Tall Tales...what ever made me buy a norton?

The second Vincent came up for sale locally while the first one was being shipped from Australia. Eleven years between sales and then as soon as I go to the trouble and risk of buying from overseas a good local bike comes available!
It took almost a year of haggling with the local owner though, he wanted $2,000 more than I was willing to pay and as soon as I made my offer he bumped his asking price up another $5,000. After a year he gave up and accepted my offer. Luckily he didn't know how to use Ebay, I would never have got the bike if he had put it on there. This bike has had a total resto, I mean every single part with a wear surface was replaced. All work including machining (with a Vincent there is always some machining) was done by a well known Vincent restorer, back in 1986. All that was reused from the original bike were the cases and the two frame members, plus the girdraulics which underwent a rebuild. I know the restorer, and I also have seen the boxes of replaced parts, which the owner gave to another friend years ago. The owner was more of a collector than a rider, over the next 18 years he rode it just 550 miles, so it is like a brand new Vincent.

Both the Norton and the Vincent also appeal to me because of the relative ease of finding parts. Then there is the sound of these old bikes. The Vincent, with it's offbeat firing sounds at idle like an old warplane. To me though, the best sounding bike ever built is a free breathing Commando at six thousand RPM!

I’ve been following this thread with some interest and thought I would post my own thoughts and experiences.

In 1973 I fell in love with a year old 750 interstate at my local Norton dealers, Revetts of Ipswich, I was 18 and I had been riding bikes for a couple of years.

I put a deposit on the bike hoping my dad would lend me the rest of the money or act as guarantor for a loan, but he was adamant that he wouldn’t, dad had been a biker for years and I think he understood how I felt, but he thought that my lack of experience would have ended up with me getting hurt, so we compromised and my deposit was transferred to a 350 Honda twin, that bike was totally reliable but so boring to ride.

I still hankered after that Norton, but after a couple of months it disappeared from the showroom and I never saw it again.

Fast forward to 1977, my friend Rob lived and worked in London at the time and while he was there brought himself a brand new red mk3 roadster, (UGO 131R) does this bike still exist I wonder?
I blagged a few rides on it and really enjoyed its stump pulling performance and handling, far better than anything Japanese I had ridden at that time.

Rob offered me the bike when it was just under a year old but I didn’t have the spare cash so that was another Norton that got away.
I never lost the desire to own a Commando, and read all I could about them and I decided that one day I would own a mk3, ultimate performance wasn’t that important to me but reliability was, and I considered that Norton in its death throes had finally got the bike about right, (I’m sure I’ll stir up a hornets nest by saying that but that’s my opinion anyway).

I think my wife had got bored with hearing me talk about Nortons over the years and when in 2004 we had some spare cash she suggested that I started the search for one.

I have been in the motor trade for years and started searching the classifieds in classic bike magazines and looking on Ebay, I went to see several, some turned out to be not what I wanted, while some others were overpriced rubbish.

One Friday evening in June I had driven my mother in law down to Reading to visit some of her relatives (I’ll do anything to get her out of my hair!!) and I arrived home about 2 in the morning and went to bed.
My youngest son woke at about 6 am; my wife told me to get a few more hours sleep and took him downstairs.

About 20 minutes later she came back up and said I’d better come down and look at the computer, thinking it had crashed yet again I went to have a look.

We had set up Ebay to send us an e-mail us whenever a new Commando had been listed, and there on the screen was a 1978 silver mk3 interstate in completely original condition, even down to the black cap silencers being sold by a dealer around an hours drive away from where I lived, with a buy it now price that was exactly what I had to spend.

By 8.30 I had phoned the guy and I was on my way over to have a look.
As soon as I saw the bike and before I had even heard the engine run I knew I was going to buy it, it’s hard to put into words but it just felt completely right, a mechanics sixth sense perhaps, maybe I was stupid but after I had heard the engine run I didn’t even road test it, or haggle over the price, I just checked the documents against the engine and frame numbers and wrote out the cheque.

The bike was delivered to me about a week later and apart from regular servicing and checks I have had to do very little work.

I love riding it and often do several hundred miles in a day on it.
The only breakdown occurred on my drive when that boyer rubbish fully advanced when I was starting the engine causing the engine to kick back and destroy the sprag clutch. While I had the primary drive apart I replaced the alternator with a three phase one, fitted a “Jerry Doe” starter motor and heavy duty leads and replaced the boyer unit with a pazon unit that doesn’t seem to be affected at all by voltage drop when the engine is started on the button, and without any other adjustments being made the idling and throttle response seem much better, it seems to be better made than the boyer too.

To date that’s my Norton story, and I look forward to many more happy years of Norton ownership.

Here's a picture of my pride and joy

mikeymike552001 said:

Fast forward to 1977, my friend Rob lived and worked in London at the time and while he was there brought himself a brand new red mk3 roadster, (UGO 131R) does this bike still exist I wonder?

Click to expand...

According to the DVLA website database UGO 131R appears to have been exported: http://www.vehiclelicence.gov.uk/EvlPortalApp/

-----------------------------------------------
The enquiry is complete

The vehicle details for UGO 131R are:

Date of Liability 29 03 1982
Date of First Registration 08 03 1977
Year of Manufacture 1977
Cylinder Capacity (cc) 828CC
CO2 Emissions Not Available
Fuel Type Petrol
Export Marker *Export*
Vehicle Status Unlicensed
Vehicle Colour BLACK
------------------------------------------------




Would that photo happen to have been taken around the area of Aldeburgh in Suffolk?

Hi L.A.B.
Thanks for looking up UGO 131R on the D.V.L.A. website. i must admit i'd never thought of that.
It's interesting that the bike was black when it was exported, it was candy apple red when Rob owned it.
As far as the photo is concerned you're almost right, the picture was taken on the Quay at Orford.
The ride between Snape and Orford has always been one of my favourites with it's combination of sweeping bends and tight turns.

