Asked about his New Year resolutions, Steven Myatt said, ‘Change my name to Jerry Lee Myatt, spill less of my beer and stop kicking the cat’. Then he got more sensible …

 

How are you with New Year’s resolutions? By the following December are you still drinking no more than one pint of Old Armpits Best Bitter a day, taking a long walk every morning and not throwing the radio out of the bedroom window when ‘Thought For The Day’ comes on? Or does your resolve break down by January 3rd, with the result that you put on two stone between then and your birthday rather than losing that much, and yet again you fail to remember either your wedding anniversary or your mother-in-law’s birthday?

 

I haven’t got a very good record, I’m afraid. When I was young I used to conscientiously write my resolutions in the front of the Letts’ Girl Guide diary I’d been given for Christmas (it’s a long story; best not to explain) in my very best handwriting. That was a pretty good tactic, because within forty-eight hours I’d have lost the damn thing – so the resolutions were gone for ever. If you’re ever doing restoration work at 177 Grove Lane, Hale, Altrincham, Cheshire and find a pile of old GG diaries behind the wainscoting, feel free to read them but please don’t let me know what those good intentions were.

 

Maybe now, in the spring-time of my dotage, it would be a good time to re-consider the notion of New Year’s Resolutions, and indeed actually make a few. So, here goes.

 

One: Give BSA another go. Apart from two standard-issue A10s which were never really mine, I’ve only ever had one BSA. It was great fun; a really smart Road Rocket in full café racer trim. It had a beautiful polished alloy racing tank with cutaway knee sections and a huge Monza cap, swept-back pipes and Goldies, TLS front brake, and quite a lot of chrome – but not too much.

 

Somehow though it doesn’t rate in my mental list of great bikes of all time. And I really can’t say why. It did the job it was designed to do, it had real soul, and had the good grace not to scare me rigid at any point. It was a dream to work on and it sounded glorious. So what was wrong? Well, nothing, to be honest. I suspect that I’ve always considered Beezas to be not quite Triumph, and that’s just plain prejudice.

 

So what should I go looking for? A Rocket 3 isn’t impossible, nor is a big single like a Victor – though the latter does look too much like an over-sized C15. There’s still a lot to be said for the A10 motor, but perhaps I ought to head for an A65. A 650 BSA twin isn’t as pretty as the equivalent Triumph engines … oh look, there I go again! It’s every bit as pretty as a Triumph motor (hmmmmm …), and if they’re set up correctly they’ll last for years. The Thunderbolts always seem a bit staid, but I love the racier-looking tank and seat on the early Spitfire and the Lightning. I’ve never liked the peanut tank on the mid-Sixties street scrambler (honestly not as good looking as Norton’s), and the 1970 Firebird Scrambler rather falls between two stools. So, I think it would be the ’66 twin-carburettor Spitfire, but I’d want a twin leading show on the front and, of course, swept-back pipes. Oh yes, and a chrome peak on the headlight. Now, don’t ask me how much I’m expecting to pay.

 

Two: Go to a classic sprint. I told everyone that I was going to do that this year, but – but, you know how it is. I’m awed by sprinting folk. I’m not one for mothballing and museumising bikes, and I’m not a stickler for authenticity, but my days of taking hacksaws to classic bikes is over. Once upon a time, yes, I must admit, I have committed acts of barbarism on British bikes. My excuse was customising, and frames were cut and rakes or extended, girder forks were coaxed into doubling their length, mudguards were cut down, perfectly good seats, tanks, lights and innumerable brackets were thrown away to be replaced by oddities sourced from who-knows-where.

 

The sprinters do all this, and their motivation is simply persuading a bike of whatever vintage (and size) to roar down an eighth or quarter mile as damn fast as possible. It’s like forcing your granny to run a marathon - artificial hip, hearing aid, dentures and all.

 

It’s one thing boring the motor and swapping the carbs, you put all that back if need be, but sawing up an original Vincent frame because you can lose a couple of pounds by chopping that bit of there or replacing this bit here is wonderful madness. You know that telling them to leave the classic alone and go and buy a GSX-R would be a complete waste of time; they’d look at you as if you were mad, not they. Quite right too. It’s brilliant madness and must be supported and encouraged.

 

Three: Get out more. No, get even more and learn even more. I actually love researching makes of bikes I know little or nothing about, and this year I’ve encountered several I knew incredibly little about before I stumbled across them. If you’ve been paying attention to my ramblings this year you’ll have heard me enthusing about CZ, FB Mondial and any number of other non-native marques. Mustn’t think of them as oddities either.

