Ladies of a certain age...
… have it in for John Naish and his quiver of old bikes. It goes like this…
It’s not the Terrible Triumph’s fault this time. I blame women of a certain age. Last month I was basking smugly in the joy of finally having my 1968 650 twin running properly and reliably. It had cost me a new electronic ignition, on top of a hefty bill for a generator, clutch and primary drive. All memories of vast expense melted away as I indulged in the type of fettling you perform only on a sorted bike, adjusting the bars and levers into fall-to-hand perfection. You know, the pleasurable and tinkering stuff.
I needn’t have bothered. Taking the Triumph on an errand, I managed to venture only 300 metres when an elderly lady in a Ford Focus came flying out from a parking spot and broadsides in front of me.
To evade chest and facial trauma, I dumped the Trumpet on its side and took my chances sliding down the road, taking a moment to wonder why all road-traffic collisions sound the same. When the rending noises ceased, I got off the floor and calmly asked the lady if she was insured. Damn, another insurance-company wrangle ominously loomed.
See, I’m used to this. Last year an elderly lady reversed over my ’75 Kawasaki 500 triple in the local library car park. Year before, an elderly lady demolished the rear of my ’69 Volvo P1800 ‘Saint’ car, fresh from the spray shop.
I’m starting to suspect that the sight of a man enjoying himself drives ladies of a certain age into a red rage of destruction. The latest lady was insured with Age UK. They seem used to this behaviour. Rather than quibbling, the insurers accepted her admission of liability and simply requested I send pics of damage and a repair estimate.
In exchange for a long but reasonable list involving front forks, front wheel and mudguard, handlebars, head bearings, and exhaust header dented by front wheel, I promptly received a cheque. So, for the second winter in a row, the Terrible Triumph is my winter rebuild project.