It was only two years old and in mint condition and I was too scared to tell the ‘Old Man’ that I’d brought a bike so I thought about it and got on with the process of learning to ride.
We started around the back of the airfield, where at different places there was a sealed perimeter road with a little bit of gravel track, lots of grass and even a couple of dips of varying angles to provide jumps. What a blast and I had soon progressed to a learners licence, the road and any bit of dirt and gravel we could find….and they were abundant. |
There were roads, forests and tracks on the Port Hills and they were building a road which was later to become part of SH73, The Christchurch Southern Motorway, but in 1974 it was just a massive dirt box, and then there was the banks of the Waimakariri River….so we had a pretty big playground.
We would explore trails through the forests or find a worn track and race each other around it and learnt plenty of lessons, because we put ourselves in all sorts of situations. On one occasion I was riding along the banks of the Waimak’ with Stan. We were crossing an open grassed area with me leading when I hit some bumps that soon had me bouncing out of control, so I applied the power to get the weight back on the rear wheel. That was effective as it pulled the front up and into line…but no sooner had that happened than the rear bounced out again flicking my arse off the seat and feet off the pegs. I guess you could say I was flaying in the breeze, somewhat like a cartoon character, so there was nothing for it but to apply more power, once again pulling the front up and in and getting more than just my hands in contact with the machine….and so I got it under control so it could happen yet again, only now I was going somewhat faster. This process kept repeating until such time as I was literally flying across the field, fighting to regain control for dear life and Stan was most amused as he watched, thinking, yes he’s got it…no he’s lost it again…yep he’s got it…woops, there he goes, he’s off…no, he’s got it…hmmm…he looks a bit like Wylie Coyote!!
I struggled valiantly but in the end, I was spat off the bike, coming to rest in a gorse bush (the only one in 2 mile radius I might add). The bike was on its side and I was hurting like hell but didn’t want to cry because that wouldn’t be cool so I just blew my nose…and then Stan arrived…all concerned for my welfare, I guess (on the inside)!! But it was hard for him to keep a straight face after witnessing a show of such comic proportions, then turning up to see me, writhing in pain and snot all over my face as I looked up and said, “Fuck!…that scared the snot out a me!!”
Another time in the same area, we were hooning down some trails when I came off, braking my clutch lever. We continued on, me riding clutchless and coming across a huge gravel pit where we also happened to find the float from a water tank ball cock. It still had a metal pin attached which was about ¼ inch thick and 3 inches long so when the ball was kicked, it would bounce funny and wobble about. We instantly realised that here on a plate, we had been served-up a new game, ‘Bike Soccer’, with just one rule…no clutches, since I didn’t have one.
The three of us were soon having a ball and were joined by a few others who happened to be passing. The thick gravel meant one could turn on a dime as we chased down this crazy ball and tried to maintain control of it when Stan’s mate lashed out at it with his boot, but didn’t connect properly and instead of kicking it, his boot rolled over it…driving the steel pin right through the sole and into his foot. Shit! That killed the fun and put a damper on our play as we commented, “hell, I didn’t think that would happen!”
It required quite a bit of effort to extract it, then we had to get him off for proper attention, so that was that for the day.
I used to come off frequently on these little adventures and was very thankful because we learnt to handle the bikes well and react instinctively when we found ourselves in trouble and I believe this save my life more than once when riding on the road. The down side was/is that I guess I tend to be marginally crazy when I ride on the road as well.
The XL250’s were great machines and we did a bit of touring on them as well. One time, Stan needed to visit his Aunty in Renwick and had to ride up on Friday night after work, so Billy Mac and I decided to keep him company, except that we had to ride straight back afterwards, arriving back in Christchurch well after midnight. We hit really bad fog on the way, which slowed us down somewhat, until we got to Amberly and I raised my visor as we passed through town…only to find the night was crystal clear and all the fog was attached to the inside of my visor.
