I grew up in the outskirts of the most isolated major city in the world, Perth, Western Australia. A little house on a gravel road surrounded by Jarrah forest and orchards. In all honesty it was an idyllic childhood full of innocent pleasures and freedom beyond anything my kids could dream of. Week-ends and holidays would see me off with my mates as soon as the last mouthful of breakfast had been ladled into my mouth. Mum would only see me when I needed food, a change of clothes or gravel pulled out from under the skin of my hands.
At the bottom of the garden was the magical wonderland that was my Dad’s garage. A fantastic place full of bits of cars, bikes, tools, buckets full of bolts and infused with the heady smell that only old motor vehicles can produce. That mix of hot oil and unburnt petrol so familiar to those of use for whom an old car or bike is so much more than just a pile of metal, rubber and leather.
Countless hours were spent in that old shed. Mostly helping Dad fixing something and learning new swear words every time my attention wandered and the torch I was holding no longer illuminated the correct piece of machinery. Tinkering on my own “projects” or hunting for the right nuts and bolts to make some bolt bombs also took up quite a lot of time. It is hence hardly a wonder that a garage/shed/workshop remains for me real estate nirvana.
My first step towards my dream bike was a 1946 BSA C11 bought as a pile of bits in carboard boxes. The engine was seized and full of water, the wheels were so rusty as to be irreparable and all of the tinwork was missing. Nevertheless I could see the beauty within and I had big plans for that little 250cc machine.
Unfortunately the cost of building motorbikes far exceeds the pocket money of a 14 year old kid. I did get the motor freed up and spent a lot of time cleaning and polishing the bits I did have but never did get the funds together to get the job done. Reality really hit home when I discovered the price of a new 21″ WM2 chrome rim. The good news is that the bike is still in the family stable and is hiding somewhere in Dad’s shed. A brief dalliance with a Peugeot moped followed but we could never get the bloody thing to run for any length of time. God only knows where that piece of junk ended up.
In reality I never did get a real bike when I was young. The death of my sister in a bike crash gave me an early taste of mortality and this coupled with respect for my Mum meant that I turned my back on motorcycles for a good few years until 1997 in fact when I bought a DT125 as transport for myself and my then girlfriend whilst we were living in Burkina Faso. We had a lot of fun on that little bike but it did not follow us back to France when we left Ouga in a bit of a rush.
Fast forward to 2009 when Dad announced that he thought it would be a good idea for he and his two boys to go on motorcycle tour of India. This would mean getting my licence and also getting some experience in a very short amount of time. This gave me the perfect opportunity to convince my now wife that I really did need a bike and that it was the perfect time to find myself my Triton. Luckily she agreed.