.
I remember that Triumph rider in Cleveland very fondly. That was the
first time I had ever required assistance, and a fellow motorcyclist was
there for me. His assistance and generosity to me provided a model that I
have followed ever since. Its things like that make motorcycling what it
is, and motorcyclists what they are. Shortly after the Ohio trip, and still on leave, I found out how painful stupidity
can be. In my absence in Ohio, the Ravens had found a new form of competition, Dirt Tracking; with one on one
competition taking place at Port Perry Fairgrounds. Popert and Wilk had gotten "quite good", and were even
getting brave at the occasional broadsliding. Not bad, actually, when you consider that these were fully equipped
road bikes,
complete with saddle bags and windshields. Never one to pass a challenge,
I thought I'd give it a try, after all, the Huntmaster was more powerful than
Wilk's 500 BSA twin, or Popert's 500 Ariel Twin. I had them both by a
hundred feet through turn two, and was rapidly outpacing them when I went
into turn 3. Laying it over in good form, my elation was interrupted when
I noticed a pile of sod and earth left on the track by fairgrounds
maintenance personnel. The next thing I knew, I was airborne, with the
bike beside me rather than under me where it should have been. I felt the
impact, and a crunch in my left shoulder; then, nothing but dust, and
silence. My pals came to my rescue, helping me to my feet. My first
concern, naturally, was the Ariel. I knew I would heal. I wasn't so sure
about it. Examination, after the dust settled, showed that my pride and
joy was badly damaged. A secondary consideration, I was too; as by now the
shoulder was beginning to give me some serious pain, so I was trundled off to
the hospital a short distance away. It did not take too long, as Jeanette
had her Dad's '49 Monarch.
I spent the rest of September and half of October 1958 in Sunnybrook
Hospital, (then a military hospital) in Toronto with a broken collarbone.
The Ariel spent the same time in Percy McBride's hospital for sick Ariels.
While it was fixed as good as new (and so was I) by mid-October, I never felt
the same about the bike. It was time for a change. I was nineteen then, but
I still get the same feeling every few years.
The Ariel spent that winter in a garage I had rented in Ottawa with some
other lads from the Station. The spring of 1959 renewed my feelings
of the requirement for a new machine. One fine spring day, when I was
working evening shift, I took advantage of the morning to pay one of my
frequent visits to the local motorcycle shop. This particular one was a
typical small shop of "the fifties", English Motorcycles Reg'd, in
Eastview, now Vanier, adjacent to Ottawa. I didn't usually buy much, but
to meet other motorcyclists and get caught up on the news. The shop was
owned by the usually amiable (thank goodness) Basil Watson. There at the
same time was a gentleman with a really nice l958 Triumph TR-6, the hot-rod
of the Triumph line in 1958, and in essence a single carb version of the
Bonneville, which was to come on the market for 1959. It was an apparent
mutual admiration for each others machine that led us to a trade, with me
throwing in $50. While I had really liked the Ariel, with time its appeal
had lessened. I guess this happens when you are 19. It still happens at
54!
The Triumph was like a breath of fresh air into my motorcycling
activities. It was a completely different machine to the Ariel. It was much
faster and sportier, but did not handle as well as the venerable Huntmaster.
Its engine was also much more mechanically noisy. Back in Port Perry on the weekends, the Triumph was
admired by what was left of the Ravens; time, family, wedding bells and work commitments having depleted their
numbers. It was tough to find someone even to ride with, as it seemed they always had something non-related to
motorcycling to do. Subsequently, my trips home now were more to see my family, and not so much to see the
remainder of The Ravens. I made quite a few interesting trips on the Triumph, some of them quite speedy. One
that stood out was a 3 hour and 40 minute run from Port Perry to Ottawa, exactly 200 miles. I remember seeing
118 MPH on the speedometer on that run, on another one of those great sunny days. My active association with
the Ravens was supplanted by
a new club (I have always been a club person) in Ottawa, the Sunset Riders.
Membership in this organization made me many friends that I still have to-day, although the club is long gone.