I also rode it from Christchurch to Auckland and return a couple of times, one of them with PAD Burgess, who had a 500cc Honda Four. Fully tapped out, the XL could only do 80mph (135kph) and it only had a 1 gallon (4+ litre) tank with about 100Km range, so I usually tended to follow him…pretty closely to draft and therefore maintain a better pace and economy, to stretch the range that little bit. I was tucked in behind him as we descended the Desert Road and I happened to look up to see a Triumph 2000 car just crossing the centerline and coming straight at me. “Talk about shit Trev!” I couldn’t do much as we were already tracking on the left of our lane anyway but I gave myself as much room as possible by edging that little bit further across and it was all over in a heartbeat. A couple of Km up the road I was enveloped in a cold sweat with shivers going up my spine as the reality of the situation hit me. Fortunately, we were nearly in Waiouru where we had to stop for gas and a feed anyway and my legs were weak at the knees as we hopped off the bikes and I asked PAD, “What the hell happened there?”
It transpired that the chap was travelling North with his family in the car and was so fascinated with the magnificent vista of Mount Ruapehu that he was getting a closer view through a pair of binoculars. What a prick!!
My closest shave with death, on the road came when three of us were travelling up to Blenheim. The other two were on bigger bikes and needed to do something in town, so I went on ahead. In those days one could buy leathers, but there was no such thing as cordura, so our standard touring attire was, one or two T-shirts, a jersey or two as required, a jacket and Service Great coat. We would wear long underwear or tracksuit under our jeans and put newspaper down our legs between the two and I had wool-lined bike boots and scarf to finish off. The weather on this trip was not going to be great, so I was kitted up and by the time I got to Amberly it was drizzling. The rain got steadier, then as I neared the Hunderlees, it turned to sleet, then snow. I was miserable but pressed on regardless and must have been somewhat stupefied, because all I remember as I approached the coast was looking down at the road beneath me and thinking, ‘Oh, the road’s dry! ….oooh that’s the white line’ and I looked up to see that I was entering the big left hand sweeper that brings you onto the coast road…..and a VW was coming the other way!!
By this time I was in the middle of the right lane and had nowhere to go because there was no way I could swing back to the left and not get taken out, so I straightened and took to the gravel verge on the right.
The VW driver had his mouth dropped open and was shitting himself, but I didn’t have time for that. I had 3 or 4 foot of gravel verge which dropped away to rocks and surf about 15-20 feet below, (I note that fortunately, back then there was no barrier on the bend), I was loaded with a pack strapped to the back of the bike, doing about 100kph and hanging the back out as I negotiated the corner, around the outside to the other car. Everything happened in slow motion and I don’t recall making any conscious decisions, but I seemed very calm and relaxed and it ‘just happened’.
I was both elated that I had ‘done everything right’ to survive, but also in a state of shock and still freezing as I continued to Kaikoura where I settled down as I waited for my mates.
We would explore trails through the forests or find a worn track and race each other around it and learnt plenty of lessons, because we put ourselves in all sorts of situations. On one occasion I was riding along the banks of the Waimak’ with Stan. We were crossing an open grassed area with me leading when I hit some bumps that soon had me bouncing out of control, so I applied the power to get the weight back on the rear wheel. That was effective as it pulled the front up and into line…but no sooner had that happened than the rear bounced out again flicking my arse off the seat and feet off the pegs. I guess you could say I was flaying in the breeze, somewhat like a cartoon character, so there was nothing for it but to apply more power, once again pulling the front up and in and getting more than just my hands in contact with the machine….and so I got it under control so it could happen yet again, only now I was going somewhat faster. This process kept repeating until such time as I was literally flying across the field, fighting to regain control for dear life and Stan was most amused as he watched, thinking, yes he’s got it…no he’s lost it again…yep he’s got it…woops, there he goes, he’s off…no, he’s got it…hmmm…he looks a bit like Wylie Coyote!!
I struggled valiantly but in the end, I was spat off the bike, coming to rest in a gorse bush (the only one in 2 mile radius I might add). The bike was on its side and I was hurting like hell but didn’t want to cry because that wouldn’t be cool so I just blew my nose…and then Stan arrived…all concerned for my welfare, I guess (on the inside)!! But it was hard for him to keep a straight face after witnessing a show of such comic proportions, then turning up to see me, writhing in pain and snot all over my face as I looked up and said, “Fuck!…that scared the snot out a me!!”
Another time in the same area, we were hooning down some trails when I came off, braking my clutch lever. We continued on, me riding clutchless and coming across a huge gravel pit where we also happened to find the float from a water tank ball cock. It still had a metal pin attached which was about ¼ inch thick and 3 inches long so when the ball was kicked, it would bounce funny and wobble about. We instantly realised that here on a plate, we had been served-up a new game, ‘Bike Soccer’, with just one rule…no clutches, since I didn’t have one.
