In the mid-1980s, my mum worked at a solicitors, and they had a client whose name was, I think, Mr Stack. An older rather eccentric gentlemen, he was a frequent visitor to the office about various situations (including complaining that his feet were on fire) and during one such visit he mentioned he had an old motorbike he wished to dispose of. A BSA. Did he know what model, mother enquired. “A Gold Star. I’ve had it for years. Some lads are coming round to look at it for a field bike.”
That evening, mum told dad about it and next night, dad, my brother and I, little boys obsessed with motorbikes, went to see this Gold Star, fully intending to save it from the fate it seemed destined for. Dad knocked on Mr Stack’s door, and he opened it. There, sheeted in his hallway, was the Gold Star. Sticking out from under the sheet was the rear tyre. Even seven-year-old me knew the narrow rear tyre wasn’t that of a Gold Star.
Anyway, Mr Stack unveiled his motorcycle, showing us his BSA single. He’d owned it from new, so I think though can’t prove, and it’d only done a few miles (less than 2000), was completely original, and it was time for it to go. The aforementioned lads were coming round to have it; dad couldn’t let it meet that end, so a price was agreed, and it wasn’t much, and we took it away. I can’t actually remember how it was transported, though I’m fairly sure it wasn’t ridden home.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة November 2020 من The Classic MotorCycle.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة November 2020 من The Classic MotorCycle.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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