1959 marked the end of my most fondly remembered period of time, "the
fifties". I also consider it the end of a personal milestone, and the end of
my motorcycling apprenticeship. I have retained my interest in bikes to this
day to varying degrees, and at different times. In the sixties, things changed. Things became more complex,
more restrictive and not so much fun. The world was in turmoil in the Viet Nam days. Some of my motorcycle
pals were involved in the protests of just about everything. In the Air Force, I didn't have that latitude. Instead of
protesting nuclear weapons, I was maintaining aircraft to carry them. If I ever pondered the morals of such
employment, it was overridden by the need to put bread on the table; and the reason that I joined the Air Force in
the first place – to make Canada a safer place for motorcyclists. (Tongue firmly in cheek at this point)
What happened to The Ravens? I've lost track of most of them now.
Somewhere in Northern Ontario, Popert's riding skills have been transferred
to a Twin Otter bush plane. Wilk is probably sitting in a bar in Florida,
much like a modern day Ernest Hemmingway, waiting for a lead to a lost gold
mine somewhere. I've heard the odd things about the rest, but nothing to
mention here. Me? I'm still riding and enjoying it. Sometimes the
enthusiasm wears a little thin, but its still there at least.
Non-motorcycling friends ask me when I'm going to grow up. My answer
always is, "I don't plan on it". And yes, the Ravens do know who the
motorcycling Ghost of Scugog Island is, and what really happened. But our
lips are sealed forever.
THE WAY WE WERE A LITTLE LATER by Jim Hunter
In my previous story THE WAY WE WERE, I attempted to chronicle what I
considered to be my motorcycling apprenticeship during the 1956-1959 time
period, although allusions were made to the early 1960s. To roll back the
clock again and risk possibly becoming Rocky 2 and not prove boring may prove
to be a bit of a challenge, but due to "popular request", here goes.
We left our previous story with my having sold the much-liked Ariel
Huntmaster and taken up with a rip snortin' 1958 Triumph TR-6, a machine that
I remember fondly, and vividly described in the previous story. All the
time, I had this yearning for the fabled Ariel Square Four that had impressed
me so much since I began motorcycling. I had been a little nervous about
losing the chance to have a new Square Four, as to my dismay, production had
ceased in August 1958. Ariel had ceased manufacturing all the big four
stroke models to concentrate production on the new two stroke Ariel Leader.
As it turned out, the North American Market would not accept
"little ring-dings" like the Leader and later the Arrow. McBride's sold a
few, but I never saw one on the road. I never really forgave Ariel for
stopping production of the four strokes to make way for them. Other people
must have felt the same, as the whole business went down the tube when BSA
shut Ariel down in 1965 despite having some potentially innovative
motorcycles under development.
It was with the end of Square Four production in mind that in November
of 1959, I made another pilgrimage on the TR-6 to McBrides to make a deal
on one of the remaining Fours still in stock.
"Yes!", said Percy Mann, the salesman at McBrides who sold me the
Huntmaster the previous year, "we still have two new ones in stock", pointing
to a snazzy beast in Glamour Red finish on the showroom floor,
"and we also have a black one in a crate upstairs". "I'd like the black
one", I said, and the dealing began. We discussed my trade in, the 1958
TR-6, and went out into the back lane to view the gleaming Triumph. "Nice
bike", said Percy, "$495 top price". After I recovered from my shock and was
able to speak coherently again, I stammered, "what, for a year old bike in
that condition? Thats less than half price!". "Best we can do, I'm afraid",
he said. "Not good enough", I said.
As much as I wanted that bike, and even if it was the second last new
one in the store or not, I would not take a beating on the Triumph. I
remember that it was a cold ride back to Port Perry that day, and once
again the sun was shining, as it did even on rather sad days in memory.
Disappointment reigned supreme!
It looked as if I was going to have the TR-6 for a while longer. Its
kind of strange, but I seemed to notice the cold more that day on the ride
back. It was no wonder that on that day my thoughts would turn to buying a
(gasp!) car. That doesn't warrant further description here, except to say
that the next weekend I bought my first car, a 1953 Mercury, and the
Triumph spent the winter of 1959-60 cosily in a garage in Ottawa rented by
some of my Air Force pals.
