A recent motorcycle tour to Northern
France allowed him to indulge a family
interest and visit wartime museum sites
in Normandy. His great uncle, his
grandfather’s brother, had served there.
The family kept a rather grainy
photograph of him in a uniformed pose.
He felt some connection because this
relative had been army hospital based
and used a messenger bike. As a bike
mounted paramedic himself he reasoned
they would have been like minded had
they met. This led him to spend some
time tracking down a good example of
the old BSA used. So taking pride of
place amongst his work and weekend
metal was his wife’s Christmas gift to
him, the bike similar to his great uncle’s
army issue.
It was mid December and, although a
little late in the year, he had taken the
day off for the obligatory flu jab. Little
excuse was needed to spend time with
his veteran bike, and today’s excuse
was that inoculations can have
some side effects. So an afternoon
polishing his example of the M O
D’s messenger bike was justified.
Some damage was evident to the
cylinder fins, so ‘concours’ condition
was in doubt. He also noted some
renewals were in evidence; the plug
cap had been replaced with an
interference free type. Recent
misfiring probably meant the side
valve engine needed ‘points setting’
and he drew his workshop seat to
the bike’s side. Leaning to the
engine in a cramped position made
him uncomfortable and soon led to
him mopping his brow. Adjusting the
contact points was easy but fiddly
and this was no time to discover
three thumbs on one hand. As he
worked, the workshop space
seemed to warm and he brushed his
forehead against the cold tank.
Resting his head there was good;
the cool metal work was a relief to
the heat and also steadied him
against the bike. A change of
atmosphere went unnoticed as he
fettled the bike’s vital electrics, his
eyes barely seeing
as the fever closed.
With the points reset
he mounted the bike
and retook the road.
Bare trees on either
roadside and
wheeling rooks
above made his
journey almost
pleasant in the
winter sun. It
allowed him to enjoy
his transit from the
flowing red and
khaki green of his
immediate duties to what he hoped
would be the normality of home. He
was due on a troopship crossing the
next day and would be home a week
before Christmas. To make progress
he intended to ride for as long as
possible, this was one connection not
to miss. As dusk later approached, the
extent of safe riding was nearing, and
an overnight shelter was his next
priority. At the roadside a farmer was
walking a horse home and he pulled
alongside to ask directions to
somewhere he could find a bed. The
subsequent gesticulations and
accompanying words ended with the
farmer indicating he should follow. At
the farm he was introduced to the
farmer’s wife, daughter and young son.
The evening was spent in good
company and despite his lack of
conversation French, all could make
themselves understood where it
mattered. In particular he enjoyed the
daughter occasionally giving him long
wistful looks.
The following morning the soldier took
his leave and was sent away with
cheese and bread wrapped in cloth
by the farmer’s wife. The farmer was
given a bank note by the daughter to
push in his hand and with the
farmer’s directions for his route, he
took his leave. He slipped the note in
his tunic pocket, kicked the bike into
life and waved his goodbye.
By midday he had made good
progress and pulled to the roadside
to rest and eat. As he sat in the
bank, the bike leant over in the ditch,
a lorry or jeep would pass and he’d
be required to return a ‘thumbs up’ to
show his stop was planned. After a
short while resting he made to
resume his journey but energetic
jumps on the kick start wouldn’t bring
his bike back to life. To make matters
worse he managed to pull away the
brass plug cap from it’s HT lead and
had to resort to baring the wire and
wrapping it around the plug top to
make a connection. He traced the
non-starting to a flooded carburetor,
the bike having laid on it’s side in the
