Scooters, Bangers, and Youth

"Thirty miles an hour. That's the speed limit. Is there any reason you were doing nearly sixty?"

I'll bet you've heard something like that before today. Who hasn't? Well, I've heard it once or twice in my life, and it's cost me a pound or two. More recently, the cost was in dollars.

I started my driving career (if that's what you call it) with an Isetta bubble car at sixteen years of age, because at that age, you could drive a three-wheeler in the United Kingdom on a motorcycle licence. Three-wheelers were treated like motorcycles and sidecars, whereas you had to be seventeen to drive a four-wheeled car. I never got to drive it by myself, because you needed a qualified passenger until you passed your motorcycle test. I didn't take that until much later in life, but I enjoyed driving, as most young guys do.

I learned really early on that once you let in the clutch, you jam your right foot to the boards and hold on—the only way to drive surely. You wouldn't get away with that today, but it wasn't quite so well controlled back in the sixties. Of course I believed I was a natural, as just about every other young man does, but with the huge BMW engine, a single-pot 300cc (eighteen-inch) affair, I wasn't likely to get into too much trouble, was I?

Didn't I mention the BMW engine? The car even had a BMW badge on the front door, so that felt good. That was the only door on the car, by the way. The whole front was hinged, and the steering wheel came out with it when you opened it. Anyway, the 300cc limit was probably instrumental in the length of my lifespan so far. I don't remember the top speed, but I'll bet it was on the slow side of sixty miles per hour.

As I said, I didn't take my motorcycle test until many years later, but at seventeen years of age, I started driving lessons. My dad taught heaps of people to drive, and all of them passed the first time. (I wonder why he decided to send me to a driving school ...) I learned in a Vauxhall Viva, which was a small family sedan. The lessons went really well for me, and the day before my test I was on one of my lessons. I felt pretty cocky about it; after all, I was a natural, remember. I pulled away from a road junction and promptly stalled. The poor guy behind me was probably assuming I'd be okay and looking to get out behind me onto the busy road. Next thing, I had a rear end full of Jaguar. He was fine about it, and so was my instructor.

Next day I had a one-hour lesson before my test, and I felt good about it. We arrived at the test station, and my instructor told me I'd be fine and that the only thing I needed to do was slow down a little. Yeah, that'd be right.

I failed for going too slowly. Now to be fair, that was a reasonable assessment by the examiner. The explanation for the fail point is the examiner has to assess you in a given time slot and has to see enough of your driving to make an assessment. Furthermore, they're not dumb; they know you'll speed up as soon as you leave the test centre, so they need to know you can handle normal road speeds. I didn't see it that way at the time, and I had my excuses ready for the pub later that night. Sorry—the milk bar. You couldn't drink until you were eighteen in the United Kingdom!

I took my test again a month or so later, and this time it was a breeze. I'd done some practice and had an hour's lesson right before the retest with a very attractive lady who was savvy about what was really required on a test. She picked me up on a couple of things that the examiner actually favourably commented on later, and I breezed it this time. I don't recall your name, but if you were a dark-haired lady instructor at the Altway School of Motoring in the sixties, I remember you were lovely. You even let me drive back, and after the first corner, you said, "You've passed now. You can drive faster than that." I wonder: Was it your fault I hardly lifted off the accelerator for a few years after that?

At this time, I was an apprentice motor mechanic, so I'd enjoy more driving. I was still going to work on my Lambretta Li 150 scooter, but at work, I got to drive proper cars. I even got sent out on breakdowns in the oldest or cheapest car in the shop.

Life was okay, although there was a lesson for me here that I probably didn't learn too much from, apart from the fact that some of your friends can be very helpful when your back's to the wall. Just a little point of interest, but I was sixteen years old and doing okay at work because I loved working with cars. This was a very small Saab and Fiat agency, and I still love those little Fiats; I wish I could get my hands on one today.

One particular day, the workshop manager asked me to remove the crankshaft on a little Fiat 500. (I now know it was actually an Autobianchi Giardiniera, based on a Fiat 500. In those days, I knew one as a panel van and the other as a station wagon, and I'm not sure if that was right, but it's not important at the moment.) There was one of each parked next to each other. I do remember that part. I was delighted because it was the first time they'd asked me to do something like that by myself. I was out to impress. Out came the jack and the stands, and off I went, methodically and with total concentration.

The engine came out beautifully, and it was on the bench with the ancillaries stripped off when the manager came out and asked me in a not-very-pleasant manner when I might actually begin the job. I started to tell him where I was up to when he suddenly gave me a "what have you done?" look. I knew something was wrong.

In case you haven't guessed, I'd taken the engine out of the wrong car. That car was in for a service, and the engine was half-stripped on the bench now. The owner would be back after lunch, and it was now approaching morning break. I went cold, but the foreman grabbed another guy, who started to reassemble my morning's work while I completed the remainder of the service it was actually there for. I don't think they actually allowed me to strip the crank in the end, but everything worked out perfectly and nobody got fired. Not even me. Good guys believe me.

I should mention that I love sports motorcycles but should probably not be allowed on two wheels for my own safety. I had quite a few wrecked bikes in the backyard at home, and I fondly remember trying desperately to bump-start them in the street. When I think back, all of them needed a coil and could have shared the same one since they were all Villiers motors; a little fresh fuel would also have helped.

At sixteen and...