The spring of 1960 was a late one, with a final "last gasp" snowstorm on
the fifth of May. My throttle hand had been twitching since late February as
it usually did in anticipation of the riding season. We had been on the road
since March, but winter's final blast grounded us for a week. One day, when
I was cleaning the TR-6 up a little in the parking lot in front of the
Airmen's Barracks, Pete Willis, whose Dad was stationed also at Uplands, pulled into the parking lot on a 56
Square Four. He was admiring the glistening TR-6, and I the Square Four, when the subject of a trade came up.
After some skillful negotiation, he drove away on the Triumph, and I had the Ariel and $250! I had arrived. At
last I was the proud owner of a legendary Ariel Square Four!
I was never sorry to have made that trade, and I came to love the big
Squariel. Smooth, powerful, and it sounded absolutely great through the
new Burgess mufflers that I bought for it. It was not as fast as the
Triumph, but would blow the doors off all comers away from the stop lights.
It was a good sound bike, with relatively low mileage, but the cosmetics,
especially the "Deep Claret" paint, left something to be desired. Rubbing
compound and wax brought it up quite nicely, but it wasn't as good as I
wanted it.
The summer of 1960 was a good one for motorcycling. I had taken the
Triumph to Laconia for the second time on a Sunset Rider's run, and after its
departure to Pete Willis, I enjoyed the Square Four on runs home to
Port Perry on the weekends. Jeanette was convinced that I liked it better
than her, and things cooled off between us as a result. My reassurances to
her to the contrary proved futile.
On the fifth of September, I turned 21. As a birthday present to
myself, I bought another car, a 1957 Mercury four door hardtop, orange and
white. What a beaut! The Square Four useage dropped a bit until the novelty
of the big Merc wore off, but not for long. On the tenth of September, I
returned to work on evening shift after two weeks leave. I was working on F-86 Sabre and T-33 Silver Star
aircraft at RCAF Station Uplands, Ottawa, at that time. That day there was no flying, and we finished up early.
Later, all spiffed up and with the Merc gleaming, I headed down to the Ottawa YMCA where a big band dance was
held every Saturday night. This was the place to go to meet ladies of a calibre that you could actually introduce
to your family!
With Al Dion and His Orchestra playing "My Funny Valentine", I found
myself looking into the lovely brown eyes of a 19 year old French-Canadian
girl. Helene and I are still dancing together 40 years later. My plot to
reduce the women of Ottawa to a rubber-kneed swoon with the coolest car and
motorcycle devised by man came apart at the seams that evening.
Our relationship prospered. She had never been on a motorcycle
before, and our first motorcycling date was a run to the Scrambles at
Grenville Quebec on a colourful fall afternoon. She seemed to enjoy the
ride, but I could sense that she was a little apprehensive. She proved to
be a good sport about the whole motorcycling business,and still is!
That winter, the Square Four was stored in the garage at her family home
in Hull. I decided at that time to have it painted black, and to
bring it up to the condition that I desired. The Four was disassembled and
the parts sent for paint and chrome. It was in this disassembled state
when she and I had a rather serious tiff, (a tiff with a French-Canadian lady
can get serious in a hurry) and I stomped off back to the barracks in
a huff. Clever woman that she is, she held my bike "for ransom" until I
would come and see her and make up. It can therefore be said, with a
straight face, that an Ariel Square Four saved our marriage! (She rolls
her eyes when I tell that one)
One beautiful day in May 1961, the newly painted Square Four Gleaming in
the sunlight, I went out on a ride that finished up, as they did on many
occasions, at Basil Watson's shop in Eastview. After a visit and the usual
discussions that solved most of the world's problems, I was just putting on
my helmet when Urgel Jourdain pulled up on his new 1960 TR-6 Triumph. We
were admiring each others machinery, when the devil gave me a nudge and
said "offer him an even trade", and I immediately blurted it out. (I know, I
know, I loved the Square Four and that is why this act was so incredible!) I guess the challenge of trading a five
year old bike for a current model was just enough to overcome my affection for the Square Four. To my utter
amazement, after some contemplation and head scratching, he accepted, and we rode off on each others
machine. In those days, you trusted the other guy to sort out the licencing requirements, a move that would not
be wise to-day.
