The penitent reformist
James May Age: 58 Job: Television presenter Honda Fireblade x 3 Honda CB500 Honda C100 Honda Cub Moto Guzzi V11 BMW C400 GT Suzuki GT750 and a few more
‘Neglected bikes are like neglected pets; they become traumatised’
Ever since antiquity, happiness has been defined broadly as ‘freedom from care’, and this makes perfect sense. Without the burden of concern, true bliss can be attained. For this reason I’ve always believed that cats, dogs, and the birds in the trees can be perfectly contented, because they cannot even comprehend care (as far as we know).
For humans, blighted by self-awareness, it’s a bit more tricky. At one end of the happiness spectrum must be the Carthusian monk, who relinquishes all worldly goods, lives in a rude cell beholden to the motion of the sun, doesn’t have to speak to anyone, and perhaps devotes his life to authoring one weighty book that he signs with just his denomination, not even his name. And then he dies.
At the other end is someone who collects motorcycles. I collected motorcycles. I’ve never really spoken out about this, because there are no help groups, only motorcycle magazines, which are the gateway drug. At one point I had over 40. I’m not even sure I knew it was happening. I think my friends knew, but were too discreet to mention it because it’s awkward, like trying to tell people they have BO. One friend – I won’t name him, but it was Colin – actually encouraged it, effectively pimping for me and enjoying the rewards without suffering the nightly sweats and self-loathing. If you recognise yourself, I’m here to help, having come out on the other side. You must be strong. Owning too many motorcycles is burdensome, and spoils motorcycling. The problem begins with what to ride. Too many motorcycles means you don’t ride any of them enough, and neglected bikes are like neglected pets; they become traumatised, and then they turn on you. An unloved dog fouls the kitchen floor. An unloved RC30 fouls its carburettor float bowls, and they’re much harder to clean up.
Even if you manage to make a selection, the pre-ride ritual is more convoluted than it should be. For most normal people, who simply own A Motorcycle, this goes something like: do I have fuel? Do I have my debit card in case I need some? Is the strap on my helmet done up? And then there might be a cursory check of chain and tyres. The addict first has to consult a chart to see if the chosen bike is road legal. 40 bikes means a lot of MOT, tax, and insurance cover notes. It’s never all in order.
And then a letter arrives from the DVSA threatening to crush a perfectly good CBR600 because you haven’t taxed it. But you declared SORN on it. You did do that, didn’t you? Back to the desk, which is where you work, to log on and check. No, you hadn’t done it. This is another part of the problem of addiction. Too many bikes generate admin, and admin is the enemy of freedom. A motorcycle is like a steed on which a man seeks adventure and enlightenment, but here you are yoked to a computer, required to enter the 11-digit number from your V5C registration document, which is downstairs in the garage. Sod that.
I think one part of me saw owning lots of motorcycles as being the curator of an art gallery. Motorcycles are beautiful even at rest, and stimulate contemplation. But real art just needs dusting occasionally; the gallery of the motorcycle demands constant attention like a Dickensian workhouse full of half-starved urchins, always wanting more, more, more. You are not a guardian of art, you are a man who knows far too much about trickle chargers. And then the torrid dreams of corroded bores and gummed-up pilot jets start, and, finally, you realise you have a problem. The cure, for me, began with a simple realisation. I only really like riding modern bikes, which stop properly. Old bikes, even bikes from the start of this millennium, are merely a conduit for a fetish involving tools, small parcels from David Silver Spares, and exploded diagrams. This can be satisfied with one old bike. A Honda Super Cub or Suzuki TS 250 will do. Hours of harmless fun.
Don’t be a serial tinkerer, because then a hobby becomes a debilitating habit. If you paint watercolour pictures, they can be hung on a wall and largely ignored. If you learn to cook you can enjoy the tools-and-materials process of making an elaborate curry, but then consume it and clear it away. If you fix up a Honda 400 Four you are saddled with a Honda 400 Four and all its neediness (see above) while you’d rather ride your Fireblade. This is also a good time to dismiss the better-than-moneyin-the-bank defence. It’s about as credible as the tooth fairy. If you buy a malfunctioning Ducati 900 SS (and you will have overpaid in a fit of dewy-eyed weakness) and then fix it up, it will still be worth only what you paid for it, at best. Mending old bikes as a hobby is simply a charitable way of redistributing NOS spares to the motorcycle community in need. Eventually, I was able to start letting bikes go, like wounded birds nurtured back to flight in a warm airing cupboard. First it was the tiddlers; some obvious (FS1E, CD175) and some esoteric, such as the Honda PS50 with its twist-grip gearchange (intriguing to spanner, awful to ride). Then some bigger stuff went, and then, finally, things I imagined I would keep forever: the NSR250SP, the RC45, the Ducati 750GT, a BMW GS1000 Bumble Bee.
The RC30. I actually let it go. I helped push it into the back of the van that took it away, sensing a horrible pain but also the relief of absolution.
It was a pivotal moment, and I’m now well on the way to recovery. Interestingly, another man close to rehabilitation told me the other day that the right number of motorcycles to own is the number you need, plus one more.
Well, I have my Fireblade, for scaring myself, and I have my BMW C400 GT scooter for practicality. I should be able to achieve freedom from care with one other bike, and I’m getting there. I now only have ten.