Frank Westworth
Men and their projects – never try to judge, guess or criticise another rider's project…
My pal – one of them – shambled over earlier today as I was doing manly things, like shopping in the supermarket. It’s not easy, but it must be done. Engine oil is sometimes very affordable, you know. Anyway, my pal, who we’ll call Steve to protect the guilty, tapped me on the shoulder as I was gainfully employed calculating whether the three for a fiver beer was better value than four for six pounds, a train of thought which does not benefit from interruption. But I smiled, as pals always should.
‘Sold the Commando,’ said my pal. I raised my eyebrows from the apathetic lethargy and attempted a wider, more interested smile. Some things are not entirely easy. Adnams Broadside or Staropramen? I remembered Steve’s Commando. It was red. It didn’t work. This is often the case, I find.
‘Got £7500 for it,’ he said, unbidden. ‘That sound okay to you?’ Commandos usually sound okay to me, unless some lunatic is running them on open pipes, up with which I cannot put.
‘Non-runner, too…’ My eyes may have rolled a little at this point. Not least because Steve is actually an ace spannerman, and has indeed spannered on my old ancient Brits many, many times. I raised a quizzical eyebrow. Staying silent at times like this is often the best policy.
‘Chap came up to me at a rally, said he liked the bike and wanted to buy it.’ I nodded, like you do. There was more, which rescued me from wondering how a non-runner had got to a rally. Vans are such a lame excuse for a good motorcycle, which is not a kind thing to say to a man with a van, who has in fact rescued my own heroic Brit clunkers with that van, and more than once. ‘He wanted a project. Wanted to return it to standard.’
At that point my grip on reality, already tenuous due to the proximity of beer o’clock and the epic choices available for that most witching of hours, deserted me entirely.
‘You what?’ I may have spluttered a little, which is unbecoming in a chap of my age, standing by the beer shelves in a supermarket.
Steve’s face lit up. ‘Yeah!’ he said. ‘Guy decided he didn’t want all the Norvil kit, rearsets, clip-ons, race fairing… wanted to make it stock.’
‘There’s nowt so queer as folk,’ I whispered, in a conspiratorial way. ‘Wonder why he really bought it? Could’ve picked up a non-runner for…’ pause… ‘a lot less than that.’ Because Steve had expended a huge amount of time but only a small amount of money locating all those shiny yellow bits commonly found on genuine Norvil racers and then painting them red. It had seemed like a strange journey at the time, but I had refrained from saying so. Wisely.
Steve pulled his phone from a pocket. I hate this. I detest peering like a blind man at a tiny phone screen and then muttering words of approval, wonder or horror, whichever is appropriate. Especially while standing by the booze shelves in a supermarket. Time, place for everything, as I’m sure you agree. Steve did things with his device. An appalling tinny rattling assaulted all ears within many yards of us. Innocent customers stared frantically around, wondering where the stack of collapsing saucepans was.
‘He got it running, then!’ I managed. In truth, the racket sounded more like a tragically wornout 4-pot Benelli 250 running without oil than a mighty Commando, scourge of the Tarmac for an entire decade. Thankfully, point made, Steve allowed a golden silence to descend once more. Pleasantries continued, then he strolled off, whistling. I may have bought some beer. Tinnitus demands treatment.
But let’s think about this. If you or I fancy a project – unlikely though this may seem – we would buy a cheap machine. The cheaper the better, no? Because if we were going to rebuild it anyway, for whichever reasonable excuses we can dream up for expending megadosh on a failing dream, then setting a budget in advance is only sensible. That budget should never be more than the likely eventual sale price, and the less the project costs in the first place, then the more flexibility there might be for vital expenditure, no?
So who in their right mind would pay top dollar for a mostly restored, rebuilt motorcycle, only to pull it apart again and return it to ‘standard’? Which in this case involved another confection of non-stock bits to replace the expensively purchased non-stock bits he’d bought already fitted to the bike he’d bought.
Who in their right mind indeed. Sometimes strong drink really is the only answer…
PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SORROW. OR, THEN AGAIN… Frank does what one must never do – he ponders why another man is buying a motorcycle project – and comes to no conclusion…