I came to regret that deal, for as much as it was a challenge from
financial point of view, the Triumph proved to be a real dog, and I have
never warmed to them since. More importantly, I was never able to replace
the Square Four until years later, when I bought and restored my current 1957
model in 1973.
I learned about unpleasant motorcycles from that Triumph. It was a
strange bike, and much in contrast from the 58 TR-6 that I mentioned
earlier. 1960 was the first year of the alternator on Triumphs. The
electrical system was the pits! Luckily it still had a magneto, or I would
have been walking a lot. Light bulbs were either bright and burning out,
or as dim as a candle. The frame seemed to be hinged in the middle. Every
curve and corner was a challenge at highway speeds, relying on sheer
musclepower to manhandle it around. And this was a new machine, with less
than 5000 mi|es on it. Rick Burns, an RCAF Communications Technician that
I worked with, was no stranger to electricity; being one of our more
knowledgeable radio types. He was admiring it (it was a pretty bike, with
the new BUCO teardrop shaped fiberglass saddle bags) on the way into the
Hangar one evening on the way to work, when I offered to trade him even for
his 1956 Cadillac Coupe deVille. We worked out a trade. When Rick got
the TR-6, he was aware of the problems that inhabited the machine. Because
if his background in electronics, he soon had them sorted out. He never
did sort out the handling problems, though. The Triumph finally met its
demise the following year in a small contest of speed with my new BSA (to
be revealed as this story unfolds) on Highway 7A between Manchester and
Port Perry, where it threw a rod.
After the trade for the Cadillac, I had no bike at all, just this
monster of a car that I wanted to unload in a hurry. It was only five
years old, but it had seen a lot of use. It ran well, but had a lot of
electrical stuff on it. I wanted another bike, so I set out to sell it, a
feat that proved harder than I imagined. So I traded it to Slim Dennison for
a very nice, low mileage 1956 Pontiac Sedan. This was hardly the car for a
person of my coolness, and besides, I still had the Merc. I was elated when
I managed to sell the Pontiac for cash to another Airman. The cash wasn't as
much as I had hoped for, but at least it was cash, and I was rid of that
turkey of a TR-6, but in a rather convoluted manner. That was the first of a
number of strange things I have done over the years in the name of
motorcycling, but it wouldn't be the last.
I was working part time for Basil Watson at the shop at that time, and
we sold Triumphs. I thought that one of the new Bonnevilles might be nice
to try, so Basil and I negotiated for one, unfortunately unsuccessfully.
We had a $50 price differential that would just not go away, so I bought a
beautiful new 1961 BSA Golden Flash ("Royal Tourist", it said on a decal
on the top of the gas tank) from our competition, Byles and Company on
Bank Street in Ottawa, two days before Ontario introduced its first retail
sales tax (3%) on July 1. Shortly after that, Basil understandably announced
that my services were no longer required, and there was a coolness in our relationship for a while.
The Royal Tourist was a very nicely dressed version of the Golden Flash.
Beautiful black paint, with gold pinstriping on the tank and around the
perimiter of the fenders. It had the proven A10 cast iron cylinder barrel
and head, a desirable feature devoid of the rattles of the alloy TR-6. I had
been a little short of cash to buy the BSA, but the love-of-my-life loaned me
enough to put the Beesa in my posession. I (blush) was a little late in
paying her back, but finally did 20 years later when I paid for damages she
did when she pranged our VW Beetle. (Just a little "aside" there)
The Flash proved to be one of the best bikes I ever owned. It looked
good, sounded good, and was very reliable. Helene and I spent some very
enjoyable miles on it during the summer of l961, on "our" new machine. One
of the more memorable rides that year was with Harry and Lise Sculland on
their Harley down to the scrambles in Hannawa Falls, New York. On the way
home, we got caught in a thunderstorm and had no rain gear with us. Soon,
soaked to the skin, we had a splashing contest in puddles that had formed
along Highway 16 between Prescott and Ottawa. I guess if anyone won this
splashing contest, it was Harry as those big tires on the Harley can displace
a lot of water. It was a hot day, and we managed to dry out considerably
before we got to Ottawa. When we recounted the experience to Helene's Mom
when we got home, she prepared a couple of her famous 'ot
Toddy (accent on the last syllable of the word) that she made on occasion
of any perceived malady from a hangnail to "la grippe". After one of her
'ot Toddys, problems never seemed to be as bad as before, and somehow even
humourous!