Figured I’d get a bit more of this on paper...before another thirty years go by…LOL. Hope it is not too painful for you poor suckers….

Summer evening…we go down to the bad part of town to a pub where all the radicals hang out, because one of us knows the owner. Bikes parked out beside the door. Pub is full of students that might have all been in the Bader Meinhof , Red Army Faction for all I know…same area where some of them used to hang out…but we have a good time and get ready to head out to go home. Out the door to the bikes and give the Commando a kick. No reaction. Something not right. I take a closer look and find out why it won’t start. Some nice person has removed both spark wires. Now, there are a lot of things I’m patient about….but as most of you know…touching someone’s bike is a “No no”, so to speak. Not done…more than once. I see red and march back into the pub. Some of the guys thankfully, are still in there. The rest of the place is filled with students that all seem to be in on the joke. I’m sort of what you call…miffed and I ask the whole room who touched my bike. Silence. I ask again…and all I get is a few snickers. I have no patience for this and have no way to let out my steam on the guilty individual…so the arm flies out, and the nice Bell Star Helmet I have in my hand takes the cigarette machine out. Glass all over the floor, cigarettes scattered, and not a sound in the room. Every twerp in the place understood the general idea of what would happen if I found the person that had touched my bike. My buddies decided to get a hold of me and carried me out the door. Just as well…I would have put someone in the hospital. Outside, no one could find a set of plug wires…which is no surprise at one in the morning. But one of us has a VW bus. So the side door gets opened, the bike gets fit in somehow and I sit on the bike holding it upright and with the brake on, for the 15-mile ride back to where I live. We never did go back there to that pub. I was told last year that the owner had claimed it on the insurance….guess I should be happy he didn’t call the cops.



End of the summer, 76. Fall is coming in fast and the nights are getting cool and you can see your breath in the air when you bother to look. One of the fellows throws a party at his place, or rather the place he shares with his cute little girl friend. A number of club members are there and there is enough put away to ensure loss of licence if any of us had gotten pulled over. Likely the only one not under the weather is me…I just wasn’t into it and since I took a good scrape on my pipes on that corner down the hill from the disco/café that night, I have been a good little doobee most of the time. That café is gone now by the way…torn down …time changes everything, I guess.
Anyway…….the party sort of breaks up, around three in the morning, and I get on the commando and head out towards home. I get out of town and turn onto a larger/wider road that I have to take to get to where I live…still living in that place off post…who would stay in Camp Swampy for the weekend anyway. So I turn down the road, and being in a mellow mood, I just pick up a slow pace and enjoy being all alone on this wide, empty road. No cars, no traffic at all, just a peaceful ride at three in the morning. About a half mile along, there comes a car out of nowhere and it gets right in back of me…a couple of meters in back of me. Now this road is empty…no traffic, and this jerk decides to tailgate me. I can’t stand tailgating…there is, even today, no way to get me in a huff, faster, than to hang on my ass and give me the feeling you are trying to push me. I’m usually good-natured…but tailgating can make me visualize putting my fist in the butt holes face. Instant high blood pressure. One of the reasons I ride only with Colours even today…the SOBs behind me, usually keep their distance…most car drivers don’t want to mess with an MC…..Thanks to Marlon Brando, Bruce Dern, and “The Wild Bunch”.

So this car gets right in back of me, on an empty road, and I do what I usually do, I pull over a bit and wave him by. It’s not the fact that someone wants to go faster than me, that bothers me, it’s the tailgating I can’t handle…so let them pass if they want to. But the jerk won’t pass. I pull back over to the middle of the lane and after another hundred meters or so…I try again, as he is still right there, in the mirror and it nerves me. I pull over and wave him by again. No dice…he must have homo tendencies, and wants to get close to my tail pipe. This starts to nerve. Then a few other thoughts come to mind. Here I am…three in the morning, a car following me, I’m wearing my Colours and there is this other club in the city that has been giving us a bit of heart burn …..visions of a carload of them behind me, I’m all alone and these guys have been playing hard ball now for a while. My mellow mood has evaporated. Pulse goes up to lord knows what, and I start to get a bit nervous…so to speak. I try ONE more time, the old….wave him on by, trick. He doesn’t take the bait. He puts his high beams on instead. So I hit the red button.

Down shift a couple of gears and twist for all she’s worth. If I’m going to have the shit beat out of me by a carload of drunken bikers…I’m not going to make it easy for them. The first hundred meters or so, I had him a good distance behind me…but after that, he starts to pick up the pace. We are going at a good clip now…getting up towards a hundred or so, and he gets right up on my tail again. Now my poor commando is about at the end of it’s range and I can’t out-run him really. This is getting into a built-up area, and we are doing now about a hundred and five in an area with streetlights, buildings…and God damned, a red…red light. Now this car is still right on my tail, so I do what I gotta do. Right through the light, with him right behind me. It was good that it was the middle of the night, but bad…that the blue lights suddenly came on behind me. Nope…wasn’t a carload of drunken bikers…it was a carload of police instead. How nice. Now I got no choice. They have my plate number, I can’t out run them, and like Bugs Bunny says……”that’s all folks!”

