It seems it has become customary for the venerable and respected elder statesman of our club to indulge in a nostalgic look at the history and heritage of times long gone, and our worthy editor has suggested that I might like to add a comment or three.
However, given the constraints and limitations imposed by senile decay and riotous living, my first reaction was that such an assignment would be completely nullified by a total lack of journalistic talent. And besides, too much water had passed under the bridge anyway.
Looking back through the dimly lit Tunnel of Time that has made up my 85-odd years, I realise that just over 70 of those years have been spent in pursuit of motorcycling lunacy of various kinds. So many people, so many bikes, so many changes! To give you even a brief outline of all those years would make rather a bulky newlstter. So instead of boring you to tears with the big picture, I’ll instead bore you with the little picture. I’ll tell you how it all began…..
As long as I can remember I’ve had a passion for mechanical things, particularly mechanical things with two wheels. Back in 1927, during my last year at Aldgate primary school (14 was the usual school-leaving age in those days) a classmate of mine had an uncle who lived at Blackwood. This uncle had a son about our age, and my mate and I would sometimes catch a train to Blackwood and visit, getting up to the usual misdemeanors perpetrated by schoolboys at that time.
But what interested me most at that time was that in the corner of his garage stood the skeletal remains of what was once a 350cc oil-cooled Bradshaw motorcycle. Sure it had no engine. But that didn’t bother me. It had two wheels!!!
After a considerable amount of pestering, the old boy said that if I “took up” the big ends on his old Overland car, I could have the derelict in the corner. I hesitated not a second, and eagerly leapt at the offer, despite the fact that I didn’ t quite know what the big ends were, or where they were, or how to “take them up” if I could locate them.
Nothing daunted, some discreet enquiries among my more knowledgeable aquaintences gave a bit of an inkling, so armed with some borrowed tools and a feeling that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, I spent a whole weekend lying on my back in the dirt of his garage floor in complete and utter bewilderment.
No point going into details — let’s just draw a curtain over this particular episode in my life. The main thing was — I had aquired my first motorcycle!
Pushing it from Blackwood to Aldgate made climbing Mt. Everest seem like a Sunday morning jaunt. The next month or so was spent just looking at it, and vainly trying to find an engine that would somehow fit between the road and the lower tank rail. Finall y, in despair, I asked about the original engine, and was told that a monumental blow-up had destroyed most of the internals. The lot had been junked in one of the local dumps.
I shudder to think of the tons of foul smelling rubbish that was raked over during the next few weekends, but perserverance brings it’s own reward. The remains of the engine were indeed a sad site, with ample evidence that destructive forces had been at w ork. Much time was spent scrounging bits and pieces that looked even remotely like they could be made to do, and a good deal of blacksmithing was required to knock things into shape. Finally, towards the end of 1928, came the moment of truth.
O Hallowed Day!
Mind you, the thing was fairly basic. Frame, engine, gearbox, petrol tank, somewhere to put your bum, feet and hands, and — two wheels! At this stage there wasn’t even a hint of an exhaust pipe. But, it was ready to roll!
After much pushing up and down the road to accompanying phuts, splutters, pops and bangs, it was finally proceeding under its’ own power. Perhaps “power” isn’t quite the right word here.
Maximum speed seemed to be about 131/2 miles per hour, give or take a few. The exhaust note emanating from the hole in the cylinder head wasn’t quite up to my expectations of what a well-tuned engine should sound like. “The t imeing seems late” said my know-all neighbour. Asked me how I’d timed it. So I told him. Wait until the piston has started to move down a tad. Then light the match. Wrong, he said. The spark should occur before the piston reaches the top.
I wouldn’t have a bar of it. The man’s crazy. Anyone knows that if the spark occurs before the piston reaches the top it will only push it back again. Maybe I should have apologised to him later on, but I didn’t.
Over the next fwe months the old Bradshaw was to undergo an almost incredible metamorphosis. This was entirely due to the fact that at about this time I got to know a chap who had a most profound influence on my whole attitude to motorcycling. His name wa s Steve Hocking. His expect knowledge and practical assistance resulted in wringing the sort of performance from the old Bradshaw that the designer, I’m sure, never intended.
Around this time Steve formed the first motorcycle club in the hills, the Mt. Lofty Motor Cycle Club, and I joined at the inaugural meeting. In March 1929 the club held its first competition – a closed hill climb, and I somehow managed to win the 350 clas s. Later that year I turned 16 years of age, and got a competition licence. I rode in my first open competition in November that year (1929) in a scramble organised by the Harley Club, run on a circuit at Marino Rocks. Another young chap having his first ride at that meeting on a 23/3 hp New Hudson was later to become a well known Atujara member — the late and great Laurie Boulter.
Over the next few years I rode the wheels off the faithful old Bradshaw, both as an everyday road bike and as an entrant in most of the competitive events around at the time.
A vivid recollection of those years is the difficulty I experienced tempering my youthful exuberance, resulting in numerous unscheduled excursions into the roadside shrubbery.
As the mid-thirties approached I had outgrown the old Bradshaw, and bought a secondhand Mark 1 KTT Velocette, a make I had long admired. The idea was to ride in the Centennial T.T. due to be held at the end of December 1936, but a fractured scaphoid susta ined in a scramble spill a few weeksprior meant that the role of spectator was the next best thing. I had to wait until the Australian T.T. at Lobethal in 1937 before I had my first taste of what motorcycle sport is all about — road racing. It was the start of a lifelong passion.
I competed at Lobethal in ’37, ’38 and ’39 with the only result worth mentioning was a 4th place behind Doug Booth (W.A.), Frank Pratt (Vic.) and Harry Hinton (N.S.W.).
The end of the 1930′s saw two significant milestones for me. Firstly, I sold my Mark 1 KTT, and bought another Velocette, a KTT Mark IV. This machine was one of a small number of secondhand racing bikes imported by Paddy Read of Universal Motors, and the KTT had won the prestigious Hutchinson 100 race at Brooklands (England) a few year previously, ridden by the late Noel Pope.
Secondly, about this time I joined the Atujara Motor Cycle Club. The future was looking pretty bright. But the good times were not to be. By then the second World War was getting under way, and that stuffed up a lot of things. The Army commandeered many o f our bikes for military use, petrol was strictly rationed, and motor sport was banned for the duration. What I didn’t know was at the time, however, was that I still had nearly 60 years of active competition riding ahead of me.
Maybe one day I might tell you something about some of those years…..
Bill Pfeiffer