Seeing the light in the eyes of the law

The year was 1966. I was 17.

The names and places have been withheld to protect the innocent. The dad of my friend, Jeff – I can mention him as he died young of a brain disease – had a large wooden workshop at the bottom of their back garden; we referred to it as ‘the shed’. We visited often to talk motorbikes and to see how Jeff’s customised Triumph 650 pre-unit was coming along.

When he had it completed, glass fibre five-gallon tank in light blue, clip-on bars, rear set footrests, alloy guards, etc, he never rode it but said it was for sale for the sum of £80. I bought it with no hesitation. He had made a good job of it, apart from the wiring for the lights. Sometimes the lights would work and sometimes not. I decided to remove the lights and wiring complete, trials bike fashion.

On the first ride out, I got stopped by a police patrol as I passed a layby at the side of the road. They – two of them in those days – were very fair and pointed out that lights should be fitted and working. “Ride home and do not use it again until lights are fitted,” they instructed me. The next evening I decided to chance it and visit Jeff and the shed.

On my way home the same jam butty Jaguar was in the distance behind me. I rode as fast as I could home and managed to outrun them.

It shook my confidence and I sold it soon afterwards.