KILLER CHARACTER
I quickly realised when I got into bikes that it wasn’t just about the motorcycles themselves that I liked, but the characters it seemed to attract. But while racing in that era seemed to generate characters at will (more’s the pity that’s not the case these days), it seemed to be that you only had to park your bike up to meet interesting folks with a motorcycles.
I guess it’s why Paul Sample’s Ogri always seemed to strike a chord. In our local area we had our own Ogri. He was known as ‘Killer’. His surname was Escott; I’ve still no idea of his first name, but he was an archetypal biker of the era. He could have been Ogri’s brother.
Killer was from out of town, but occasionally showed up on a Saturday in the marketplace where we used to hang out. When he did, it was an event. His outrageously noisy Triton would burst from the lights to the parking area with way more acceleration than necessary. Pensioners would pass, shaking their heads and holding their ears, muttering ‘young hooligan...’
It was the ultimate Triton, when a Triton was the bike to have: clip-ons, rearsets, a sleek racing tank and seat. Not polished or glitzy. More of an oily-rag bike – just how Rick P loves ’em. It was the bike we all dreamed of owning.
Killer wore a fabulously-aged Barbour jacket, its waxed coating polished to a sheen, ensuring black fingernails when just pulling the thing on. The cuffs were threadbare and the pocket flaps curled like stale sarnies – even the carefully-curated badge collection couldn’t pin them down!
He wore a pudding basin and aviators and, once the din from his bike had quietened down and petrol cocks had been turned off, there was always the ritual of pushing the goggles on the top of the helmet, removing the lid, folding the gloves into it... and then unfastening the jacket before he ever uttered a word.
Killer by name, he was a teddy bear by nature, softly spoken, with a wry grin, clearly incredibly knowledgeable about British iron. He was one of those people who only spoke when absolutely necessary... but it was only ever gems of knowledge.
We were all ‘Malcolms’ in his presence, on our learner C15s, Bantams, Cubs, etc. Our bikes mere insignificant compared to his racey Triton. Our levels of experience pitiful compared to his worldly depth of understanding.
Funny how seeing the Ogri book (see page 12) stirred thoughts of him after all these years...