SPOKES: Riding timeline through the years

LONDON - After passing my test on a Suzuki A100, my first proper road bike was an elderly RD200 Yamaha, an air-cooled two-stroke twin. It’s not that the Suzuki wasn’t a proper bike, I just resented being forced to ride something so gutless on account of the learner laws, things I considered below me. I patently refused to believe that a 125cc bike—the maximum permitted for a learner—would be much better. I just wanted something cheap and cheerful to get the 'L' plates off, which I did with ease.

But why only upgrade to a 200? Well, cost was one thing. Despite holding a full-driving license (I passed that six weeks after my 17th birthday, piece of cake), a full motorcycle license and almost 10 years experience on the track, I was still considered to be public enemy number one. Indeed, as a teenager, it was fairly typical to get a basic third-party quote—one that excluded fire, theft and nuclear warfare—for more than the cost of one’s bike. I wasn’t playing that game, even if I could’ve afforded it.

Despite all those hormones raging inside my skinny body, I also figured that jumping straight on a Kawasaki Z1 would’ve been somewhat unwise, despite myself. Ironically, it was driving a car that opened my mind to my mortality when I almost T-boned a Honda 250 Dream one Saturday afternoon about two days after passing my test. The guy on the bike issued the international sign of ill will and I shrank so deep into the vinyl seat I nearly fused with it. In addition to the deep shame of almost taking out a bike bro, I’d been starkly presented with a biker’s vulnerability in ways alien to me. I was used to the odd spill on dirt—asphalt was less forgiving—and I had to share the road with other people, namely, car people with no interest in motorbikes.

The RD200 was great. It wasn’t going to win the land speed record but it was light, maneuverable, and had surprisingly sharp acceleration that’d result in dirty great wheelies at the drop of a helmet. Also, it was cheap to run and when I did have my first entirely-my-own-fault spill, cheap to repair.

I also had my first proper incident with a car on the RD. A driver, who was unable to judge speed, suddenly appeared in front of me from a junction, leaving me no choice but to bounce off his offside wing and fly over the bonnet before landing in a heap of explicit threats. It was almost the same thing I’d done to the Honda rider as a rookie motorist, but this tool made it stick.

To date, this exact same scenario has occurred three times, each time I’ve been fortunate to have witnesses and no serious injury. Genuinely down to motocross, I always try to lock the rear and bring it round in order to prevent a perpendicular collision. And I’ve always managed to cover necessary costs and expenses after a bit of insurance wrangling, though every time I am left a little more battered. One collarbone or the other always goes.

Next up was a tidy Honda CB400, my first four-stroke. I didn’t like this bike half as much as the RD. It was heavy, slow and made me feel a bit, well, old. On the plus side it was infinitely reliable—unlike the RD that had a habit of overheating and blowing holes in the piston crown. The Honda was boringly efficient. I sold the bike after six months and bought a cheap Suzuki GS550e a week later.

The GS was a bit of a heap. It was scruffy and fired inconsistently, but I adored it. It had a Motad pipe which made itself known to the wider public and, on good days, went fast enough to resolve the lower end of my craving for speed. Most importantly we knew each other. I knew its limits and the GS could trust me to not abuse it to the point of murder.

We were happy for many years. At the time I was a poor student and could just about afford to keep it going. The odd oil and sparkplug change and a new battery once in a while were just enough to sustain life. I’m sure it’s still going somewhere, not that I even recall selling it due to a change of fortune brought about by the death of my granddad.

By the time I was born, Granddad was well past his biking days, but he shared the passion, not that he had a great affinity with Japanese bikes. He was old school— Triumph, AJS, Aerial, BSA. You get the picture. So when he died and left me some money I felt almost duty bound to buy a 1976 T140v Triumph Bonneville, as one does.

The snag was that there weren’t many around. The few that were seemed to be either immaculate and prohibitively expensive or basket cases. Of course the latter option would’ve been fine, what with Dad and his spanner skills, but I was impatient. I found one for sale in Ohio. a UK dealership arranged for it to be shipped over and six weeks later I had a Bonnie, US Spec, of course.

It wasn’t in great condition and had some nonoriginal parts, such as the pipes, glitter-flake brown paint job (yuck) and additional chrome engine casings, which had presumably come off a ’77 Jubilee model. Of course, it came with the famous Triumph leak—not that I was that fussed. Afterall, I had a Triumph Bonneville.

Gradually, by eking out the rest of Granddad’s money, Dad and I got it running and looking sensational in black and chrome. To say I actually loved that bike isn’t an exaggeration. It was so much a part of me that my life seemed to revolve around it, especially as it required constant attention. Eventually we found a happy medium whereby Johnston (that was his name; I won’t explain why) became reliable so long as minor issues were sorted immediately. In fact, Johnston never broke down leaving me stranded once, though there were the odd days when he wouldn’t start at all.

