Tall Tales...what ever made me buy a norton?

Status
Not open for further replies.
As I have done my best to not name anyone involved in all this bologna I have been writing about, I will not be able to honestly answer this....any one who was involved in my perhaps dumb deeds of the past and/or present, would certainly know who I am refering to, but I really don't wish to have that one in ten million chance of one of them viewing these stories and getting enough ammo to use in sueing me. As you have perhaps read, I wasn't the only one to do stupid stuff and some of them might be a bit annoyed to have it in print. I run enough of a risk by mentioning the localle and time when all this happened...with a hope for your understanding......lets just leave it that way.

As to the name for your club to be......not a bad choice, half of the people who saw it, proably wouldn't know who Rasputin was.......but it has a nice ring to it. If you ever get the club started though......just make sure the intitiation isn't too nasty...that old dead rat stuff will just get the SPCA after you and I guarentee your wife won't be too kissy- face either!
 
Jason
As benevolent Dictator of the South Florida Chapter of the Slimey Crud MC Gang I can formally offer you membership www.slimeycrud.org
Since I know you Texas boys have big appetites we'll let you eat the hind leg off a coyote, if you bring the coyote (coyote can be dead or alive, your choice).

Scooter
 
Wow,

That's an incredible 48-cyclinder motorcycle pictured on the Slimey Crud website!

Thanks for membership offer Scooter. Are you sure that this is the “genuine” Slimey Crud Club of Wisconsin? That license plate looks fishy to me. However, if it is the real deal, perhaps the initiation could be modified to eating a fried chicken wing? A coyote leg is pretty darn tough!

Regards,

Jason
 
Jason

Fried chicken wing? well maybe if you bring enough for everyone (that would be 7 of us including you). Hey bring some beer too. I was kind of looking forward to watching someone eat a hind leg off a coyote, especially if it was alive.

No this gang has no affiliation to the Wisconsin Club, they actually spelled slimey correctly! but I figured motorcycle gangs aren't noted for their grammar (like who ever pointed out to the Hells Angels they left out an apostrophe in hell's).

Scooter
 
Why I chose a Commando

~ Nostalgia
~ Image
~ Investment potential (?) yeah ~ Sure cost me an arm and a leg to rebuild ! :lol:
 
Stuart SS said:
~ Investment potential (?) yeah ~ Sure cost me an arm and a leg to rebuild ! :lol:

Good investment, you betcha. That's what I told myself (over and over until I started to believe it) when I decided I wanted to buy another one :lol:

Debby
 
Straight from the beginings

....of buying my first Norton.
Why? Can't explain it, but I'll try.
The first time I walked into the old bike shop it caught my eye. A mint 1972 Norton John Player Special with 7,000 original miles. I have gone back to the store for the last 3 months just to dream. Moneys a little tight right now but I know I will buy the bike soon.

I was going to buy a 2005 Triumph Thruxton until I saw the Norton. I had to ask myself one question. Do you want to by a "modern day" classic or would you like to buy the "real deal"? I like the Triumph, but I have a lot of pride in the journey and the pain it takes to own something with some soul. When I sit on the bike and see all of the forged metal and workmanship it digs deep in my soul of a simpler time when it wasn't just about cheaper labor and plastic, but about design and workmanship.
 
Why or how I came to buy a Norton

In the late sixties, I was at university in UK and lived in London. The local bike shop always had a couple of new Nortons out front and I was mesmerised by the thought of what I imagined to be a sort of 'super-Triumph', the 750 Commando. Two years later, I was living in the SF bay area and working for a bank on Montgomery st. The Norton was gaining credibility here as the fastest non two-stroke around, and I found a slightly used 'S' type. It completely captured my imagination. I was so impressed that I could hardly drive it home, I was so nervous. Now, 34 years later, I still have it, but it hasn't been started for the last 30 years at least. In the meantime, it emigrated to Scandinavia with me and, as the local laws wouldn't allow me to register it for the road in light of all the somewhat significant modifications I had made to it, it resided in my various shops and warehouses until I returned to the US a bit over a year ago. Now it rests in my garage and awaits the second coming or a disassembly and clean-up rebuild; whichever comes first. It no longer looks like an 'S' type, but a no-holds-barred café racer. I wonder about those dykes type pistons from Dunstall. Did someone say rings might be difficult to locate? I'll hope I don't need to replace them anytime soon. The head was flowed by a certain Al Gunther in LA and larger valves fitted before I left for the continent. A Norris cam was installed as well as the Dykes pistons. An experimental Kosman/ Ceriani front end looks suspiciously dated today; did I really think that would work I wonder. It was hot in the days before the 900 Kawasaki and before many of you were born, of course. Since the make-over in 1972, I've ridden it somewhere around 200 km.
 