I pull over on the side of the road, they whip over in front of me, leap out of the car and one of them pushes me and the commando over into the ditch. The bike gets left in the ditch and they literally throw me into the back of the car and get into the front seat and start talking to each other in German. Both of them evidently assumed I was a dumb American that couldn’t understand what they were saying. They have themselves a good laugh, make a few really unpleasant references to Americans, Bikers, Army,…etc, and have a real good time telling about how this is the third time they have done this to some poor SOB in the last month. Must have been a good month in pig heaven. Now I sit there…pissed as hell and listen to all this for a while. One of them turns around and in English tells me that they have me for speeding, going through a red light, trying to outrun the police, being drunk, which I wasn’t, and that they were going to see that I lose my licence. Now…I hadn’t said a word, so he turns around and in German asks the other if he wants to punch me out. No…he says…it’s your turn. Seems like it is time to make some kind of contribution to the conversation at this point….may be I’d have rather have had the carload of bikers……

In the middle of one telling the other some kind of nasty joke about American bikers and a flock of sheep….I decide to interrupt.

“Excuse me”…says I….in German. “Would you please tell me the name of your supervisor?” Both turn around and silently give me the evil eye. One of them gets his breath back and asks in German, why I want to know this. So, calmly, and in a very helpful manner, I explain in their native language. “I just want to ask him if he knows how you both spend your hours of duty…you have tailgated me and wouldn’t pass me when offered. You have forced me to think you wanted to drive me over, and made me go much too fast because I didn’t want to let you run over me. You forced me through a red light, pushed me into a ditch, damaged my bike, insulted my country and were dumb enough to think I didn’t understand you. Maybe he will interested to find out you have done this to a few other Americans…and the court cases against them fall apart. It will look good on your records I’m sure. By the way…how do you spell your last names, and does one of you have a pencil?”

Within ten seconds….one of them told me that I’d better not be caught going through any red lights again and told me to get out of the car. I stepped out…wished them a good evening and they laid rubber. It was a pain to get the Norton back on its’ wheels…but I didn’t complain. Bet you wouldn’t have either….

Maybe of interest...maybe not.

Went up to the clubhouse last evening, one of the prospects was finally getting his colors and as good as any a time to travel the 60 miles up there for the evening. Wonderful weather and the bike ran like a clock the whole way there.

Bit early and no one was about yet, so I take a glance up on the horizon and look at the mountain and the tower up there, where I lost my teeth some thirty years ago. Been there in the area once since then, so long ago that I really couldn’t say when it was. Anyway…still light and road’s dry, so I keep the bike pointed towards where it doesn’t really want to go and head up that way. Out of town and through the next town and then the road starts to look really unfamiliar and my poor heart is in my mouth. Bit of a struggle, but I push on, take the right up the hill and it starts into switchbacks and lots of trees. I eventually reach the top and come to a yield that goes right into a switchback, sort of a “Y” where I come into the bottom of it. Straight ahead and round some bends and I get to the tower and restaurant up there, full of bikes and loads of people standing around yakking. I make a U turn and head back down, come to the “Y” and take the left towards where I think I might have had my run in with the speedometer all those years ago. Head down hill a bit and there is a long parking lot, half a mile long at least, on the side of the road which just doesn’t look right to me. The nutties are roaring up the mountain on their riceburners and it is starting towards dusk, and I just don’t want to continue down the hill, so I make a U turn again and head back up hill and finally just plain chicken out and head real sedately back down the switchbacks and down the way I went up. Been so many years, I really can’t say where what might have happened, every corner looks like it could be the one.

Back at the clubhouse, there are loads of people now and I spend a few hours listening to a lot of BS and the usual stuff we seem to go on and on about over a few beers. I don’t partake anymore when I have to get behind the wheel, so my input is normally less “inspired” than what the others have to say. Anyway…get to talking to one of the fellows about my little side trip. There are maybe five others standing around listening too…and I tell about the trip up there, and naturally this turns to the low down on why this was at all of interest to me, and how I lost my molars and totalled my bike so long ago. I tell what I can remember about where I drove and what happened, which I can still see if I close my eyes, after all these years, and when I get to the part where the taillights I was following just disappeared for ten seconds and then suddenly reappeared way down, behind me on the left and then the whole woods jumped right in front of my bike…the whole group in unison starts to shout “Applause Corner”… “Applause Corner” and start screaming in laughter. Now I’m not in on the joke here so I look perplexed and the fellow to my left takes the time between choking with laughter, to explain. “I knew it…I knew it when you started to tell about the long straight away…you didn’t have a chance…no wonder…oh shit…I don’t believe it…” “You know why they call it “Applause Corner”? In the summer, on a good day, the locals park in the inside of the corner and sit down and wait for the out of towners to come down the hill on their crotch rockets. Every fifth or sixth one comes flying down and ends up in the woods…and everyone gets to clap and cheer…that’s why they call it the “Applause Corner”…”

So my date with doom seems to be a local highlight and the tour busses go there just to watch the action. Makes me feel much better now…knowing I’m not the only jerk who doesn’t know how to drive…

PS… When I left at midnight, he promised to take me up there and show me “Applause Corner” the next time I make the trek up there to the club…I’ll let you know what happens… :wink:

For those interested...try this link

http://www.goyellow.de/map/61389-schmitten-im-taunus/

there are selections on the right side, "Hybrid" will give you a good idea what it looks like... use the crossed arrow and a left click and hold to move the picture down a bit. Below and to the right of the Grosse Feldberg you will see a real hairpin marked in yellow...this is the Applause Kurve, and if you scan in, you will see it even has a parking lot in the inside of the curve to accomidate the people that want to watch the action... :lol:
I was way away from this the other evening, near the tower and restaurant which are under the marking for the Grosse Feldberg...so it shows how the memory doesn't always keep step with the reality... :wink:

PS...for those of you not from Europe, this website and naturally Google World, will give you a good idea what it looks like here from the air. I would really like to see some of you put some co-ordinates/links in this blog to show the rest of us where you drive and live...not all of us have had the pleasure of seeing the other neat places in the world Nortons disturb the peace... :wink:

Thanks Hewho, most entertaining! I think you deserve some more applause for that!

LAB...

