Wheelin’ and dealin’ in the ‘sixties
Vince Rogers recounts tales of growing up in Melbourne and discovering motorcycles – and wishing he still owned them!
Growing up in South Pascoe Vale, Victoria in the ‘50s and ‘60s was idyllic. There were paddocks and swamps, building sites to explore, the Moonee
Ponds Creek was nearby for swimming and yabbying and as we got bigger we roamed far and wide on our bikes scouring local tips for treasure. In summer we rode out to Keilor, Bulla and Wildwood to swim. Every second house was teeming with kids; there were six at our place and I was number three.
The motor bike interest started when my next older brother “Skinny” and his mate “Griffo” brought home a homemade mini bike directly driven by a 125cc Villiers motor without any exhaust. What fun we had! And how much skin we all lost! This was about 1961, and after a lot of fun, the mini bike disappeared and a 500cc four valve Rudge quietly made its way into the disused chook house/wood shed behind the garage at our place. The Rudge wasn’t running when it arrived, so those two must have got something right, as one lazy afternoon when the old man was grogging on in the garage with some of his mates, the Rudge burst into life and into flames! What a commotion! Flames lapping the rafters, Skinny bellowing his lungs out and Griffo scooping sawdust from the floor to put out the fire and only making things worse. The old boy extinguished the fire and looked very likely to extinguish some lives as well. The poor old Rudge had to find another home. Griffo’s old man was like ours, both returned servicemen and angry bastards, so the Rudge wasn’t going to Griffo’s, it went to Ross’ place, where it’s life ended soon after when one of his mates put it through a neighbour’s front fence and slammed into the house.
Now Ross’ old boy wasn’t an angry unit like ours or Griffo’s but on this occasion he was a bit put out. I was told later that things got gruesome and the bike did not survive. Next there was an Indian Scout in bits and a Puch, neither of which went anywhere, if you don’t count the tip, which is probably where they came from anyway. Time moved on. I turned
14, Skinny turned 17 and got a job working at Brenco, where he worked with John Mapperson. At that time, 1962 or ‘63, a pretty good paddock bike could be got for about ten quid which was way beyond my reach as a paper boy on fourteen bob a week. But one day “Oopy” told me that a bloke he worked with had a 1938 Norton for sale for four quid. I walked over to Strathmore, which was only two or three miles from our place. He was real old, about 19 or 20, like my oldest brother. The Norton didn’t look too good and it wasn’t running, but it did have a real good “Gripster” back tire and nobody I knew could afford one of those. So, I handed over the four quid and wheeled my not shining new machine through the door.
My old man wasn’t much interested in anything we were doing so long as it didn’t cause him grief but having been a motorcyclist, he certainly got interested when he spotted that Norton as it was 600cc and overhead camshaft. The motor wasn’t running so off came the head, a burnt exhaust valve was the problem. Mrs. Beenham at Modak kindly and patiently sorted me out with the bits I needed. A local mechanic, Frank Apted, cut the valve seat for me and I sat on the grass in our back yard and lapped the valve in. The old man had told me to pay particular attention to the timing marks, which I still remember were colour-coded. She ran straight away. What a miracle! This was a handful of a bike for a seven stone, 14 year old kid, so when Skinny told me that “Speedy”, the bloke that I had got it from wanted to buy it back and was willing to pay ten quid, it was just too much to resist.
A few weeks went by when I got wind that my old Norton was not going and was for sale again.
For five quid this time, back she came. The magneto timing chain had gone west. A bit of used bike chain went on and we were away once more. Another year or so and my older brothers had turned eighteen and twenty, Skinny had a ‘51 Thunderbird, my oldest brother was in love and their mates all got cars, their paddock bike days were done and without their company so were mine. It wasn’t long before Skinny crashed the T’bird, which was kind of inevitable, if you knew Skinny. Thunderbird forks were needed. A bloke in Aberfeldie had forks, not for sale but he wanted my Norton engine so Skinny swapped my engine for forks, giving me six quid for the donk and four quid for the knobby back tire.
Anybody could reasonably think that there ends the story of my Norton, But a few months ago, and out of the blue, I got a phone call from a bloke I had never heard of, telling me he had sold me a motorbike fifty eight years ago. He had remembered my name and had rung me on spec, when he had seen my name on a list of motorbike club members. Of course I didn’t know his name, I only knew him as “Speedy”. He reckoned he remembered me because I was such a little kid all on his own, handing over four quid and wheeling that bike out the gate. We spoke for a bit, Speedy told me he had a couple of photos of the old bike which he has now sent to me. The engine was not a 1938 model but possibly 1928 as it was a cricket bat motor which I believe were only made for three years ending in 1928. The frame was much later; it was a saddle tank frame with Burman gearbox and telescopic forks, none of which would have gelled to me at the time. The petrol tank was one that had once had an instrument panel in the top. If only I had known then what I know now I would have done anything I could to save that bike. I wonder about the history of the motor and if it has survived. Maybe some of our history buff readers could fill in some of the gaps.
“The Norton didn’t look too good and it wasn’t running, but it did have a real good ‘Gripster’ back tire and nobody I knew could afford one of those. So, I handed over the four quid and wheeled my not shining new machine through the door.”