1976

The Summer of 1976, Roy would ride his bicycle (Dawes Chevron - 10 sp.) to school (Burnley Grammar - Lancs. UK) and would stop and admire (drool over) a white roadster parked on the roadside. I would pass by the Girls sixth form college in a daze, ignoring all and arrive late resulting in detention. Now the 14 year old's dream has been accomplished - but what ever happened to those sixth former's, I bet they don't still look as good as my Norton.
Roy
 
It's 2 Am here, and one of those nights when you can't sleep.....

That was a hot summer, as I said. I had now a bus licence and the first sergeant used to detail me to drive once in awhile. Friday afternoons used to be reserved for some kind of sport activities, called PT in the military and I had been used to just taking off on the cycle and doing my PT on some mountain road north of the city...PT was unsupervised time off in essence. I was a bit annoyed when one Friday I got detailed to drive the bus for a group of people in the unit so they could go somewhere and swim for PT. I'm not much for swimming..but I had to do it anyway. We all piled into the "Bozo" bus, which was what the bus was called. Named after a comedy LP from a couple of years earlier, "we're all just Bozos on this bus", it even had Bozo on the sign above the windshield. I didn't know where we were going so someone had to direct me...some place south of the city called strangely, the "sandpits". I wasn't in the "in crowd" in the unit, so I had never been there. Down a road through the woods, and into a large clearing and we parked with all the other hundreds of vehicles and got out. I really hadn't known what PT could be like. Wonderful. The sandpits were the local skinny dipping place for the city. As far as you could see, not a bathing suit in sight. It was sort of the "when in Rome" situation, so everyone left their clothes in the bozo bus and went into the water. All except for one of the fellows I knew from down the hall in the barracks. He refused to take his clothes off. This didn't please the girls from the unit, and they started to complain. "Fair is fair" and such. I could see their point, but I didn't say anything, it was their fight. They solved it in a good old American way. They tackled him, stripped him and carried him to the water, and threw him in. Democracy at it's best.

It was an interesting PT session, to say the least. One thing I will never forget, is standing in a line of teen age girls waiting to buy an ice-cream from one of the vendors that turned up, and having the ones behind think it was funny to push the line suddenly forward. The girls in front and in back of me thought it was cute to bump into me. I didn't complain, because they all giggled so nice.

We had to move the unit that summer, downtown into the middle of the city. It was sad to leave the old compound. The place we had to move to is today a university I hear, but back then, it was a large area in the middle of the city that the military had, and we had to move right into the middle of it. That spoiled a lot of the character of the unit. No more wild parties, topless sun bathing in back of the girls barracks or the famous orgies the girls used to throw, that I never got invited to. That "MASH" atmosphere was going to have to be tamed down.

One of the casualties of the move was that the unit no longer would have it's own mess hall. The mess hall had had it's own truck and driver and that would be gone. The driver stayed, but the truck was recalled. Poor fellow was heart broken. His "Baby Doll" with the zebra stripped seats, 8 ball shifter knob, dice hanging from the mirror, and even chromed exhaust and wheels was put into a motor pool in the city and they just left it by the fence. He had spent so much of his pay getting things done to this truck, that it was no where near regulation anymore...beautiful pin stripping...done in olive drab colour, and the name "Baby Doll" in flowing script on the side of the hood. He used to drive in a red baseball cap with his name on it. After they took the truck away, I got detailed by the first sergeant to drive him down to the motor pool at least once a week to let him stand on the fence and talk to the truck...it was sad to see this poor "okie" cry. I could see where he was coming from.

We also got a new commander with the move to the city. He had evidently been given the job to get the unit straight, and he was a butt hole about it. He also didn't like motorcycles and made no bones about it.

