I watched Fred rebuild a Black Shadow, a JAP single, and a Brough Superior SS 80, all while spewing vitriol about the cost of living in California, and never once glancing at a shop manual. Fred could ride too. He had a stout yellow 750 Commando, and could be seen tearing up the back roads, appearing like a mantid on a Schwinn, with his six-and-a-half-foot frame and beat-up pudding basin helm with leather chin straps, elbows and knees up.

Fred’s shop was exceedingly humble, and in truth little more than an old chicken coop, recognizable from the road by the reworked black-and-silver Norton fuel tank that served as his mail box. The shop had faded vintage sheet metal logos hanging from the walls, and 20-odd dormant rolling British classics in rows below old barnwood parts shelves. On these shelves lay Fred’s next project–a Manx Norton single, whose sundry parts I loved to fondle. It was a good place to hang if you loved the smell of burnt Castrol, the feel of long-stroke con rods, and the lilt of Cockney banter. For me, the place was an odd combination of church, museum, and local pub.
Fred had a mechanic called Dangerous Dave. When not elbow-deep in some leaky alloy engine case, Dave was usually astride his ‘53 Triumph, with his dog Sprocket seated in a greasy leathern tank bag. As Dave had little luck with the ladies, he showed a pronounced soft spot for the dog that never came close to flying out of that nasty tank bag, despite the violent back road cornering forces he withstood on his sturdy four-inch legs. Dave loved his machine too. It was wine red, had that unmistakably handsome early British Twin profile, and was by no means restored. It was quite similar to the bike Johnny rode in The Wild One, and Dave had the movie poster above his workbench to prove it. Dave and Fred loved to ride fast in close quarters, on tubed tires far too skinny and hard. Oft joined by a bloke on a Thruxton or a Gold Star, their breakneck jaunts became a regular event.
Things got really interesting when Longshanks decided to add the lure of a purse for the first one back to the shop after one of their forays. They would gather at his shop and throw $20 into a hat. That was your buy-in to race for the lot. They all rode rough classic Euro machines, covered with the patina of hard riding. Rubber was thin but good, cables were stout and compression satisfactory. An oil mist protected all from corrosion. Everything leaked, ever so slightly. None of the bikes had a disc brake, and trusting tires was a religion.
These alloy anachronisms were resplendent with a collection of the entomological offerings from San Jose to Arcata, stuck to round glass lamps whose bulbs burned brighter as throttles were blipped. Nobody’s gear was new. Boots were scarred, ripped and re-sewn. Leather pants were burned and faded by too much road rash and kneeling on greasy shop floors. Jackets were patched, had no armor, and the cracked black leather had a gray tinge where the dye was scuffed. Fred sold no riding apparel at all, like most shops on the narrow busy streets of London from whence he came. You rode in what you wore to work. Open-faced helms were the preferred kit, and the goggles were odysseys of leather and seamed glass.
The deal was to follow a back route along the countryside, past farm driveways, around rolling manure spreaders, to the coast. Fred was usually out front, but Dave was always close behind, with flying-eared Sprocket. At the coast, north to Sea View, ascending the ridge on narrow asphalt, along the road that twists and cavorts like a copulating snake past open range cows and their slippery pies. Then down the dark gulch to Cazadero, gravel dangerously lying at each driveway. These denizens of triplex chain, torn seats and peeling chrome would well up in the distance and the sound would build until it railed past the old post office, where you’d typically see a rusting pickup with a bean bag ashtray on the dash, piloted by an aging love child wrapped in a pachouli-oiled serape.
No quarter was given to traffic, for there was that pot awaiting the first back to Fred’s shop! These guys hung it all out as they navigated past centuries-old redwoods and rickety river-side shacks standing on thin, moss-covered posts. The mono track jostling continued on the thin roads that led back to Longshank’s monument to faded alloy and the Old World. I’ve seen him kick Dave in the side cover, neck and neck, trying to gain the upper hand to the pot, but on that day it was no use. Dave and Sprocket were resolute, seeing the road through a greenback-tinged vision of $200, plus or minus. At ride’s end, helmets were thrown into bushes by losers as old English oaths were mirthfully hurled to the victor. Then, paid-off, gin was poured neat, as ice was nowhere to be found. Toasts brilliant and character-impugning were offered. Then the group would ride to the local pub, there to remain until the darts no longer came close to the bulls eye. Then they rode home, these spent latter-day knights. Those were rowdy and sparkling days when we thought all tires were the same and that good brakes had double-leading shoes. Good memories all, but I’ll take the miracle of discs and sticky radial compounds, slick leak-free gearboxes and radar detectors, thank you, as I ride these same roads a score of years later, and counting.