 

You come to realise what a great big world the classic bike scene encompasses, and it isn’t all Triumph, BSA and Norton. Just because I’ve never owned an Italian bike it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t in the future, and certainly doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t be a jolly big blip in the middle of my radar screen.

 

Four: I resolve to explore Ireland by bike. The south of Ireland is my second home (in that – no, don’t throw copies of the Socialist Worker at me – I own a rather sweet house there) and so I’m there a lot. And every single time I resolve to either go over by bike or trailer a bike there, and then spend absolutely as much time as possible meandering round the country.

 

The appeal is simple: Despite having become vastly wealthier over the past decade and a half, and new bungalows and Audis sprouting everywhere, it still feels very much like the England of my childhood and adolescence. And the landscape is as varied and fascinating as over here. So what better way to explore than on a late Fifties or early Sixties bike?

Where to explore wouldn’t be a problem; there’s virtually nowhere I wouldn’t want to go (except The Lower Falls and the Garvachy Road – been there, thank you), but what, ideally, would I go on?

 

The annual figure for road deaths per capita in Ireland is very high; far higher than over here, and one of the highest in western Europe. The government is constantly targeting road-users in an attempt to lower that total, but the problem isn’t drivers and riders. The biggest single cause of accidents is the roads themselves. I would need 3,000 words to fully explain that, but the fact dictates two criteria; you wouldn’t want to ride round the country on a bike with primitive suspension, and if you tried it on anything too fast you’d probably end up dying in a bog.

 

So, we need something comfortable, civilised, and – very preferable – with full weather protection. You’d also want as upright a riding position as possible, to watch the scenery go by. How about a Sunbeam S8 with full touring gear? Perfect! Or even an Ariel Leader – just to make people sop and stare, coz they won’t have seen one of those that often. I could write a new travel book (especially given the very sad and untimely death of Pete McCarthy); ‘Round Ireland By Sunbeam’.

Motorcycles are relative rarities on Irish roads; the very high rates of insurance and VAT at 22.5% doesn’t help. But … I tell you what; a new resolution (we’ll call it 4b) – I’ll bring you a classic bike feature from Ireland during 2005. Honest.

 

Five: I’m going to clear the garage out, honest. This time last year I was asking Father Christmas for a large new garage to go on the big piece of concrete in the garden here. Well, I got that – thanks to a Santa-wards bribe of several thousand pounds, but you know, it looks as if I’ve been using since the late Eighteenth century. My wife points out on a frequent basis, and I have to admit that there’s just a hint of truth in this, that it’s a mess in there.

 

I bought some cheap kitchen work surface and made a broad, fitted bench which stretches the full width of the garage. It’s jolly useful, or at least it was jolly useful for a few weeks. Then it started getting covered in stuff. Now I need another because there’s absolutely no space on that one. No space under it either. Even manoeuvres as simple as getting in and out of the garage are tricky because there’s so much stuff in there. And every last object is invaluable, of course.

I’d put some of it into the shed, but that’s been packed solid for years.

Six: I think I ought to master the art of riding a bike with a hand gear change. Why? Because I can’t. I’ve tried it twice and both times I came to grief.

The first was a custom trike, and a missed a shift going into a corner, got into a hopeless mess, and glided gently into a hedge. That wasn’t too bad because no-one saw me.
The second time was rather worse. I was at an Indian Owners’ Club rally in glorious countryside in the Lowlands of Scotland, and a friend offered me a ride on his Scout. Terrific! I was in there like a ferret up a drain, as my mum would say.

I was doomed to failure for two reasons. Firstly I was on a wet, sloping field. Have you ever tried riding on wet grass? Then I bet you wish you hadn’t. Let alone on a gradient. Secondly, there was nothing else going on so the entire membership of the club decided to stop what they were doing and watch me. No matter how good you are doing something – whether it’s playing the piano or shelling peas – it’s ten times harder to do if you’ve got an audience. Heaven only knows how the Queen gets through life.

I didn’t actually fall off. I slithered and slipped, and it would have been okay but for damn hand-shift. I couldn’t find it without looking for it, and I couldn’t change gear without such a major change of mental focus that I had to take my mind off everything else. Then there was the question of whether I wanted the lever to go up or down – or maybe even sideways.
I went round that field like a kangaroo on ice skates, to a backing track of sniggers and giggles. I was so disorientated and red-faced that as soon as I handed the bike back I had to go to the pub.

Seven: I’ve resolved not to drink any more. I can’t promise I’m going to drink any less, but I’ll try not to drink and more.

 

That’s more than enough resolutions for one year – and can I ask you to make just one New Year’s resolution? Namely, not to ask me at any point over the next twelve months how I’m getting on with them all.