I had been extra good one day and as it was a Friday, so the boss had given me the rest of the day off. Now, no red-blooded male stays around, in the city on a hot Friday afternoon, so I was gone, fast. Although I had a room in the barracks down the road, I still lived outside the city and no one at the barracks knew where I lived. I didn't hang around the barracks anyway. The fellows in the room where I was supposed to live had made it very clear they didn't want me there, one of them had stuck a knife in my face and told me something like "whitey, go away", or something to that tune. I had gotten the message. I think it was something about me and a pretty young lady of their skin tone that I had found nice to be with the month before. Three of them had cornered me in the latrine and asked me if I was doing the "wild thing" her or not. I didn't know quite how to answer this, so I just said something about "if I said yes, you wouldn't believe me and if I said no, you wouldn't believe me either". This was evidently straining their ability to comprehend what I meant, and while they were thinking about it, I ducked under the knives and walked out. All this didn't make it attractive to stay in the barracks. Anyway.......the weekend was long, and I was gone. Sunday came and I spent it with a girl on the Rhein River, watching the boats and such. Nice day. Monday morning I got to work and something was wrong. I got asked where I was on Sunday. No one seemed pleased to hear I had spent a nice day at the river. Didn't take long to find out why. The duty roster for the week had been put up on the wall a few minutes after I left work early on Friday...and guess who had weekend duty watching the phone and such. The commander loved it...he sat there and told me about how he hated motorcycles and how he was going to see me pay for missing my duty and on and on until he had me feeling really pissed. I hadn't even known I had the duty, and the roster was put up after I was given the afternoon off, but none of that mattered, he was going to make me pay.

He gave me an "Article 15" which is rather formal form of military repremand, and expected me to accept it. I had the option for fight against this punishment, he wanted to restrict me to barracks for a couple of weeks, and reduce me in rank too. I wasn't guilty, so I decided to let it go to the next higher commander and let him decide. My commander wasn't happy about this, but he had no choice and I got an appointment a couple of days later with the next commander. When I walked into that office, something told me I didn't stand a chance. It must have been the sign on the fellow's desk.

"Major Richard "Dick" Head ".

Not good. This wasn't looking good at all.

Turns out though, he was more fair than I gave him credit for and he decided at least not to take the rank away from me, but I had restriction to barracks for a couple of weeks. First thing I did was get friendly with someone in another room, on another floor than the nice guys in my barracks room. This was going to be tricky for two weeks. I was only allowed to go to the barracks, to work and to chapel. Nothing else. Now the barracks was not in a closed compound, and nothing stopped you from going in and out, so this might not be too bad, I decided....after all....if I couldn't go out, others could come in, or? I hadn't been forbidden visitors. A phone call took care of everything. I behaved myself to the letter. Saturday afternoon things started to fall into place. There was a grill place to the side of the barracks and it was within the area I was allowed to go.

We had a great time. There were 28 members of my club, and a good twenty from another club, music, beer, grilling and lots of girls and at least forty motorcycles there for the party, and I wish I had a picture of that commanders face on Monday morning. He was livid. He was shaking, red in the face, screaming with spit rolling off the end of his chin. And he couldn't do a thing about it to me; I hadn't broken my restriction....................................
 
I'm going to diverse here for a moment....

There are a bunch of things that happened at some point during my time serving under this commander, and I can't remember just when these things happened, in relation to my spat with the fellow, but they are worth mentioning, anyway.

I still hung around with the fellow that had sold me his Norton, the one I crashed, and we got on famously. He also couldn't seem to keep himself clear of trouble. For some reason, he had lost his licence, much to the pleasure of the commander and for whatever reason, he couldn't drive or own a car. Now, back then, we used to have our licences issued by the military, and we used to register our vehicles with them too. So...when he lost his licence, the commander thought that was the end of the story. This didn't seem to be what my friend thought, though. He made a short trip to England. He arrived back, a short time later, in a Bug Eyed Sprite...Austin Healy, registered in England, and in possession of an English licence. The commander couldn't touch him.... there was nothing that gave him the authority to take away a licence issued by a foreign country, or take the plates off an auto registered in England. This fellow as a man that thought just like me.... my kind of guy. The Austin quickly developed problems with the clutch, though. Didn't stop him driving all over with it, just turned the motor off for red lights, and started it in gear when the lights turned green. Thank god it had a good battery...it always lurched it's way back to life and away we went. We used to go to his place for lunch break, talk to his cat, say hi to his girlfriend, listen to Frank Zappa and partake of some of that evil weed he was still looking to get rich off of. Life was a blast.