Personally I can think of at least a hundred more pleasurable ways to get a few cheers...but I will have to take what I can get...best to you and thanks for your apprieciation of my somewhat off the wall way of looking at things. If we allow ourselves to look at every thing that happens in life as being anything more than another Mell Brooks movie, we will all have a sad time indeed...and who wants that.

PS...where are the rest of you? I can't be the only one out there that enjoys playing the clown...or? Take a deep breath and write something!!!

hewhoistoolazytologin said:

PS...where are the rest of you? I can't be the only one out there that enjoys playing the clown...or? Take a deep breath and write something!!!

Click to expand...

Well, my motorcycling experiences do not seem to rival yours Hewho, -or maybe I've just forgotten all the mad/crazy things that happened back then, I don't know!

Coco said:

I don't own one yet. But I am now officially looking to buy an 1975, 850cc Mk III. I have been labouring over which old bike I should buy, restore and tweak a bit, over the last year or so. I was going to fix up an old RD400 until I saw a Commando a few weeks ago. I want one.........................badly.

Click to expand...

Edit - I bought a 1976 MKIII in November of 2006. Yeeehaaaw!

Started out as one fine day...beautiful weather for April...we have it in the 70’s/80’s and bone dry. Too dry, as there is a real danger of fire in the woods…but anyway, fine weather. Last weekend, get a call. Lost one of us down south, stupid stuff. Spring on the kickstand breaks, stand swings out, catches the first curve and throws the machine into the other lane and the poor sucker gets his clock cleaned by a car coming the other way. Single parent and two kids...

Seems like a good time for a long ride.

Head out at about 8, Sunday, traffic light and all goes well, try to hook up with a club doing a Sunday morning follow the leader, but they aren’t where they should be at the time they should be there, so head a bit further up North till I end up at our clubhouse. Naturally no one there at this time of the morning, so…gotta do it…try it again and get it over with. Like falling off a horse, if you let it get to you, you will never get on one again. Whole time thinking about what happened down South, good day to get the demons gone.

The road up there is covered with Jap machines. Every nut in a colourful set of leathers is up there trying to kill himself. I get to the “Y” and go again right and down, where my, oh so nice, buddies told me I had to go to find my corner. Follow a fake chopper most of the way, and eventually come into a set of corners, like a star sort of, maybe five roads coming together at one point. Now I take the hard right and head down hill. Get about two miles down and take a look ahead, and I know just where I am. No question, clear as can be, I see the same view, as I see when I close my eyes. Gottcha! Found the stinker. Naturally no place to turn around here, very hard left and then a hard right and the road goes straight. Breathing back towards normal and I say to myself. “Good Boy…good boy…you did it…” Some dope on a Buell nearly runs me over and ahead of me the road goes down and down. Whoa! Now I see what they were talking about…hard brake and hang left, and this thing keeps going and going. Crosses on the side of the road, guy on a chopper almost looses it as he comes up in the other lane, and finally the road straightens out and I get to find a place to do a yewwie and head back up. Now I know it’s there, but if anything, the lane going up is worse…all bumps and washboard. Tires do a squeak or two, and I somehow avoid dumping it where the chopper guy almost did. Keep going up hill and get back to my corner…that one is also screwed up…a real nasty piece of asphalt. Make it around it somehow and get back up to the crossroads and turn left. Bunch of bikes parked there, so I pull over and find it is a Harley sales promotion…might as well look. Need time to digest it all anyway. Bit of interest in the Commando from other riders, and offered a test ride on a Buell or Harley. Guy tells me I would maybe wanna buy a “Real” motorcycle, if I tried one. Rather than get involved with explaining what I think about his opinion, I kindly explain that I’d rather not, as it just doesn’t seem like the place or time to get on some strange bike that shifts and brakes wrong and go for a spin in the circus that is taking place before my eyes there on the road. Same nuts on Kawas come three times by, to show they can hit 120 in a 30 mph zone…a hundred others come by and try the same thing…two guys on Guzzis, nice aluminium tanks, hutch seats and carbs with velocity stacks, come by and gawk at the Commando. I walk amongst Gods own Harleys, and all of them have bolts and nuts that are rusting already, before they are sold…Harley is too cheap to use Stainless…guess they make a lot of money selling the aftermarket stainless screw sets. Figure it’s time to hit the road again, so I head on back towards the “Y”, and take the road back down. Some nut passes me just before a parking area with a big bus unloading lots of old ladies, and nearly creams a couple. No one told him he might aught not pass a parked bus at fifty or so. Surely he knows now…maybe. Couple of Porches are having a race up the hill and nearly knock my mirror off…Get to the bottom and turn back towards town. Start to look for someplace to pull over and do something we all gotta do sometimes, and find a place on a long straight-away to pull over. Get back to the bike just in time to witness the finest example of brainless stunt riding I have seen in years.

Car comes from the left and behind him, appear suddenly two screaming machines for which he is just going too slow and they decide to give him the thrill of his life. First, one, then the second one, gooses the gas and get the front wheel off the ground and in unison, side by side, they scream past him on their rear wheels..doing at least twice the speed he was doing. Truly amazing what you can see in the woods on a Sunday afternoon. Poor car driver must have filled his trousers. And to think that now that driver will hate every biker he sees, but who will get the most scorn…those of us with colours on, naturally.

Now it really is time to get back, before the wife wonders what I’m up to, so I head out again. She likes her peace, and enjoys that I go for a ride or two, but given enough time and enough bikes roaring past the house, she will start to worry. So there is no reason to ride longer than I myself have a need for.

On the way home, I think about what I saw, and the fact that I was lucky, back then when I had my accident. I didn’t even make it as far as the “Applause Corner”…if I had, there most likely would be one more cross there. That stinker was at least twice as sharp a curve as the one I lost it on. Small difference maybe, but possibly a deciding factor. Look on the map again...tight curve before the Appause Corner.

