Triumph. The Unforgettable Heritage.
Matlock, May 2006.
The suns out, I'm nicely cooled down now after my little sojourn to Maurizio's in Matlock Bath. Bottle of Dr. Pepper clamped under left arm, fly encrusted lid clutched precariously in my other hand and stuffed full of bacon buttie.
Crowds of demented magpies and ghoulish power rangers abound, bent double grunting and goggling each other's equipment like hungry cannibals. Head down, I focus on slurping my chocolate and coffee whippee before it can melt into the torn skin around my cuticles, totally impervious to the row after row of R1's, GSXR's and Kwakas. All the same, tired, boring shit. Liveried in the same tired boring colours. Surrounded by the same tired, sweating middle aged investment bankers and I.T. Geeks and their mail-order Geekette's.
I parked the Triumph up the top car park, outside the museum. That's where all the 'proper' bikes are stowed. Together with their unnatural lustrously thick heads of jet black hair, grizzled sun-baked leather and tour t-shirt clad owners perched on the fish pond wall quaffing lager and barking petcocks and kick starts. I keep my head down and form the lid and my rapidly dissolving ice cream into a vicious flying wedge. A few grunts and grovelling apologies later and I erupt from the back of their musty war band on toward the shaded end of the concrete basin.
It's only when I skirt the ATM machine gaggle that I notice this large guy is still staring at the Thruxton. Not a likely bike thief I figure, he's dressed like a farmer in a massive sweaty shirt and elasticised bracers - the likes of which haven't been seen around here since England won the World Cup. This in no way detracts from the fact that he is fucking massive. As I draw closer, I bisect the Chinese tourists which have just exploded from the museum entrance and for a moment his attention shifts furtively to them. After a few tense seconds, finally satisfied they aren't going to try and eat him or his ludicrously small dog, the great head turns back to the bike perched on its side stand gleaming hypnotically in a halo of unseasonable May sunshine.
If I didn't know better this dude was on a real nostalgia trip..
As I deposit my lid on the solo saddle and start to fish out the rapidly cooling bacon sarnie he tries and fails to contain himself. Suddenly at my shoulder with a massive enamelled grin and a faint odour of something unpleasant.
"My God! Its a Triumph!" he booms, affectionally grabbing my collar bone in a vice like grip of euphoria, scattering bread crumbs all over the place.
"Ohm .. " but he doesn't hear me. He's already worked himself up into a frenzy during the ten minutes or so since I went off in search of a beverage so I compliantly let the big guy have his sweaty way with me.
"It really is a beauty isn't it ..! I had a Bonneville of course, one of the originals. Christ! This is the spitting image.. "
"It is indeed, only this is a new engine, they have refined her. They're termed: 'Modern Classics". You like it then?"
"Its bloody wonderful ... My father would love to see this. He's getting on a bit, you know, entered the paranoid stage of dotage. He's in the museum now, I'm "guarding" the car..."He's still grinning, but the clamp of my shoulder has eased enough for me to polish off the ice cream and reach speculatively for the buttie. I begin to panic. It appears to have blown apart with all the vitriol of a fragmentation grenade inside my lid. Christ! Ok, admiration is one thing but this guy is seriously invading my personal space!
Then it occurs to me, there's something in his voice, an accent? American? No, he's Canadian. He tells me in between pulls on his massive cigar that he's from British Columbia, near the border. Apparently he lives in a desert, and likes to ride the salt flats on his Tiger.
I have no idea where that is, but I assure him I'd go there tomorrow if I could. This placates him enough for me to take a step back and fumble with the seal on the Dr. Pepper, suddenly feeling very grateful for the shade this Man Mountain is throwing over me and the loan bike.
He doesn't hear anything I say for the next 5 minutes; instead he's starting to tell me about his father, the war, Tritons and Nortons and all manner of arcane exotica. Mostly though, he talks about his dad. He's 80-odd and had one of the first Bonnies ever made. Before I can get a word in he's off at a rate of fire only one of those rice burners could hope to match, telling me about the time his Old Man was riding down Darley Dale, he's from Derby originally he says, emigrated during the 60's when it was made easy to do so by the Commonwealth nations. There's a hill, a bit of a big bastard this hill. Apparently the front brakes weren't all that great on the original Bonnie and the front mudguard was made of solid steel. Somehow, he tells me it had rusted up. Anyway, for whatever reason it fell into the strut between the forks and pitched him 50 yards along the road. He nearly got run over by the bike as it flew past him on its way into a brick wall. Lost three fingers he says.
I'm enjoying the tale, its sunny, I'm on someone else's gleaming motorcycle and the least significant or interesting person I know, me, has more than made Goliath's afternoon. So I relax a bit, find a spot of wall and guzzle my beverage trying not to burp too loudly.
Anyway, his "Dad" went over to Hinckley to protest the design and ended up redesigning it and several other bits of Triumphs for 20 years.
Now they both live in a desert in Canada.
Eventually Mr. Big Snr emerges from the museum.. Inevitably he's five foot five at most and thin as a whippet. Bristles tipped with white and a snowy crop of wispy hair covering his liver spotted scalp. Almost spontaneously, he wets himself in unison with "Jnr" at the sight of the new Triumph Thruxton 900. Together they talk tall stories and merry adventures for well over 40 mins before I can persuade them to let me go ..
As I'm shaking the guys hand I can't resist and look down to see if the tall story has any truth to it. What'ya know ..
I got the bike back to the dealer in Chesterfield almost three full hours after setting out; the sun has disappeared behind filthy looking rain clouds. They had already called the police, perhaps for my benefit and were waiting out front of the show room. I have never seen grown men look so relieved. When I sheepishly explained about the Canadians they looked at each other for about a full thirty seconds, then much to my relief, burst into spontaneous booming laughter..
"Happens all the time .. "
Bet it does.
© Christopher Gavin 2005- 2006.