Not all the time, though. The Red Army Faction, Germanys' version of Bin Laden's crew was constantly trying to do a few of us in. One day I was sent to mail something at the military post office a few buildings away. I stood in line and finally got to the window and took care of my business. When I got about 50 yards outside the building, there was a loud "Whummp" and glass and smoke flying from the post office. Turns out, the bomb was in the trash can next to the counter I had been served at and I had just missed being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Lady, two people in back of me, lost her legs.
A few weeks later, someone threw a bomb through the window of the officers' club, next to our building. One day at lunch, I took a streetcar downtown, and as I looked out the window, some jerk heaves a Molotov Cocktail through the window of the police car sitting beside us waiting for the light. I can still see a burning policeman rolling around on the ground and the car going on through the intersection without a driver.

So...not all was fun and games...rotten stuff.

In between all this though, little distractions like me coming to work with a hangover and not watching what I was doing, caused stupid stuff to happen. I used to run a small printing press. Cleaned the rolls off with a rag, and whupdeedo...my right hand went between the rolls, all the way to the wrist. The fact that it was a small press was my only saviour. My workmate noticed the strange sounds me and the machine were making and managed to rush over and turn it off, and roll my hand back out. Squished my forefinger like some "road kill" you see. I was naturally, in shock and got driven to the hospital. It healed, sort of. I drove the Norton for about a year with a forefinger I couldn't bend, braking with three fingers. The scars are still there, and half of the fingernail is still missing....but I learned from it...I think.

By now, I've learned how to handle not having teeth for a year, how to handle having everybody think you are pointing at them all the time, and I've learned what to do when you are late for work.

My section boss was a stickler for punctuality. He flipped out when you were one minute late. I discovered a solution though. As I still lived out of the city, and I am one of those people that can't seem to ever be on time...it was inevitable that I was once in a while late. After the first couple times my boss flipped out about it, I tried a new approach. If I was going to be even a half a minute late, I stopped at the phone booth around the corner and gave him a call. I told him that the traffic was really bad and I was going to be a few minutes late. I'd sit down.... smoke a cigarette...wait till I was really more than a few minutes late, and then get on the bike, drive around the corner and come into work with a harried look upon my face. He never got angry about even 20 minutes or a half an hour...as long as I called and told him I was going to be late. One of those lessons that stick with you for your entire life.

Another lesson is that an angry commander will do most anything to "Burn" a subordinate. Things indeed got hot. I couldn't make a move without having to worry about getting in trouble. The entire chain of command seemed to be in on it. My boss sends me one day to help the supply sergeant move some beds in the barracks. Took all day. Every time I thought I was finally finished, the guy comes up with some other thing to do. Finally, it was about three thirty and he released me to go back to my normal work place. It was a setup. About noontime, that boss and the female captain that shared an office with him, had typed up an Article 15 (see last chapter), and the moment I walked through the door I was ushered into the office and presented with it. I was accused of having left my place of duty, without permission. They were the ones that had sent me to help the supply sergeant...they knew where I was and what I was doing. How they thought this was going to fly, I don't know. They told me, they didn't remember having told me to go and do that...besides, it was my word against theirs and I didn't have a witness.

I blew my cork.

I picked up the Article 15, looked at them and told them in so many words to jump in the lake...and ripped it in half, tossed it on the desk and walked out. God must have been watching...neither one of them ever mentioned it again.

I had to get out of there, though. This was a personnel unit and I had friends in different departments. This worked out to my advantage. One of my buddies took a look at the regulations and discovered that if a unit had no "job" for a soldier that his training had qualified him for, he could request and become, a transfer to a unit that did have one he was qualified for. I was trained as a carpenter...no need for a carpenter in a personnel unit. Having contacts worked wonders. Without having to get the permission of my commander, I was able to request, and receive, a transfer out of the unit.... without his knowledge! I printed up the transfer orders myself...all legal. I had a lot of vacation coming to me and once I got a reporting date to the new unit, I just requested leave for a couple days. That day came, I took leave, went to the new unit, signed in, showed my leave papers and went back to my old unit and requested to see the commander. He received me with a sick smirk on his face and asked me what I wanted. I told him I had come to say goodbye. He looked at me strange and said that I wasn't going anywhere. I looked back, copied his smirk and told him he was incorrect and handed him my transfer orders. The blood drained from his face, he started to cough...I sort of hoped he might die right there in front of me... He didn't, so I wished him a good day, saluted and walked out.

Touché.
 
Forgive me for once again plaguing you with what has turned out to be apparently my own personal Blog.....but this time I have remembered something directly Norton related. Sometimes things come back to memory while half asleep.

One of my buddies developed what could be termed as a personal relationship with the daughter of a fellow that worked at the British Consulate while we were stationed there in the city. Nice and very tiny girl, with a father that apparently thought that all English speaking people had to stick together in a country that hadn't yet come to see the errors of their ways and still spoke something other than English. He was convinced they would soon see the errors of their ways and that English was the way to go...and he was right. Even in Kindergarten, they teach English here now. My grandson, at three, has English lessons. In twenty years, it will most likely replace the native language....but, anyway...... he liked Americans. Back then; we still had a good name. My buddy and me used to visit often and while my buddy was off in some corner trying to convince her to get more than a bit more friendly with him...I spent a lot of time talking to her father.

At one point, he said to me, that if I ever needed anything from England, to let him know. Bad mistake. I had a Norton, and I needed whole bunches of stuff from England. I had my eyes on a pair of Panniers/side bags for the Norton from the firm Avon. Big fibreglass saddlebags and a luggage rack to mount them on. No problem, he says, and gives me an address to have them sent to. So I ordered the saddlebags and gave the firm the address he had given me. Talk about what having connections will do for you in life. Having connections is the only way to go.

Two days later, he calls me up and tells me to come by. We drove to his house and he hauls out a huge bag with seals, stamps, "official".... locks and all such of scary warnings on it and opens it. The entire set, 2 big fibreglass bags, the luggage rack and all mounting hardware had all been sent to him in the "Diplomatic Pouch".

He made a joke about having used the diplomatic pouch, the year before to ship his daughter to England to visit with Grandma.......I wasn't really sure if he wasn't telling the truth. She would have fit.
 
Well.....here we are again. Sitting once again, up at four or so in the morning, unable to sleep. It has been several months now, since I did a bit more on this thread, and pity the poor newer members of the forum that never plodded their way through this stuff before.....


There is an old saying that goes something to the tune of "Jumping out of the pan, and into the fire". In this case, a fitting bit of text, because, I just hadn't known how "Good" I had had it in the old unit. The old unit had it's ups and downs, and being one of those types that just doesn't like to be told what to do, I had indeed been bothered by those times the "downs" came rolling around.

(Makes me wonder how I ever survived the 20 years I put in in the military, or for that matter, how I survived so many years in good old Schnitzelland. Sometimes the American in me, wants to cram all the rules and regulations they have here, down some ones throat....but that's another story.)

When I jumped out of that pan and landed in the fire, it didn't take long to figure out that the pan had been rather a better place to have stayed. Located just off an autobahn, on the outskirts of the city, Camp Swampy had a character all it's own.. Compared to the old unit, this place was huge and the people in it, were of a different class altogether. Where the other unit had mostly been a mixture of males and females, that just wanted to have a good old, drunken or drugged up time and couldn't be bothered to be worried about anything besides the next party, this new unit seemed more interested in whether you could survive it or not. Tough place. A real dangerous place.

I was quickly assigned a bed in one of the rooms in the barracks. I still had a room off post, but I didn't bother to tell them about that. Turned out to be just as well, as it was forbidden. They wanted all of the children in one place where they were easier to keep an eye on. I have no doubt why. If I had to describe my impression of the lot...there comes only one word to mind. Animals. The high fences around the compound, did more than just keep people out...they kept the animals in.

Within the first week, I discoverd why the place was called Camp Swampy", and it wasn't just to honor the workplace of the cartoon character Beetle Bailey, either. Most of the buildings were permanent type structures, but not the area where most of us had to "work". I had kind of wondered about the walkways around post that were made out of old pallets, and the fact that most of the other buildings were what are called "Quonset Huts", (a kind of prefab metal roofed igloo shaped building) had kind of surprised me, but I hadn't thought too much about it. The fact that almost all of the floors of the huts were lined with pallets inside too, hadn't made me wonder yet, either, there were too many other things going on and keeping me on my toes. The first time it rained though, it kind of got my attention. The landscape changed. What had been grass, or dirt, became a lake. The pallets suddenly had a purpose. You could have caught barracuda between the motor pool and the mess hall. And.....it took days for it to go away. (My roommate was all proud when he showed me his hockey skates. Apparently there would be ample opportunity to get your head smashed in by a hockey stick, during the winter months. How nice.) I must admit, though, my sergeant was on the ball. He remembered to send me to the medical facility to get my malaria shot. After all...it was still warm weather.

