Sometime around the mid-’80s I had an epiphany, I was going to earn my living doing something I loved. This would involve some form of two wheeled motorised transport, vast amounts of cash and, as I thought, sunny days running around the great city of London .
Well, as they say, two out of three ain’t bad and occasionally it was only one! Spending 12 hours a day in the saddle delivering parcels and letters in one of the most congested cities on the planet isn’t the easiest job by any stretch. But it did have the benefit of some weird and wonderful experiences.
Let me set the scene, I was in my mid-20s and my steed of choice was a 1982 Yamaha RD350, however this wasn’t my first foray into the world of motorcycle parcel delivery. So really I should have known better I guess!
First off the bike in question isn’t a very good courier hack, its fuel consumption is horrendous in short spurts, and it doesn’t like being overloaded with crap. On the other hand it is extremely good at scything through the west end traffic and it was great at the traffic light grand prix.
One typically wet and miserable Autumn day I lined up next to a early ’80s bargain basement Porsche. The guy driving it was a knob, we went for it and I beat him to the next set of lights – a normal Monday morning’s shenanigans.
Anyway the Yam lasted about three months before it started sounding like the 1812 overture was being played in its bowels. Constant stop start riding and an average of 1000 miles a week wasn’t what the Yamaha design department had in mind and thus Elsie was put into retirement.
During my tenure I was introduced to a wide variety of colourful characters, one such gentleman going by the name of Splat, who became a regular drinking buddy and a source of much entertainment. He had a penchant for destroying hire bikes, his standing record being four in the same day and by this time we were sharing digs above a pub in South East London with two other riders.
Splat started the day writing off a perfectly good Kawasaki GT550, which to be fair was not entirely his fault, by running into an unlit skip early one winters morning. By 11 o’clock he’s piloting a slightly ratty looking CX500 and heading up the Clerkenwell road only to hit a pothole, puncture the Honda’s front tyre and dent its rim. I have to point out the most amazing part of all this is his ability to remain unscathed, he bounced well that young man !
Next up another equally ratty CX was acquired, and this time he lasted all the way to north London before it seized its diff and stranded him in Wembley. By this time most of us would’ve given up the ghost and got a train home but nope, Splat gets the CX swapped for a Revere and carried on through the rest of the afternoon. The rest of us buggered off, as it was getting dark around 3pm, and left him to it.
So we’re just starting to sup beers in our front room above the pub when we hear a smash and tinkle of glass outside, and looking out to see what the commotion was about, we see our fourth musketeer laying on the pavement.
He spots us and gives us the thumbs up so we get a brew out of the fridge for him and await the tale of woe. Apparently he’d given the Honda V twin a “a bit too much welly ” coming over the hump backed bridge in the high street and got air. As Hondas don’t make very good aircraft, it didn’t land well, bounced and took out a bus shelter. And as usual he walked away from it pretty much in one piece, maybe it’s a super power he has or something…
I haven’t seen the dude in years but I’m pretty sure wherever he is he’ll be wrecking stuff and getting away with it, let’s hope he’s not a commercial pilot eh? Till next time keep it upright! Jimmy Walker
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