Motorcycle dealers always seemed to be in premises with cellars packed full, and bare wooden floors which were preserved by the inevitable oil drips.. The aroma of old oil, petrol and tyre rubber was almost a trade mark, together with the inevitable ciggy smoke.
Full time employment and the necessity to keep it running meant busiest time was Saturday morning, where the inevitable queue of youthful customers whose retail therapy was restricted by work commitments crept forward at a snail's pace to the counter.
The partsman would go down into Aladdin's Cave, sometimes emerging triumphant with something that drew gasps of envy from onlookers. More often the glum face said it all. Then it was your turn, and the interrogation began, the dog eared parts book was opened, the offending part indicated. If the part was in stock, there was always the thought that you had not come with enough cash, and a return the following week was on the cards to repeat the same. Parts always cost more than you could value them in your own mind. Cheques were considered dodgy, Credit Cards lay in the future. The more usual and expected "Haven't got that"....and you returned to the outside world, crestfallen, to trawl the few dealerships in ever increasing circles. Ebay? You don't know how lucky you are these days.
First field bike was a Phillips Panda, a single speed two stroke, which went like stink with a bit filed of the cylinder head face and increasing amounts removed from the piston skirt, thanks to "Tuning for Speed" loaned from the local Library. Hard to believe now that people pay good money for what were considered rubbish even when new.
Great story there from Topdad, what a tale.