Got asked where I went, when I got home…

”Just rode around, Dear…”

Last night, we all added the black ribbon across the colors; which my wife hasn’t seen yet…as if she doesn’t already have enough to worry about.

Good story Hewho, sorry to hear about your mate.

Mike

Despite the fact that you all must be as tired as I am , of hearing about this corner thing...and that someone will ask me if I get paid for plagiarizing „Twilight Zone“ reruns...keep in mind that I live an hour and a half away from this nasty thing, and haven’t been in the area for over thirty years...

What do you all think about this?

They say that things come in threes, or that a bad penny will always come back to you…now I wonder how much fact is loaded into those statements.

Spent the day out in the courtyard, working on the car, which has to get through the vehicle inspection tomorrow or so… We have a holiday today…first of May, some old Commie holiday that they still celebrate here, as if the “workers” have anything big to celebrate here…anyway…take a break from the thing I love least to do and for a moment go into the house and say hello to the little lady. She is sitting at the computer, trying to beat some electronic opponent in some game that I can’t much understand, and at the same time, watching something on TV. Some bicycle race. She isn’t a bicycle fan, or even rides one, so I do the bit of courtesy and ask what race it is and such and where it is. “Feldberg” says she. Now there are two of them in the country, and after I get my heart back where it should be, and out of my throat…I ask which one. “By Frankfurt”, says she.

Now she has my attention, and I take a good look and say…they are just coming up on the “Y” and will have to turn right and go down towards Oberusel. “How do you know that?” …says she. You can’t read the yellow sign they are coming up on yet…so my goose is now cooked. “Uh…I was there last Sunday”, say I. “Oh”…. says she. Now my goose is getting toasted anyway…so I start to give her a play-by-play rundown as they travel along on the route I have so recently been on myself. They have a camera on a motorbike, in amongst the riders, and sometimes they flash to a view from the air taken from a helicopter. Here is the place they were selling Harleys…now they will take a right and go down the hill, and if they keep this camera on…we will see where I had my accident.

The camera flashes instead to some jerk telling about how nice it is to visit historic Oberusel…but soon enough, they come back to the duds that are a good 4 kilometres behind the leaders, and they are just now coming up on the Harley parking area. They hook a right and head down the hill. All of a sudden they are in my corner and unlike yours truly…no one goes flying up into the woods to make headlines on the evening news. The picture goes to the helicopter and we get a real good view of Applause Corner, which is evidently really the name of it, as the announcer uses the name too, and he starts to tell about how the road is loved by motorcyclists…Wife cranks up the volume on the TV…and the announcer goes on and on about how the road is used for illegal motorcycle races and how many have died on this road and meanwhile, the bicycles are in the Applause corner, they whip around it and the announcer finally gets off the subject of dead bikers and the wife turns the volume down again. What a strange feeling, all this. I’m sitting there, saying to myself…I don’t believe it…they wouldn’t believe it…how strange…wish I had a VCR on the TV so I could prove it.

Weird stuff. All these years…and three times in three weeks. Makes you wonder.

Hewho, that was a good story. But unfortunately this like a book I now, can't seem to put down.

When can we expect the next chapter?

Taken me again a while to get back to this...just not long enough for some of you, I’m sure...

Couple of weeks ago, rained all morning and really didn’t look like it would let up, but then came a big blue area of sky up from France. Just not normal, that blue sky stuff from France. I swear they have cloud machines set up on the border, down around Verdun. Not that I blame them for it, if you scan a bit back in history, they have a few reasons….but why always on a Weekend? Just plain ornery I guess.

So along comes the huge circle of blue sky, get up the nerve and I set off for the city to meet up with the mates and take part in a “City Run”. Whatever that is. Late as usual, one of the guys had to wait for me and then he and I skirted the metro area and came in from the north to where we were supposed to meet up with the sponsoring club and do the run. Weather holds out and then we come into a traffic jam which we assume is due to the cops blocking off the road for the run. Been told all is police escorted, etc, so we assume we are late, and try to fit between cars.

Get to the meeting area, must be well over a hundred people or so, and as would be expected, we are the only other not affiliated club that has seen fit to attend. Why the other clubs fail to appear, lord knows…but only us, the sponsors and their supporter club, who have their own place in the hiararchy, are there. The supporter club has to attend, and they have their work cut out for them anyway. I won’t mention names here, so you will have to let the imagination run wild as to who the sponsors were, just get the picture that not one of them rides anything but HD. Nice bikes, but I couldn’t afford any of them if I wanted one. Too rich for my taste.

Passed pleasantries for about an hour until one of the really huge ones gets on his bike and heads up towards the street. Must be starting, maybe the cops have got it all organized. The sponsors are all allowed to get out in the front, hangabouts and such are better off safely in the rear… no doubt. About a hundred machines or so, 2 abreast and the ride gets under way.

Traffic got stopped…but it was quickly apparent that none of it got stopped by cops. Hats off to the supporter club, they did a fine job of blocking every intersection, red light, trolly, bus, pedestrian crosswalk…scooting down sidewalks…you name it, for the next hour or so. I did see one cop car, but he was trying to get across the lane, and had no chance, he had to wait like everybody else, for the line to go by. After about the tenth red light, it got hairy. People were getting upset, horns were blowing, “pleasantries” exchanged…from a safe distance naturally, and only with those at the end of the line, but at one corner, some stinker wings some kind of red/orange fruit at the fellow ahead of me. This distracted me for a split second, wondering what was coming next, and the fellow ahead of me put his brakes on and we were so close, I nudged his pipe on one side. Second time in my life I rear-ended someone. He wasn’t happy, and nothing was damaged, but at least he was one of us, and not one of the sponsors. We could discuss it later. At the next intersection, a trolly comes from the right, blocks the path, two of the supporters are also blocking from the side, cars, and the cars can’t get off the tracks. Stalemate to say the least. I back up and let the two supporters in ahead of me and the cars inch off the tracks and the trolly makes it around the corner, lots of fist shaking and such, but no damage to anything but tempers. We are right in the middle of the city and there is absolutely no way to do anything but keep with the group. I have visions of cameras on every red light…in for a dime, in for a dollar sort of. My faithful steed stalls out, and I have to kick her over while standing, which is not my style, and get her started but end up last in the group for a couple of miles. Still no cops behind me, but cars that are too close, and no doubt pissed. Finally the run is winding to an end, and the way to the clubhouse is at least a mile down a road that is covered with about 4 inches of mud. Wondered why all those HD’s were filthy as heck. Took me two days to get it off mine. I get a cola at the clubhouse and it is thundering just on the horizon, so I take my leave and head back towards home. An interesting day to say the least.

Way home leads in and out of light rain, nothing really serious, but the storms are all around. Not paying attention really as to why, but along the way, some metallic clank is heard. Must have run over an old beer can or such. Don’t give it no mind more.

Along the way…stop for a moment to see if anyone is at the clubhouse of another club I have friends at, and when I go to put the side stand out…something is different and I look down.


See above entry...

Last weekend, get a call. Lost one of us down south, stupid stuff. Spring on the kickstand breaks, stand swings out, catches the first curve and throws the machine into the other lane and the poor sucker gets his clock cleaned by a car coming the other way. Single parent and two kids...

Click to expand...

Must have had a couple of angels along for the ride…no pun intended…that spring had been hanging down grinding on the pavement for the last 15 miles or so.





Couple of years ago, the fellow at the vehicle inspection refused to pass my bike until I put an extra spring on there to make it swing up automatically and not sit out there extended as they do on the Commando. I have the bolt on mine really tight, so it stays where you put it, and only loosen the bolt for the benefit of the inspector when I have to go to inspection. The bolt was loose though, somehow, that day…and the stand had swung out most of the way…and the only thing that kept it from going all the way out, and killing me, was the second spring the inspector made me install. He has earned a “Thank You” the next time I go to the inspection point…to say the least.

Had to remove one of the tassels from my colors to tie the stand to the frame and get home….

I told my son about it and to re-check his bike too, but this is another one of those things I won’t bother to tell the lady. Due to the wonderful weather earlier this year, our state has the unwelcome distinction of having the most fatal cycle accidents of any German state so far this year. She who must be obeyed has mentioned it a number of times now over the last two weeks…no use baiting the bear.

Haven’t bothered you with this stuff now for a few months...just as well, only some of it has anything to do with the marquee anyway. When I started this long drawn out attempt at humour, I made a list of things I remembered that might be worth noting down and expanding on, therefore some of this has been a bit out on sequence, I skipped about amongst time periods as I never bothered to clear it all up before I started to send the stuff up to the server…so once again, out of sequence, but hopefully not too boring…

I mentioned back in the first entry, that I had a bit of a tiff with the Lady I was then married to, and got sent to live in the barracks to keep me from doing her in and how I ended up with a Norton owning room mate that supplemented his income by somewhat questionable methods…keep it in mind.

74…The winter had started to come in. I received my legal papers and had to return to the states to have her publicly blame me for making her do all those naughty things she saw fit to do with that other guy during all those lunch hours last fall and I went to the PX and bought me a new ski jacket to take up some of the cold and put it where it belonged. Nice jacket, all sorts of pockets and real warm. First thing I did was get soft and loan it out to my room mate a couple of days before I flew to the states to handle this stuff I wasn’t so keen on handling. Got it back and took it with me on the trip. I had a lot to do back home, and not the least of which, I wanted to see a bunch of friends and naturally get consoled by a few bout my mean and nasty wife and how she had done such bad things to me. Some of you may unfortunately know just what I am talking about, gotta have some one to talk to and get it out somehow. I hadn’t fared so bad in my legal dealings with the naughty lady, as my First Sergeant was smart enough to take me and about six other soldiers to do a surprise visit to my apartment, the same evening after I had been so rudely enlightened as to her secret positional preferences. She was stupid enough to invite him back that same evening when she thought I was out of the picture and haughty enough to open the door in the buff when I knocked. She hadn’t figured on the seven people with me…and that they were all capable of writing a statement as to what they saw when the door opened, and how they helped heave him out into the street in his underwear. Joke was on her naturally. Suddenly having 7 statements like that slapped down on the table made her false claims and “poor little ole me” stories sort of passé. Her lawyer lady convinced her to waiver support rather than take it before the court and I agreed to let her keep the sewing machine I had bought her…seemed like the Christian thing to do… :wink:


So for the rest of the three weeks, there were lots of parties to attend where all they did was complain that no one could find any of the evil weed…no one seemed really interested in my little problem. To be understood… I wouldn’t have been interested if it had happened to someone else, too…but the stuff with the weed…that was really bad, made for a sad three weeks if I do say so myself. Time home came to an end and I got on the plane to fly back to Germany where I had no doubt, the supply problem didn’t exist.


Arrived at the airport in Germany and got in line for the customs inspection. Put the bags up on the band, take off the ski jacket and put it up there too and wait for the nice customs folks to let you through so you can go back to your unit, solve the supply problem and get on with your life. My turn comes and I have my bags open and the lady looks through them and then picks up the ski jacket. She fingers and feels it all over and comes to one of the tiny zippered pockets on the left sleeve where I keep a ten-dollar bill as emergency money. She feels the contents without opening it and looks at me and asks me what is in it. Ten-dollar bill for emergencies, say I. She gives me a strange look and asks me if I am sure. I say, yes…ten dollars is in there. She gives me one of those looks that says…”Yea…right…” and puts the jacket down on the band again and motions towards the next person in line. Well…I’m not going to have my honesty questioned and have her think I not telling the truth…not me…so I say to her, rather peeved…”If you don’t believe me…then open it up and see for yourself”.