After leaving university and securing employment, it occurred to me that I could fulfill another desire by buying a Ducati. The 900ss was affordable and still had that “real bike” appeal, but I didn’t want to lose the Triumph, or rather, for it to leave the family. I sold it to Dad with the proviso I had first refusal should he wish to sell it.

At the time, Dad had a beautiful Panther 120 Sloper and an Aerial 650 Huntmaster, each would be attached to sidecar when the other required attention. This was fairly often, as nothing pleases the old man more than tinkering with his toys. When he got the Triumph he converted that to take a sidecar too, but ensured that all the various components that weren’t compatible with a chair were carefully labeled and boxed, in case he or I wished to return it to a solo machine in the future.

However fond I was of my Ducati, the joy in riding one was outweighed by the enormous of amount of work required in keeping it going. This sort of work required bespoke Ducati mechanics too, not because Dad wasn’t capable, but because its value would plummet if touched by anyone without relative credentials. It cost a fortune to maintain and was reluctantly sold a year later.

I bought a black 1999 Triumph Speed Triple off a big-boned bloke who’d bought one new on a whim.

Apart from my ongoing love affair with the Bonnie, this, to date, has been my favorite bike. It just ticked all the boxes. It nodded to the British classics of yore without trying to be one, it was leak-free for a start and it looked and sounded terrific. Best of all it fixed to the asphalt like licorice and went like stink.

Sure, it was never going to be quite as fast as the Blades and GSXs of this world—hav ing said that, purely down to arrogance/stupidity, I saw a few of these off—but it was excessive enough. I did, however, come close to losing my license on her when I was clocked going twice the speed limit and summoned to court.

Let me give you some advice. If you do get stopped for speeding ludicrous politeness may work in your favor. Always dismount, remove your helmet and apologize profusely to the point of bowing. These acts of submission will be noted in court and you might get away with a few points rather than a full ban—or even a spell in jail. In addition to having your best toy and liberty taken off you, it will astronomically swell your insurance premium when you’ve served your penalty.

The court case didn’t last long. The policeman recalled what had happened and then read out my groveling apology at the scene. At the end of summing-up, I was asked to make a statement and said, “I really am terribly sorry,” in a variety of combinations. I was told off a bit, given six points and left with a dirty but valid license.

We were together for over six years and, apart from the last of the car-bonnet jobs, I only had one minor spill on her. The subsequent damage to the radiator was concealed by a radiator cowl that made the bike look even better. It was regularly serviced, shod and watered, and I took more care of that bike than I did my own safety. I rue the day I sold it. What a berk I was, though my intentions at the time were honorable.

I’d just moved to a new part of the city that didn’t have safe parking. I wasn’t happy about leaving my bike on a busy street so I sold it for a song and bought a brand new Husqvarna SM610. Unlike the Triumph, the Husky was slim enough to wind into my small courtyard where it’d be safe.

For a while I was happy with my new purchase. The Husky, a thoroughbred Supermoto, was and probably still is the ideal bike for chucking about the city. That 600 + cc single engine had more punch than Mike Tyson, the frame was lighter than Calista Flockhart, which made it more nimble than a politician's promise. It was a hoot to ride on short to medium distances, but it was useless on long journeys. When my local dealership went bust about six months after I bought it, I was in a spot.

The Ducati needed factory-approved services to keep its value and that bike was seven years old. The Husky was brand new so the stamps were critical. While the old dealership was a 10-minute ride away, the next closest was almost two hours.

The problem was, being a supermoto, the seat was sharper than Oscar Wilde’s wit. After half an hour on the road my eyes were watering and an hour later I was riding sidesaddle down the motorway and crying for my mother. I arrived at the dealership vowing to never undertake such a journey again, for sake of a chance of siring children in the future. I sold the bike on the spot and I walked off like Roy Rodgers after dismounting Trigger without his tack and took the train back to London.

That was a couple of years ago. Since then I’ve been back on my beloved Bonneville, I bought it back off Dad after much converting, but it’s not ideal, not for the sort of journeys I do these days. I’m currently on the lookout for something a bit sillier but, in the meantime, at least it’s got a big, fat comfortable seat and as far as I’m concerned, it always will.

Toodle pip.

About Jamie Dwelly:

UK-based James “Jamie” Dwelly has been riding bikes since he was eight, started out on an 80cc Yamaha converted by his biker dad for off-road usage. When his mother realized his passion wasn't just a passing “kid fad,” Jamie got a second hand yz1000e Yam, which he happily rode for another three years before retiring at the grand of age of 12 when an accident left him with a perforated disc in his back. At 18, Jamie bought a Yamaha RD200 and has never been without a bike since. After a succession of fast, beautiful bikes, he currently owns a 1976 Triumph Bonneville and is eyeing up another ludicrously nippy crotch rocket to sate his lust for speed. E-mail Jamie at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .