It was on this day in the year 1999 that I returned from my mission. Richard was waiting for me, curling and unfurling a beret in his hands, a different beret than the one he was wearing, perhaps a spare or perhaps tomorrow’s beret.
“Did you get it?” he asked?
“No, they saw right through me,” I said.
His face curled ever so briefly into anger and then returned to a placid, seemingly patient state.
“Tell me the story,” he said. I had not noticed that he had traded the fidget beret for a capo, which he flexed and unflexed. We were on his front porch. No guitar neck in sight.
I had just been to the Royal Society of Greeves Motorcycle Riders Conference, sent by Richard with one request. I just needed one word spoken. One word. And I had failed.
Motorcycles bore the Greeves mark for nearly two decades, a company that started in 1952 by Bert Greeves and passed into receivership in the early 1970s. Their light, fast bikes won championships and set records. In particular known for their lithe capabilities in observed trials, perhaps the oddest of all ways to use a motorcycle to compete with your friends.
The RSGMRC attendees skewed male and older. They were seasoned to my wiles and fell for none of my attempts to get the word from them.
How many bikes are here? Who made them?
“I hear tell that we have two hundred of the things here. All made by Bert Greeves and his mates. You should take the time to see them all, don’t be robbed like many a man of seeing all these great machines.”
Have you owned more than one of these motorcycles, sir?
“Young man, I have a barn full of Bert’s fine motorbikes, and my wife has her own shed full. Why a girl can feel special on any such like.”
Were there other bikes by Greaves than your Hawkstone?
“There were quite a few models, but to me none have a soul like the Hawkstone ’58.”
They were all on to me. How could they tell my mission?
“Many have tried, young man. They have all failed. Tell Richard ‘our hat’s off to you.’”
Richard turned a set of guitar strings in his hand, trying to keep his cool as I told him of my failure.
“Curses. I would rewrite it for them if only they would tell me the truth, you know. Hell, even though the alliteration is lovely as it is, I would swap the angel’s bikes out for them. If I could just know the truth.
“I didn’t realize how damn loyal they are to the one sodden brand. You would think that if I make a song about only British bikes they would be happy. But no, I say that their bike “won’t do” and it is over for me. I didn’t even have to include them, you know. Greeves didn’t start making bikes until 1952, for god’s sakes.
Now, no one riding a Greeve will give me the time of day, nor tell me how to pluralize that damn word. I just made a guess, man. I just made a guess!”
“I am so sorry Richard.”
“You are not the first to fail. You probably won’t be the last.”
“Do you want me to go apologize to the Triumph owners group for completely leaving them out?” I offered, “I see them at the corners and cafes.”
“I’ll never live that down. And it is so easy to talk about multiple Triumphs. Greatest mistake of my life trying to include Greeveses instead of Triumphs.
I will never forget the look of frustration and alienation on Richard’s face that day, April 1, 1999.
People love whatever they ride. No foolin’
Joel Barker is the author of the compact-yet-sprawling novel Clear and Sane: The Craft of The Green Paintbrush
It is available in all those Real Big Online Bookstores or go to his itty bitty website and order directly.
Joel Byron Barker
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