In November 1961, I popped "the question" and Helene said "yes". A wedding date was set for June 1962. The
BSA sat quietly in the garage at her place that winter, but was uncovered, admired and polished quite frequently.
I
had, however; other things on my mind. The wedding was one of them to be
sure, but the RCAF had dropped a small bomb on my extremely satisfactory
Ottawa lifestyle and transferred me to Cold Lake, seven miles from the end of
the road in northeastern Alberta. The effective date was June 1962.
But first things first.
The wedding, June 2, was "the best one I ever had". Surrounded by
family, fellow motorcyclists and assorted Airmen, my carefree batchelorhood
came to an end, and I never really missed it. Due to the impending move to
Cold Lake, we had a short weekend honeymoon (to Prescott) and the next day to
the Scrambles at Hannawa Falls. The following week, I guided the BSA
and our furniture into the moving van destined for Cold Lake.
Cold lake in 1962 was not a fun place for a motorcyclist, with endless
gravel roads in every direction. We did some riding, but my heart was not in
it. Every ride, it seemed, dirtied the machine beyond belief. A rain squall
could leave the roads dangerously slippery due to the famous western
"gumbo". We went down once, on our way to Muriel Lake for a picnic and a
swim, luckily at a relatively slow speed. No damage to person or machine,
but with a new appreciation of the dangers of Alberta mud. The BSA did not
see much use in Alberta.
Marriage does have its attractions, of course, and motorcycling had a
rest. Due to time on my hands, I devoured my weekly copy of "The Blue 'Un"
and was eating my heart about people who could actually ride on paved
roads. The inactivity got to me, so I started a small business working out
of our apartment in Bonnyville, selling motorcycle parts and accessories to
the increasing number of motorcyclists in the area. It was called a "Rider
Agency", and my suppliers were Nicholson Brothers in Saskatoon, and Alberta
Cycle in Edmonton. I didn't make a lot of money, but I had a lot of fun.
Moose Bailey, whom I worked with on the new CF104 Starfighter aircraft
at RCAF Station Cold Lake, lived just up the road from me in Bonnyville.
He had been a motorcyclist in years past, and we talked a lot about bikes
when we were together. One day, a rather decent 1956 BSA B31 turned up in
the showroom of the local Volkswagen dealer, and he bought it. Now I had
someone to ride with, and dust and mud notwithstanding, we made a few good
runs to some rather good fishing spots in Northeastern Alberta and
Northwestern Saskatchewan. For the summer of 1964, Helene and I had
planned a motorcycle trip to Peace River country, but it had to be
cancelled. Our son Douglas was born in Bonnyville, 30 March 1964.
Motorcycling activity was reduced to the occasional fishing trip to Muriel Lake.
We were overjoyed that summer, when the RCAF announced its intention
to transfer us to Zweibrucken, Germany with NATO forces for 4 years effective
October 1964. Wow! Motorcycling in Europe. Visions of BMWs dancing in my
head! My daydreams fomented by reading the "Blue Un" were about to come
true. My cousin in Edmonton agreed to sell the BSA for me, and did so within
a month after we left for Europe. (while he had it, I guess he rode it a
little. He must have caught the bug because he bought a Norton Atlas for
himself the next spring, and still rides the Suzuki Water Buffalo he bought
new in 1975) I placed my order for a new BMW R69S in Zweibrucken in
November, and took delivery at the BMW works in Munich, 15 May, 1965. But
that's another story!