My new roommates had kind of taken me under their wing and helped me get off to a proper start in the unit. Whereas in the old unit, the guys dragged you down to the red light district to sort of "initiate" you.....in this unit they brought you to the supply and made you put out 20 bucks for a "Buck" knife. I wasn't too enthusiastic about it, but I didn't really have any choice. "Part of the uniform", I was told. This may sound strange, and it was.....but let me explain. Unlike the old unit, where the commander might not feel like bothering for months at a time, there was a "formation" in this unit, every morning. If for no other reason than to see if everyone was still alive after the long dark hours of night in that place. The first sergeant had a thing about "manliness" and a theory that part of being a "man" was carrying a good old "American" Buck knife. Today, I couldn't do it, but back then, I got drilled half of the first night I was there, by my room mates on how to open that thing one-handed and with "style". There was a rhythm to it and you went methodically by the numbers and flicked the knife open. If I am truthful, I can indeed still do this, I just don't want to admit to it. Some things you never forget.

Now this had a purpose. Standing in formation, all in rows and such, the next morning, it all became clear. The First Sergeant walks out in front of the squads and instead of shouting, as expected, "Attention", he shouts "Buck". There, all in neat rows, in the half light of dawn, stand a good hundred of us and by the numbers, put the right hand behind the back, pop the leather holder for the "Buck" open, move the hand to the front, place the thumb on the blade and flick it open with a click and shout "Buck". Beyond belief. A hundred uniformed idiots standing there with open knives in the dawn. God did it feel "Manly".

There was more to the formation though. Things were just beginning to get interesting. The Commander came out and made a motion that he wanted to inspect the troops. This is sort of the norm, and this didn't surprise me, but what happened a few minutes later, did. In about the second row, he had a complaint about one of the fellows in the other squad. Something about him not having shaved. This Commander wasn't very well liked, but what happened came totally unexpected. The Commander was so stupid as to poke his finger into the fellow's face. Bad move. Real bad move.

While the fellow finished pounding the crap out of the commander, the sergeants all stood around and watched. One of them lit a cigarette, as apparently there was enough time for it. They weren't inhuman though. When it began to look like the fellow might actually kill the commander, they stepped in and pulled him off. Guess that would have involved too much paperwork.

Every day there was something new to learn. The commander apparently though, wasn't one of those easy learners. Within a week, he had tried to push his weight around in the enlisted mans club too, what he was doing there, lord knows, but the gist of it is that the fellows around the pool table crowned him with a pool cue, and dumped him in the bushes beside the building. Must have been a good headache, because he missed formation the next day.......

Life was keeping me on my toes. There was enough stuff going on, that there was never a dull moment. One thing quickly learned, was that, NO MATTER WHAT, you just didn't talk about anything you saw someone else doing that might not be quite legal. Blabbermouths weren't liked. I had sort of figured this out gradually, in my life, but not everyone is that smart. A fellow one of the buildings down by the headquarters evidently hadn't. Don't know exactly what the reason was, but it got spoken around that it had to do with drugs. Anyway, one morning the MPs and German Police were all over the place on post. Apparently someone didn't like the fact that this fellow had a big mouth and they tied him up, threw him out of the second story window with a rope tied around his feet, slammed him a number of times against the building, and left him there. It never was clear whether he had been killed before or after the trip out of the window...but the results were the same. He wasn't going to be butting into other peoples business again.

Nice place to work...made for a real relaxed atmosphere. Seemed like the whole place was insane and it was worth your life just to look twice at someone. Drugs had a lot to do with it. Every time the barracks had an inspection, the sergeants had to wear gloves to run their hands under the lip of the stainless steel sinks in the latrine. This was the place everyone stashed their needles. I saw it checked once by my sergeant. He ran his gloved hand up under the lip and knocked 5 needles out and on the floor. I can still see it in my minds' eye...and it still gives me Goosebumps.

This wasn't the only distasteful bit going on. Our building was lucky enough to have been chosen as the favourite haunt of the "Mad Shi**er". Piles of human poop, appeared at irregular intervals in rather strange places. In the middle of the hall, in the middle of the shower, in front of the first sergeants office door,etc. There was definitely something strange going on. This went on for months, until one day someone noticed a stranger walking into the latrine and never coming out again. There was only one door to this latrine and he had to be somewhere. Eventually he was found, drugged and fast asleep inside a tiny door in the wall above one of the toilets, in a sort of rats nest of old blankets and old food stolen from the mess hall. They figured out eventually that he had been discharged a year earlier and his mates had been feeding him and holding their tongues about it. As I said..... the code of silence was what kept you alive in this unit.