She looks at me, thinks for a moment and says OK…and picks it back up, unzips it and hooks her finger in the tiny pocket and comes out with the biggest piece of Hashish I wish I had never seen.


My stomach turns…she looks at me and says…what does that look like to you? I say…uhhh…not like ten-dollars…or? Nope…not like ten-dollars…I think you had better come with me.

Back room…sitting there and they rip everything out of the bags and go through everything I have on. I have nothing to say besides that I didn’t know it was in there. Naturally no one believes me and they get ready to call the MPs and have me picked up…last thing I need. Crap. Worst thing is…I’m telling the truth. She says, how did it get in there…I mention I had loaned the jacket to someone…she doesn’t believe me. Naturally I’m nervous as hell…my world is falling apart, due to no fault of my own. I say once again that I didn’t put it in there.


Finally I get on track.


“Maam…think about it…you had put the jacket down and called the next person in line. You had not opened the pocket. You were finished with me. Do you think I would have argued with you and told you to open it and look for yourself…after you were finished with me…if I had KNOWN what was in there?”


She looks at me…thinks a moment…and says…”Nope”…guess not…get your stuff and get out of here, I have work to do.


I got later back to the room and my roommate is there. He says HI…I say Hi…he says sorry bout needing that ten dollar bill…but wasn’t that some gooood shit he gave me for it?


I could have killed him.

Why I got a Norton

When I was in High School in 1964 my brother bought a basket case Indian.
It was a 1948 220 cc Arrow single.
We put that together and acquired some parts that included a 1948 Indian Warrier engine and frame.
This was a vertical twin, 500 cc.
When the piston broke on the single we put together the Warrier.
These were pretty fun bikes, light as well. My guess the 500 came in about 300LB.
When my brother moved away I inherited the bike and eventually took it away with me to college. Since school was 200 miles away from home I really had to get a car for practical reasons so I had Sam Pierce in the LA area sell it for me at his shop. Sam was the greatest old guy who loved Indians and would sell parts cheap to kids like me.
Slip forward 38 years.
My great daughters have left home for good, one a grade school teacher and the other an Air Force pilot. Time to take on a bit more risk before I'm too old.
My wife is not crazy about idea but I'm pretty smooth.
When I got out of college in 1972 the Norton's were the bike I lusted after, and it wasn't just the Norton Girl.
Just the right balance of attitude, mechanical beauty and honesty of design.
I was wanting one I could work on myself but not a basket case. I'm too old to be spending years on this project before riding.
Sniffed around at all the usual places, E-Bay, BykeTrader, CraigsList.
I was tempted by some but cost and condition and being out bid was a problem. Wasn't crazy about buying a bike from far away, paying shipping and then being dissappointed.
After a while you get an idea what the fair going price is so I had an idea of what a good deal look would look like if I saw one.
Finally!! On Portland.Craigslist.org I spotted her two weeks ago. I'm near Seattle so only 150 miles to check her out. 1972 (year I graduated) Roadster, 7,000 original miles, garaged since 1977 (still has 1977 plate). Good price!
Went down and looked over carefully. Opened up everything I could, looked great, even no rust in tank. Usual dirt and oil but looked good underneath. Some small amount of corrosion. Paid the man.
Borrowed truck from son in law and picked her up four days ago.
Degreased, drained fluids and replaced, checked out adjustments, installed new battery.
We all know starting a big engine can be a bit of a learning process. Twin Amals, standard point ignition. Took a bit of doing and a sore leg and instep but finally figured how to get enough falling weight on the crank, I'm only 160LBs but she started!!!
Runs really really good. 30 years waiting to speak again!!
Haven't had her out on road yet. Got to rebuild front disk brake, get licensed (both of us), helmet, appropriate clothing.
I've got all winter. I'll take her down quite a bit for new paint, restoring some stuff, polishing casings, SS hardware.
Not planning on winning any contests but want to have a nice example of a Red Norton Commado Roadster. I'm happier than a pig in shit right now. :wink:

I've not read all the previous posts, so this may be a bit of a repeat.

I think Norton's are like beautiful women. You lust after them when you first see them. Once you get one, beautiful woman or Norton, you find it takes a lot of money and time to keep them happy. I've enjoyed both the beautiful women and Nortons. I consider every dollar and the time well spent. I turn sixty-three next week and I have a forty-two year old girl friend and a thirty- five year old Norton.

Another sleepless night in the backwoods of Schnitzelland...

Fall of 76, to the best of my recollection. Still in the unit at Camp Swampy and it is getting mighty cold. The unit decides to go and do training at the worse place in Germany to train in the winter. Graf. Might mean something to a few of you. Located out in back of Nurnburg somewhere in the real boonies. A place God never bothered to cover in his great plan, especially in the winter. We get there, spend a few weeks shooting up the landscape and the mud gets so deep it becomes a task just to move from point A to point B and still appear like anything less than Sasquatch on a rampage in upstate Washington. Awful stuff, mud, for which Graf is sadly famous. The temperature starts to get to me and my feet and they start to freeze up and cause a lot of pain. So much pain that I have a problem walking and the field doctor sends me to do duty in the hut we live in and keep the tiny oil stove burning. Naturally this goes over well with the tough nuts in the unit. “Pu**y” was the least of the comments I had to deal with as I sat next to the nice warm fire and slaved to keep it going for those ungracious creeps.
Only thing OK at Graf was the beer, which we were allowed to buy in some big hall full of MP’s, watching hundreds of soldiers getting bombed and doing their best to avoid getting caught at it. The rule was…and I never quite understood why….”Drink, but don’t get Drunk”. Made no sense at all. Nice beer though, wheat beer I’d think you would call it, with a bunch of yeast on the bottom of the cool bottle, which you opened by the flick of a thumb on the stopper. “Flippies” they were called, if that means something.
My old frostbite, which I got as a kid has caused me no end of trouble over the years. Dummy me, forgot a hat or skates or something, at the skating pond back when I was a kid, and mother didn’t see why such a thing should be just left there for someone else to take home and enjoy…so I got send back the mile and a half, in the snow to get whatever it was, and returned with my feet really frozen. Frostbite never goes away either. Least bit of cold is still a trial for me, fifty years after the day I got it. Nice stuff.

