For weeks I had been coveting this exquisite artefact
through the grimy window of the seedy bike shop. Against the background of the oil-soaked
wooden floor and cobweb-festooned rafters, the externally flywheeled wonder
shone like a diamond of incomparable magnificence; well, I imagined it did.
Never before had I wanted something so much. Eventually, I was able to find the
£4 deposit on the purchase price of £12/17/6 - an absolute fortune for me and
much more than I thought the machine was worth but I was determined to have it.
And the curmudgeonly proprietor knew this so, despite the length of time which
the machine had been on his books (and that should have told me something), he
wouldn't budge. After a couple of weeks hedging and ditching for the local
council and with some cash provided by a kindly uncle, I raised the balance and
became the deliriously proud owner of a 1936 GTP Velo.
Of course, it was not long before the euphoria of first love
began to evaporate in the light of reality. The machine puttered along
satisfactorily enough for a few weeks and I enjoyed my ownership of what, in
truth, was a pretty horrid contraption although it was evident that it once had
been a much better bike. Our progressions were attended by an increasingly
dense plume which would not have disgraced a vessel of Her Majesty's Grey
Funnel Line; the little Velocette "made smoke", the volume of which,
even in the days before we discovered we had an environment, was embarrassingly
excessive. Trips did not necessarily end at the chosen destination but more
usually when the spark plug cried "enough!" and all went deathly
quiet. The machine had form in this regard because an erstwhile owner had
fitted a plug adaptor so that those lovely old 18mm plugs which could be
dismantled for cleaning might be used. It didn’t seem to help much.
A friend who was an apprentice diesel mechanic and therefore
infinitely more knowledgeable than me, suggested the bike needed a
"decoke". I had no idea what this process might be nor how to perform
it but armed with what I could remember of his instructions given in a
dimly-lit corner of the pub (I was under 21 at the time) and some borrowed
tools, one Saturday morning I set about undoing every nut and bolt in sight
until, spannered into submission, the engine surrendered its head.
Judge then, if you will, of my astonishment when I discovered
that there was but one cylinder; I was mortified. Clearly, the man in the bike
shop had seen me coming and had palmed me off with something different from
what I was expecting - I had been tricked. However, I was upset about having
been duped so easily and determined to tackle this duplicitous fellow. Thus,
early Monday morning found me back at the bike shop as the proprietor was
opening up. He saw me coming - again!
"I told you that there was no guarantee."
"I know that, but I do think you should have sold me a
machine with its full complement of cylinders."
"Oh? How many cylinders does it have?"
"Only one."
"And how many cylinders do you think it should
have?"
"Two."
"Why two?"
"Because it has two exhaust pipes."
"And two exhaust pipes means two cylinders?"
"Yes."
"Well, Sonny Jim . . . . . . "