So..... the piles of poop appeared no more and life returned to normal, if you can call it that. My two roommates were worth mentioning. One went out every evening and never came back to the room before 4 or 5 o'clock in the morning. At that point, he opened the door and fell face first into the room. Now the door was open. That means, get out of bed, drag roommate into room, let him sleep on the floor, return to bed and try and get another hours sleep. Quarter to six, get out of bed, shake room mate until he sits up and gets ready for formation. That wasn't much work for the roommate, he 's still dressed in the uniform from the day before and it saves him time. So, stumble to formation, do the Buck thing and go to work. He tried to share his stash of Jackie that he kept in the desk, with me, almost every morning.... but who in their right mind wants to drink whiskey at 06:30 in the morning? And "Jackie", of all things...Yuck!

My other roommate was sort of a quiet guy...didn't say much. He had a beef with the commander too. Still waters run deep, as they say. Anyway.... one night he is feeling the urge, so he goes out to the motor pool, hops in his big truck, and drives over the fence and down to the red light district. Parks the truck on the sidewalk and goes in to get himself a bit of you know what. He comes out feeling better, and there stand the MPs, looking at the truck. Never one to miss an opportunity, he marches up and asks the MPs how his truck got there. Naturally, they don't believe him, when he says he took the bus there, and doesn't know how his truck ended up there in front of the cathouse. So they take him away and the commander charges him with stealing the truck. Never say die, is his motto, so he waits until the weekend, talks to his buddy on the front gate and pulls into the compound with a tractor and trailer load of cow poop he has arranged to borrow. The commander has his Thunderbird convertible parked behind the building, with the top down and is distracted by some kind of paperwork. This trailer has a dump mechanism.

Take a guess. You will be most likely correct.

Within a week, our favourite commander put in for a transfer, and had gotten it. Somehow, the charges on my roommate were forgotten in the shuffle.................
 
I bought my Norton 750 Commando back in 1978 for a princely sum of AUD$600, she was in the hand of a complete novice and had been poorly treated. After finding out how badly she performed I proceeded to investigate and found that someone had fitted the pistons arse about; that is the left piston in the right bore and visa versa, if you have worked on the motors you will know what I am talking about.

It has spent some time in the shed after I accidently put a hole through the gearbox shell when the main shaft decided to snap, oops.

But when my son discovered he had mechincal know-how he conviced me that it was worth repairing the old darling.

Anyhow, I proceeded to restore my Norton and after many dollars and some fowl language I am happy to report that she is my only true love "ha ha".

I hope to hand her over to my son when I am too old to ride her any longer.

To answer the original question I think that there is no other bike that feels like a Norton, or handles like a Norton, or sounds like a Norton, they are just great. It does help though if you are mechanically minded and own some whitworth spanners.
 
HHHMMM....Lets see why did I but a Norton! Well first off I really love old bikes and this one was just wasting away in someone’s basement for 25 years....and I can't bear the thought of seeing a salvageable vintage bike being sent to the scrap heap :shock: Second After I bought it for the pricey sum of $350.00 :D I started to look at the lines of the tank and engine.....OOOHHH that engine with those kidney shaped engine cover! I kept imagining how it will look with the polished engine covers, black barrels, beautiful chrome pipes, and that sound that I have not heard in years! Geez...I can't wait! I just wish I had more money right know to start a restoration, But at least I have it and can look forward to the day she is back on the road!
 
Well first off I really love old bikes and this one was just wasting away in someone’s basement for 25 years....and I can't bear the thought of seeing a salvageable vintage bike being sent to the scrap heap

similar story to mine: only I paid $150 bucks for it! So what that I now have 10 times that amount into the rebuild so far (with probably another $1500 to go) It went from a rusted hulk resting against the side of a barn to an indigo blue, polished and rebuilt sexy beast! I WILL be riding it this summer!

the only problem is that I found a 68 BSA lightning in good shape for $400 bucks (next winter's project) and I have to figure out how to sneak it into the cellar when my wife isn't looking 8)
 
the only problem is that I found a 68 BSA lightning in good shape for $400 bucks (next winter's project) and I have to figure out how to sneak it into the cellar when my wife isn't looking 8)[/quote]



And the sickness continues.
 
