DEAR BSH,

On the art of riding a chopper: further to my ramblings about chopper art and all that goes with such art, there’s a substantial piece of the equation missing – namely the operator, rider, driver, owner, occupier, etc.

For instance, sometimes I’ll see a bike and think to myself, or say aloud, “That bike’s owner occupied”, usually referring to the number of small, but significant, changes, lash-ups, and general making things fit/work in unison that, normally, have no business being in the same room together. As a piece of display art a chopper’s as good as any other art form, and is appreciated by many, but the work, time, money, sweat and blood that go into its creation aren’t completely wasted, but only half realised and appreciated. No, shows and trophies are all well and good but, to really see what someone’s built, you have to see the bike do its thing.

I took my Triumph chop out for a quick spin round the ring road a couple of years ago, just to make sure it was running okay. Actually, the bike was fine – the truth is that I wanted to go show off, pose, make a nuisance of myself in the busy late afternoon traffic. It just so happened (?) that my route took me along the front of the local supermarket with a speed limit of 10mph outside. Perfect.

So, with this fire-breathing dragon under my control, I approached the cruise point in between Ford Fiestas, VW Golfs, and the like, them all being quiet and respectful of course. Typical midweek calm afternoon, loads of shoppers, mums, kids, dads, etc., and with its seven-foot high ‘pipes n’ sissy-bar, bright orange paint, bright chrome, and the sound of thunder, I cruised along the front of the building for about 500 yards. Anybody around must have heard me coming literally a mile away and, of course, it’s all about not looking at anybody, just blipping the throttle, and looking cool.

As I came to the end of the shop, a crowd of schoolkids, teenagers, had just got off the school bus. Jaws dropped, phones came out, and comments, including expletives, rang out. I sailed past, giving it a fistful of throttle as soon as I was clear enough because I knew they’d still all be listening. Now that’s how to experience the sight and sound of something special – for just ten seconds, a slow audible build up, then sudden impact, and gone. A ‘what the fudge was that?!’ moment.

I do feel a bit self-conscious about posing, but why should I? If just about anyone can get up on stage with a mic’, and give it a go regardless of talent or quality, why can’t I have a quick bit of adulation? No reason at all. We all have our own image that we like to project when riding; from the Mad Max extras to the spiffing gentleman – just whatever looks cool.

Then there’s the addition of a passenger. Normally, of course, the addition of a pillion just buries the bike more, but then came along the King n’ Queen seat – probably the most sexist piece of equipment ever added to a motorcycle, designed to perch your long-legged (preferably wearing skirt or shorts), pretty girlfriend on. High-up passenger foot-pegs complete the picture as you cruise up and down the strip/ring road/whatever, showing off your trophies. Just that alone says that with a bike like this, you can have a girlfriend like this!

Anyway, the point to all this is simple. Lots of bikes of all descriptions’ll be coming out of the sheds and garages over the coming months, so when you’re out there on your custom creation, remember – it’s not a motorcycle, it’s a chopper, baby. Go for it, blip the throttle, scare the kids, make Mr Grumpy Pants turn round and swear, make young girls smile, fill young boys’ heads with something they go home and tell their dads about. They deserve a show, you deserve a show, and the art deserves a show. Give them one.

and ‘On this occasion‘ a lot in his conversation. He rode a 750F1 Honda, but hadn’t passed his test (naughty) so when he visited, one of us’d run out and stick some L-plates on his bike for a laugh. The unusual thing was his best mate was a police motorcyclist, who knew of his riding status, but they’d ride together even when the copper was on duty. He did eventually take his test, borrowing the 250G5 I had at the time. Here’s the best bit – I got done for speeding twice in a month, in December 1977,and the second time was by this same copper. Not long after, he came in the shop to buy a pair of gloves, and asked me if he could have some discount?!? Cheeky bastard! Well, it was the good old ‘70s, wasn’t it? Bloody brilliant.

STEVE (CHELSEA PENSIONER) WARREN

DEARBSH,

I’ve recently retired. Covid-19 made me realise at 67, as a registered nurse, it was time to bail out. Forty-two years is enough. So, I’m now a burden on society, a full-time house husband, and

Harley customiser – what’s not to love? Okay, so being a senile hooligan may not suit everyone, but you can’t change a life-time of the diligent pursuit of the absurdity in everyday norms. My Shovelhead is progressing; will it be finished and ridden hard before I pass it on to somebody else? Who knows? As long as it’s used, admired and/or ridiculed, and’s appeared in BSH, that’s enough for me. I’ll be happy. wherever I am. Morbid? No. Realistic? Yes.

IAN

67? Yer a feckin’ puppy, don’t talk wet. N.

DEARBSH,

Issue 444, April 2021, Rick Hulse’s column – spot on! Nail hit right on the head.

JJ

In 1930 a writer by the name of Olaf Stapledon wrote a sci-fi novel, ‘First & Last Men’, in which he theorised that, over millions of years, as human technology increased, human beings actually got stupider and stupider as machines did all their thinking for them. I, personally, think he was dead right, he just got his time-scale wrong – it’s not millions of years, it’s less than 100… N.