Ruminations from the father... fourth installment

To continue my fathers rather interesting lifestyle back in the good old days I bring you the fourth chapter in the saga of his youth...

Chapter 4-Hot Rod Gang.


Riding with the manne became more regular and I spent less weekend time on my Pegaso. I was now more used to the speed and power of the big BSA. Riding pillion while tooling around town looking menacing was no problem, but special skills were needed to survive the high-speed chases in which we were involved.
Riding away from the cops was no problem as their cars were too slow and couldn’t handle like our bikes. Speedcops were a bit harder but their bikes were heavy and not too well maintained. They were mostly single carb 650cc Triumphs or heavy 500cc BMW’s with panniers so they didn’t chase too far.
The biggest danger came from other motorcycle brekers or the Hot Rod boys. Some of those big Yankee V8’s could really motor and some could even handle a bit. The jammy that gave us the most grief was a Studebaker Hawk some okes in Brakpan had. They spent a lot of time at the Casbah Roadhouse and one Saturday night, we cruised past to scope out the situation and, sure enough, they were there, two Brakpan breekers with their cherries and three of their mates in a ‘57 Chevy, also reputed to be hot.
We were on four bikes, two solo and two two-up. Spike and I were on the BSA, Kenny and his brother on the Goldie, Eddie on the Matchless and Johnnie on the Ducati. It was a metallic red and gold 200cc Elite with the anatomical tank and I really coveted it. I promised myself that one day, I’d own one. Johnnie was a really hard case. He was short and slightly built and wore Buddy Holly glasses but he was completely ruthless in a rumble. He carried a switchblade he’d bought in Lorenco Marques and had a sawn-off broom handle clipped under the seat of the Ducati. I liked him but I was always a bit wary of him He didn’t look dangerous like Spike did but he was. He even had a path in his hair and a kuif and he was as unpredictable as hell. A lot of guys carried switchblade knives but Johnnie had used his to lem more than one unlucky breker. No-one had died but that wasn’t Johnnie’s fault. If that blade snapped open, the look on his face let you know that you were in real trouble.
We pulled in about three bays away and the jollers in the voemies started checking us out. It wasn’t long before the banter turned serious, which ended up with Spike and the Hawk lined up in the street in front of the Roadhouse, engines revving, pointing to the circle at Mandy’s Engineering. Eddie waved Spike’s white scarf and with white smoke pouring from the Stud’s rear tyre, they rocketed off towards the circle. As they disappeared into the night, we could see that Spike was falling behind. We heard the roar of the V8 motor off in the distance, some squealing tyres and Spike’s headlight emerged about ten yards ahead of the Studebaker which was closing the gap fast. As they flashed past us, Spike was a bike length ahead.
What had happened was the Studebaker had reached the circle about 20 yards ahead of Spike who entered the circle on the correct line. The guy in the Stud gooi’d voet too much too soon exiting the circle and ended up going sideways on the pavement as the rear wheels spun and lost traction. Spike saw the gap and dived into the lead which he managed to hold on to.
Back at the Roadhouse, the driver of the Hawk was tuning how he’d actually won as his car was faster, which it was. I saw the look cross Johnnie’s face and thought “Oh no, this is going to cause bloodshed!” He stepped up, a head shorter and 60 pounds lighter and moered this oke on the side of the jaw. He went down without a sound to a stunned silence from all the patrons at the roadhouse, who were watching with trepidation, ready to duck out if things got out of hand.
A second later the balloon burst and two of the guys in the Chevy rushed over and we were all grappling around in the bright lights of the roadhouse forecourt. There were no clean Hollywood punches which do no damage and allow the hero to completely recover in ten seconds. It was an undignified grappling interspersed with wild swipes, most of which missed. Those that didn’t, however, banged into the head or ribs with jarring, strength sapping force, too many of which would soon end the fight. Fortunately, the pain comes later.
The first rule in a rort is “stay on your feet”. If you go down, someone is going to skop your ribs stukkend, and your head and other sensitive things if they can.
One of the cherries had taken off her shoe and was hacking at Eddie’s back with the stiletto heel. He didn’t seem to notice and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Chevy shoot out of the parking area and head towards town. In what seemed like seconds later we saw it coming back with two more cars filled with Brakpan brekers, one of the hardier of the species.
It was time to make a duck, not easy when a 200 pound bully‘s got you round the neck and is hammering his fist into your ribs. Johnnie was holding two at bay with his broomstick and uncompromising attitude while Spike and Eddy started their bikes. I stamped the steel tipped heel of my Jarman as hard as I could into the instep of my tormentor and his interest moved elsewhere. I jumped on behind Spike and we rode straight at the brekers Johnnie was trying to bludgeon into unconsciousness while he ran and started the Ducati. As soon as it started, we flashed out of the roadhouse, just as the cars turned in. The ride back to Boksburg was interesting to say the least. That damn Studebaker was right on our tails. He just couldn’t catch us with three other guys in the car and as we got to the circle before Benoni, he lost it again. The circle was quite small, not like the one at Mandy’s, we just flicked left, flicked right and we were through, not as easy for the Studebaker though. He hit the kerb of the circle with his front wheel and went sideways into the bluegum saplings next to the road, his headlights disappearing in a cloud of dust and leaves.
We hammered on through Benoni and on to Spike’s house in Boksburg. What a jol! When a night like that’s over and you’ve survived, you just can’t stop talking. We took stock and cleaned up before going home. My nose was bleeding and my ribs hurt like hell when I laughed. Johnnie was unmarked as usual. With him, the other guys hurt. Spike had chipped a front tooth and his knuckles were graunched. Eddy had a split lip and heel prints on the back of his lummie where the high heels had torn the leather. We felt elated and for about half an hour, struggled to control almost hysterical laughter. Everything was funny, Spike’s broken tooth, my torn and bloody shirt, the way the oke dropped when Johnnie popped him, the way the okes passed us as we left the Roadhouse, everything.
We’d pay tomorrow with dull throbbing pain and explanations we thought were highly credible but didn’t fool our parents for a minute. But man, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything! However, for months we had to avoid Brakpan and keep a wary eye open for the Studebaker. We heard that the oke was really the moer-in and was looking for us to explain how much he didn’t like the bluegum dents in the side of his Hawk. We felt it inadvisable to visit the Casbah for a while and took to cruising Jules Street and Braamfontein, which was a residential area then.