The three of us were soon having a ball and were joined by a few others who happened to be passing. The thick gravel meant one could turn on a dime as we chased down this crazy ball and tried to maintain control of it when Stan’s mate lashed out at it with his boot, but didn’t connect properly and instead of kicking it, his boot rolled over it…driving the steel pin right through the sole and into his foot. Shit! That killed the fun and put a damper on our play as we commented, “hell, I didn’t think that would happen!”
It required quite a bit of effort to extract it, then we had to get him off for proper attention, so that was that for the day.
I used to come off frequently on these little adventures and was very thankful because we learnt to handle the bikes well and react instinctively when we found ourselves in trouble and I believe this save my life more than once when riding on the road. The down side was/is that I guess I tend to be marginally crazy when I ride on the road as well.
The XL250’s were great machines and we did a bit of touring on them as well. One time, Stan needed to visit his Aunty in Renwick and had to ride up on Friday night after work, so Billy Mac and I decided to keep him company, except that we had to ride straight back afterwards, arriving back in Christchurch well after midnight. We hit really bad fog on the way, which slowed us down somewhat, until we got to Amberly and I raised my visor as we passed through town…only to find the night was crystal clear and all the fog was attached to the inside of my visor.
I also rode it from Christchurch to Auckland and return a couple of times, one of them with PAD Burgess, who had a 500cc Honda Four. Fully tapped out, the XL could only do 80mph (135kph) and it only had a 1 gallon (4+ litre) tank with about 100Km range, so I usually tended to follow him…pretty closely to draft and therefore maintain a better pace and economy, to stretch the range that little bit. I was tucked in behind him as we descended the Desert Road and I happened to look up to see a Triumph 2000 car just crossing the centerline and coming straight at me. “Talk about shit Trev!” I couldn’t do much as we were already tracking on the left of our lane anyway but I gave myself as much room as possible by edging that little bit further across and it was all over in a heartbeat. A couple of Km up the road I was enveloped in a cold sweat with shivers going up my spine as the reality of the situation hit me. Fortunately, we were nearly in Waiouru where we had to stop for gas and a feed anyway and my legs were weak at the knees as we hopped off the bikes and I asked PAD, “What the hell happened there?”
It transpired that the chap was travelling North with his family in the car and was so fascinated with the magnificent vista of Mount Ruapehu that he was getting a closer view through a pair of binoculars. What a prick!!
My closest shave with death, on the road came when three of us were travelling up to Blenheim. The other two were on bigger bikes and needed to do something in town, so I went on ahead. In those days one could buy leathers, but there was no such thing as cordura, so our standard touring attire was, one or two T-shirts, a jersey or two as required, a jacket and Service Great coat. We would wear long underwear or tracksuit under our jeans and put newspaper down our legs between the two and I had wool-lined bike boots and scarf to finish off. The weather on this trip was not going to be great, so I was kitted up and by the time I got to Amberly it was drizzling. The rain got steadier, then as I neared the Hunderlees, it turned to sleet, then snow. I was miserable but pressed on regardless and must have been somewhat stupefied, because all I remember as I approached the coast was looking down at the road beneath me and thinking, ‘Oh, the road’s dry! ….oooh that’s the white line’ and I looked up to see that I was entering the big left hand sweeper that brings you onto the coast road…..and a VW was coming the other way!!
By this time I was in the middle of the right lane and had nowhere to go because there was no way I could swing back to the left and not get taken out, so I straightened and took to the gravel verge on the right.
The VW driver had his mouth dropped open and was shitting himself, but I didn’t have time for that. I had 3 or 4 foot of gravel verge which dropped away to rocks and surf about 15-20 feet below, (I note that fortunately, back then there was no barrier on the bend), I was loaded with a pack strapped to the back of the bike, doing about 100kph and hanging the back out as I negotiated the corner, around the outside to the other car. Everything happened in slow motion and I don’t recall making any conscious decisions, but I seemed very calm and relaxed and it ‘just happened’.
I was both elated that I had ‘done everything right’ to survive, but also in a state of shock and still freezing as I continued to Kaikoura where I settled down as I waited for my mates.
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