YOUR CLASSICS
This old tax disc was all Myrry Wilson – aka Phil the Horse – had to remember his Norton by. Now, after four decades apart, he tells us how he’s been reunited with the Model 18
Man and machine are reunited after 43 years
It’s 1970, and like many Black Country families we were off to Wales for the weekend. Dad’s Ford Consul was towing the caravan and on the final rough ascent to the campsite there was a loud bang – we had a puncture. It was out with the ‘Black Book’ – a huge AA guide full of useful information, which indicated that the nearest civilisation was the small town of Llandiloes, a few miles away.
We found ‘Shropshire Tyre Services’, a wooden shed up another rock-strewn track. Dad was an engineer and a ‘lust for rust’ was instilled in me early on, so I started to nose amongst the detritus in the yard. Sticking out of a pile of tyres was a rear stand, part of a numberplate and the back tyre of a motorbike. A man in his fifties in a well-worn boiler suit appeared, and in a broad Welsh accent told me: “It’s my old Norton. I had a heart attack, and the doctor said no more starting a big single”. That was in 1957, and it had been buried over the following years. A lot of heaving and a Norton Model 18 was uncovered, registration NHN 695 and all original down to the toolkit, spare plugs in the toolbox and a 1957 tax disc.
I asked if he wanted to sell. “If you come back tomorrow and I get it going, I will,” he replied. I was only earning £4 a week, so pleaded with dad to lend some money. Fortunately he was a petrolhead, to use the modern parlance, and I’d been brought up working on his collection of Jaguars.
The next day we were greeted by the sound of a 500 single ticking over – ‘tonk, tonk, tonk’ emanating from a surprisingly smoke-free exhaust. NHN 695 arrived in
Wolverhampton a week later for £30, including delivery, and I added it to the BSA Gold Star, Norton Electra and Sports Tiger Cub my dad had previously ‘sponsored’.
The next four years were spent riding, largely with no road tax, I recall – life was simpler back then, and a cutup Guinness label passed for tax disc at a distance! I reached the hormonal, lad about town, know-it-all phase, and had a job, long hair, money in my pocket and a desire to impress girls. Mates had new Hondas and Yamahas, and I was persuaded that the new Suzuki GT550 was the bike to have. So off I went to Perks Motors in Wolverhampton, where I promptly partexchanged the Norton for £40 and came away with a hire purchase agreement for £399.
The Suzuki was a turbine by comparison, but it had no soul. Six months later it was written off by my mate, who then announced that he had no insurance. What had I done? I’d deeply regretted losing the Norton, and now had no bike and years of paying the debt. I tried to find the Norton to buy it back, but Mr Perks couldn’t remember where it went.
Then, 17 years later, fate dealt me a hand. We’d moved to the old caretaker’s house by the cemetery in Ironbridge, and a man called Don Jones turned up to visit his mum and dad’s grave. The ‘tonk, tonk, tonk’ of Don’s Norton had me out of the house like a shot. He was riding his 500 single combination, in full WWII despatch rider’s attire, with his black Labrador in the chair. You can imagine the conversation. It wasn’t my bike, but he had other Nortons, as well as pre-war Alvis cars, an XK120 and a Bristol. Here was a kindred spirit, and he often popped round to talk ‘vintage stuff’. One day he asked me to look at an ignition problem on an Alvis. It was in a garage three miles up the road, and when he opened the door I saw it – against the back wall was NHN 695. It had left Perks, gone to a garage across the valley from our new house, and Don had bought it. It was exactly as I had sold it; I was stunned. I tried to persuade him to sell, but he was having none of it, even though I offered way over market value. For the previous 25 years I’d kept the tax disc and the one fuzzy photo that I had of the bike, safely in a draw by my chair. Every now and then I would get them out, and wonder what possessed me to part with her. It became obvious there was only one thing to do: give Don the tax disc. It went back in the bike’s holder, its rightful place. The Norton was safe with Don. He lived half a mile away, and we obviously kept in touch. Then we both suffered major health problems at the same time, and sadly Don passed away while I was in hospital. This was around 2000, and the bikes and cars vanished. Don was a bachelor and I had never met any of his relatives – I had no contacts and no idea where the vehicles went.
Over the next 17 years I asked any biker or classic nut who would listen if they’d come across the Norton. The Ironbridge Gorge is a magnet for classic buffs, with lots of classic events. Nothing. Then fate dealt me a hand once more. I took our car to a friend’s garage for body repairs, and he suggested I should meet his mate Derek who crafted new panels for him. It turned out that Derek and I had met before, 25 years earlier. We chatted about vehicles we’d had before over a brew and I told him about NHN 695. “I know where that is,” he said. I nearly fell off my chair. Derek promised to contact the owner and put me in touch. Losing each other’s telephone numbers didn’t help, I’m sure, but again nothing happened.
On year I entered my David Brown tractor, ‘Mavis’ in the Broseley Festival of Motorcycling (I persuade the organisers David Brown invented quad bikes in 1955) and, on that June morning, I heard the distinct sound of a single on the overrun. A Norton Inter rolled up.
I got chatting to the rider, Paul, and told him about NHN 695. “I’ve got your old bike,” he said. This time it was three miles from my front door, in the opposite direction. I made a high cash offer, there and then, no subtlety. But it turned out Don left ‘my’ Model 18 to Paul in his will, so he wouldn’t sell (and he was riding the Inter from Don’s cottage, left to Derek and then passed to Paul). However, we met up a few weeks later, and he agreed for me to go and see the bike.
I didn’t sleep the night before, and spent the hour before our meeting in a café, watching the clock stretch every minute. And then, for the first time since 1995, it finally happened. There she was. I couldn’t stop myself; I just cried and cried and cried. Paul let me have a moment, and returned with two steaming mugs of tea. Don had told Paul about the return of the tax disc; this was, of course, my provenance.
After all this time the bike and I were both a bit faded. Her chrome was pickled, the paint dull and scratched, but when I sat on the bike I was 17 again. I asked: “Does it run?” It hadn’t started for ages, but three kicks and she fired up. She knew it was me. The ‘tonk, tonk, tonk’ took me back to Llandiloes.
It seemed I was two feet from the bike, yet still 200 miles from getting her back. However, after a very
‘I ASKED ANY CLASSIC NUT WHO’D LISTEN IF THEY’D COME ACROSS THE NORTON’
gentlemanly conversation an agreement was reached. Paul would let me have the Norton back! We arranged for him to deliver the bike to me (coincidentally on my wedding anniversary) and I spent the week before counting down the hours. And then the moment arrived – NHN 695 came home after 43 years. Paul had black and silver ribbons to match the bike, I’d got a decent bottle of champagne, and we rode NHN 695 to Don’s grave. It was quite a moment.
A couple of days after the handover and I can’t resist a proper spin. We hit decent road and I gently open her up, 30... 40... 50mph. Through the gears and she pulls very well; this should not be happening after all these years laid up. We thump away up a good hill, into the setting autumn sun. Tree-lined Coalbrookdale has nice bends as we descend the valley to Ironbridge. We potter along the Wharfage towards Ironbridge, and I give her a pat on the tank. Just what is this connection between a man and his particular machine?
NHN 695 won’t be propped against a wall. She will be ridden again. With only 10,300 miles in 68 years, she’s just about run in – so it looks like there’s life left in both of us! And I know exactly where the bike is going when my personal tank of fuel runs out. Back to Paul.