Adventures on a Douglas Dragonfly
They say a picture paints a thousand words and we always like to hear how a photo in OBM can stir some memories – such as these lovely recollections from John Bond.
Seeing the picture of Henry Cole and chums along with a Douglas Dragonfly in the October edition of OBM reminded me of my early days of motorcycling.
As a 17-year-old apprentice in 1959
I was finally earning enough to buy a motorbike. The appearance in the firm’s motorbike shed of a beautiful black Dragonfly was the final trigger. The owner was a chap in the machine shop and a couple of weeks later, on the pillion of the Dragonfly, I visited Pride & Clarke where, for £99.10s, I became the owner of a
1957 green and cream Dragonfly. The Dragonfly wasn’t the sportiest of bikes, but my thoughts were on touring rather than speed and, more importantly, I had fallen in love with the looks of the bike.
A few months later, at the end of
August, the factory shut down for the holiday period. An apprentice friend Chris and I had decided to visit his aunt in Colwyn Bay, North Wales. On the Friday I duly rode into work with my suitcase strapped to the pannier of the Dragonfly. At dinnertime we strapped Chris’ case on top and at 5 o’clock we set off. With a pillion, plus so much weight perched up on the pannier, the bike was impossible to keep in a straight line. We wobbled our way the few miles to where Chris lived.
Chris’ parents were a lovely pair, his dad had a Volkswagen Caravanette which he drove with great gusto around the country lanes and both were experienced campers. Chris’ mum took charge, rustled up two Evening Standard delivery sacks and transferred all the luggage low down on either side. It worked, the bike was back to normal, so off we rode, stopping for an uncomfortable night’s camping beside the road at Moreton-in-Marsh.
It was still quite cold when we set off next morning, stopping several times to warm our hands on the Dragonfly’s tappet covers. We arrived in Wales and were welcomed by Chris’ aunt, his mum’s sister, another lovely lady. We were quite tired and Chris fell fast asleep in the chair. His aunt, then preparing tea, put a slice of cucumber on his forehead that stayed there until he woke up a couple of hours later! We toured around, climbed Snowdon and collected lots of stickers to put on the bike.
Joining the TA – for a reason!
Around this time I joined the Territorial Army – the 3rd Battalion Queens Surrey Regiment. I would like to say I joined to serve Queen and country but, to be honest, it was because I heard that they would teach you to drive. But first, with a motorcycle licence, I became a dispatch rider. The bike was a BSA M20, a 500cc single of wartime vintage, very different from the Dragonfly but fun to ride.
My first DR job was escorting about
100 Civil Defence vehicles from Guildford to Oxford. The task was to stop the vehicles bunching up as they had a tendency to drive head to tail, causing a massive holdup. So I would whizz up to near the front of the queue, squeeze in front of a couple of vehicles, slow them down until there was a hundred yards to the group ahead, then move back and do the same again. It was a constant battle to keep them apart. At Oxford I was fed and watered and I handed over to the AFS (Auxiliary Fire Service) who would escort them onward (the AFS I noticed had modern Norton twins).
After a few miles on the way back the gearbox jammed in top gear – no amount of kicking, stamping and cursing would move it. By carefully timing traffic lights and keeping a watchful eye on traffic ahead I managed to avoid stopping, but was occasionally forced to slow down, requiring a lot of revs and clutch slipping to get going again.
All went well until I got to High Wycombe where I had to stop on a hill and the clutch finally gave up in a burst of acrid smoke. I left the bike in the front garden of a nearby house, the kind owners taking me to the nearest railway station whereby I eventually returned home. I reported the problem and presumably a vehicle was sent to pick the bike up (or is it still there rusting away in somebody’s front garden?).
A holiday to Scotland
The following year during the holiday shutdown a friend, Darryl, and I decided on a camping holiday in Scotland. A few days before we left I serviced the bike and managed to strip the thread on the oil drain plug (a steel plug into an aluminium casting, not a good idea) which I had to bodge to get it to (almost) seal. With the trusty Evening Standard newspaper bags carrying our gear we set off, leaving an oil slick all the way to Scotland. Darryl was a very relaxed pillion passenger as, after a few miles, I felt his weight on my back as he fell asleep.
We camped at Loch Lomond for a week during which it rained almost continually. We still managed to tour around and climbed Ben Lomond and also Ben Nevis. Using the Ballyculish ferry it was about 80 miles from our campsite to Ben Nevis but on the return we were too late and the ferry had closed for the night. So tired, wet and in the dark, we had to circle round Loch Leven, an extra 23 miles. I think I may have nodded off as somehow I completely missed a corner and we ended up in a heap in a hedge.
Apart from a dent in the tank the bike was okay and Darryl and I were unscathed (Darryl was probably asleep anyway!). We picked the bike up, brushed ourselves down and continued.
A Scottish apprentice friend, Harry – but, of course, always called Jock – had said we should call in on his family in Glasgow while we were in Scotland. That night the tent blew down so we decided we had had enough and packed up and set off to see Jock. His family lived in Penilee, just outside Glasgow. I suppose I must have taken the address with me, we certainly didn’t have any maps, but we managed to find our way to the house. Unfortunately, Jock was out at the time (visiting relatives) and had not mentioned to his mum that we may call in...
The wonderful lady who was Jock’s mum
So the poor lady was faced with two unknown, wet, bedraggled young men claiming to know her son and in need of a roof over their head. Wonderful lady that she was, she welcomed us in, fed us, washed and dried our clothes and that evening settled us down in the dining room with our sleeping bags.
The next day Jock’s mum directed us to a nearby engineering workshop who helicoiled the oil drain plug, putting an end to the oil slick. While staying with Jock’s mum, we rode to Edinburgh for the Tattoo and also happened to be in Glasgow on the last day that the trams ran. After a couple of days Jock returned and, after a few more days, we set off on the return journey.
All went well until while bowling down the A1 near Richmond there was a loud bang as the rear tyre blew out. We began to snake all over the road but somehow I eventually managed to manoeuvre the bike towards the edge of the road. As the bike slowed down, instead of things getting better, it developed into a real tank slapper. Heavens knows how but we managed to stay on. Having got the tyre repaired we continued home without any further incident.
Soon after this trip I sold the Dragonfly and bought a Royal Enfield Super Meteor but, by courtesy of the TA, I now had a car driving licence and soon succumbed to the lure of four wheels. The car, marriage and children put a temporary stop to motorcycling, but once a motorcyclist, always a motorcyclist; I am still happily touring on my CB500X at 82.