We do eventually return to dear old Camp Swampy and I get to find out what else Graf left me with besides fond memories. Had started to hurt awful when I visited the local latrine…so bad that I just couldn’t avoid finding out what it was. Doctor looks me over and grins and then asks me to write down the names of all my “Contacts” so they can be informed to go to the doctor too. Contacts? I’m not really clear what he is referring to. “Write down the names of the girls you have banged the last month…or what ever”…he snickers. “You do like girls, don’t you?”, he adds. Dirty minded son-of-a-gun, suggesting something different. “Haven’t been with anyone”, says I. After all, even us tough Commando bikers have their dry spells. He tells me not to give him any shit, that this is serious stuff and I’d better not lie, cause that’s the only way you can get what I got. No ifs, and, or buts.
“No girls, and….(I grin back at him)…no guys, either.”, I say. So he gets pissed off and threatens to have me brought up on charges. That doesn’t change the fact that I’m telling the truth, though. It had been so long, I would have had problems remembering how. So much for the theory that you can only get what I got by doing what he says I did, but didn’t do. Guess he needed t go back to doctor school.
Pills did take care of it eventually…but, “Hurt”, just doesn’t cover the way I remember what ever it was. Not recommended.
So, Graf left a good impression on me. Nuff said.


We have a weekend free and there is a good concert down south about fifty miles away, so I invite my “friend” who happens to be a female, to go. She’s a buddy and we have spent a lot of time together, but no fancy stuff. Good looking, but I’m just not interested in her that way…more fun having her to hang out, ride around on the Norton, raise hell and go to the bike club parties with. Romance is too complicated. Ran into her mother last year, so I spoke to the “girl” on the telephone. Her mother was kind enough to dial it for me. She answered the phone, I said “Hi” and she knew who it was just by my voice, even after the thirty years…good memory. Doing well, but still not married…some like it that way.
Anyway….not to get sidetracked. A cold ass winter night, we set off on the Norton to go down the Autobahn and go see “The Who”. It is so cold that I burn up my gloves, putting them on the down pipes to unfreeze my fingers. Gloves end up looking like the claws on some huge vulture. Fingers never did straighten out on them and the down pipes had a funny color too for years. We get there and park the bike and go into the building with the rest of the excited crowd. I’d seen them once…sort of …in that big mess in New York in 69…just can’t remember much of it. Think most of us have a bit of trouble remembering just who and what we saw those couple days. Part of being young, I guess… So, the concert gets going, and the light show is incredible. Music is kick ass and Keith Moon is simply amazing. We are standing on the side of the hall, next to an exit door and the guy next to me offers me something. Not really paying attention to him or what ever he’s partaking of as the music has my full attention, so I shout “No…Thanks” and go back to watching the show. They do “Pinball Wizard” and then they get going on the song you hear on CSI Miami…”We won’t get fooled again”. The lights are shooting over the crowd…Lasers I think…and someone sticks something suddenly into my back real hard and shouts in my ear to come with him. Seems like something out of a film, but this feels an awful lot like a gun in my ribs, so I move forward and the girl asks me where I’m going. This person asks me if she belongs to me, I say yes and someone appears out of nowhere to escort her out too. They must have been all over the place, the fuzz. We walk like Siamese twins out through the exit door into the lobby with this thing in my ribs and the girl starts to ask questions….loudly. I’ve got my hand in my pocket by then, this creep is on my left and my hand is in my right pocket. I grab the dime piece I just happened to have brought with me in my fingers, work the hand out and with the thumb, flick it off into the crowd and onto the floor. Gone. Now we get brought into a side room and it is full of cops busting people. Taking down names and information…filling out forms. Like some downtown police station in the movies. I have been into this building a number of times since this happened, and can still see it all as clear as a bell. Good old times.
They shine a light into my eyes…smell my breath and search me and all my clothes. Nothing. Lucky me. Love those quick fingers of mine.
They start on the girl and this is when it really gets interesting. Not so bad the light in the eyes and the search of the handbag…but they take her off with some female cop and want to do a strip-search. Guess she has some better places to hide the stuff than I do, or something. I’m sitting there and in the next room, I can hear this female cop getting called every name I never wanted to learn and the screams get even louder. Something about panties. She gets so loud and fowl that the cop finally gets tired of the insults and since they haven’t find anything anyway, the girl and the female cop come back out, and the red-faced cop quietly asks me if I would please take my girl friend out of there. I’m game. One last very loud remark about the sexual orientation of the female cop that wanted to see inside her underwear and out we go. Sweating blood to say the least. We walk through the lobby, the concert is still blasting in the hall but it no longer seems of interest and as we walk towards the doors, I see the dime piece on the floor. Now it would be cool to lie and say I bent over, picked it up and we walked on out…but that isn’t what happened. We walked right on by. I really didn’t want anything to do with that little cube of tin foil, just then.


Wonder why.