Why I bought a Norton

First off, I must confess that I no longer own a Norton. Haven't for about twenty years :( Stumbled onto this site while looking for someone in need of a 4th gear/layshaft. Cleaning up the garage. Rather, attempting to! (can't see any walls, can't see front to back or side to side-hoo boy)
I bought one because I was a bike mechanic. In fact, I had only ridden two bikes before I started work at a shop, both little tiddlers, 80-100cc. The first big bike I rode there was a Norton. Wow! It reminded me of my 57 Chevy ragtop. Both could pull the front wheel(s) off the ground, and sound good at the same time. Unfortunately, both could be hard on trans's.
I bought a '71 yellow Hi-rider. Slightly toasted. The owner was a local volunteer firefighter. He said he was kicking it over in front of the firestation when it backfired? and caught fire. They got it out pretty quick. The front of the seat was scorched, along with the left side of the tank, and the fuel lines and airfilter boots were gone. The worst thing, and the reason he sold it, was the harness. Appearently, a buddy decided to cut out the damaged section. About one foot of the harness right above the carbs was missing. I had originally uncrated and set-up this bike for him. On Monday mornings, he would ride up to the shop with one, or both, feet on the cases because he would get drunk at the niteclubs and fall over trying to start the bike. This would snap off the screw-in peg. We eventually welded in some soft iron rods that would just bend. BTW, the only time this mod caused a problem was the time my girlfriend overshot a downhill left while I followed on my v7 Sport. She made the corner in the grass, but had to immediately regain the pavement to avoid a tree. Still leaned over, with the peg touching grass, she caught it on the edge of the road. This caused a highside, which she nearly saved! The second or third bounce spit her off. Second crash, same road, same ride, same down hill direction! (Kings Mtn Road) No injuries. We had just dragged the bike out of the outside ditch of a right hand corner. She insisted we turn around and go home the way we came. Turns out she needed eyeglasses. Couldn't judge which way the turn went until she entered it! Not a problem on city streets, it seemed.
Enough for now. More later, perhaps.
 
The continuing saga: I lived in a summer resort town, so everyone worked long hours. Summer=250,000+ / winter=5000 residents. So, after getting the bike together, a friend and I decided to ride down to Florida. (1972) I was in the process of selling my car to finance my vacation. Got the wopping price of $400, after a month of selling effort. ('65 Mustang 2+2, v8/4spd-new paint, refurbed interior, suspension, upgraded brakes. Current value= $12-15k!) My friend left a week before I did. He rode in shirtsleeves. When I left, it was 32'F Warmest part of the trip until I was well into Florida. Coldest was Georgia, near the Florida border. It was 0'F :o
I decided I needed more light for the trip, so I mounted a high power driving light above the headlite, between the gauges. Had to swing them outboard for clearance. Big mistake. Night before I left, I rolled the fully packed bike out the shop door. Before I was ready to ride, a gust blew it off the stand, smacking a gauge into the concrete. Rolled it back into the shop, and used some yellow! gasket sealer to weatherproof all the cracks in the glass face. Not an auspicious begining. Next morning, It blew over again! Different stand, other gauge! arghhh!!! Back to shop for more yellow sealer, decided to bring sealer on trip. Glad I did. Sunshine Parkway, south Florida(I-95), passing a big rig that was going about 85mph. I was about 100mph, feet up on folding pegs mounted near the coils, when I realized the weaving was not the bow wave from the truck. Something was very wrong. I guessed rear tire. Sat up, started moving toward the side of the road. Never figured out what the truck did. I was busy using the front brake between swings of the rear end, hoping to get it slowed down before I ran out of steering lock! Got it stopped on the shoulder, but picked an inopportune moment to dismount. With all my bags strapped to the rear of the Hi-Rider seat, I had to slide my leg straight across to get off. A big rig went by, just a few feet away, as I was in the middle of this awkward move. Blew it right over! I didn't weigh enough to counterbalance it (115lbs) and wasn't able to slide to the other side before the gauge hit (again). More Yellow Sealer!!!
Decided to hide my gearbags off in the trees. Down the sloping, wide grass verge, and up the hill to the bordering fence. (think Smokey and the Bandit) Heave bags over, climb over, and move them about a hundred feet into the trees. Without the bags in my hands, and standing straight, I discovered that there was a spiderweb spanning the gap between almost all the trees. the trees were at least 6ft apart. The webs came down to about 4-5ft above ground. Probably 6-10ft square, or so. The spiders were the size of dinner plates! Don't know what they ate, maybe birds? Figured no one would bother my stuff! Got a lift to the next service station/exit, and found that a flake of rust had punctured the tube.
Got to go beddy-bye. Waaay late. (TBC'd?)
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
Back
Top