First Norton
By: Mark Bucheim marco381@hotmail.com]
To begin at the beginning, I was a reluctant motorcyclist. What I mean by that is that I was browbeaten into riding by my first boss, a big Italian guy with the zeal of a missionary bent on saving non-motorcycling souls. Imagine coming home to the wife saying that you have to buy a motorcycle to stay on the good side of your boss. And it being true.
So it came to be that a petite creation called a Yamaha Twin Jet arrived in my garage, transported (no shit) in the back seat of my ’62 Mercury Comet. For two years I terrorized the streets of Westchester New York on this 10 horsepower rocket, with a majority of my trips ending up at various bike dealers, where my drool was left on the Bonneville’s and Sportster’s of the day. My (ex) wife treated the condition with indifference, which was pretty much the way she dealt with most aspects of my protracted post-adolescent period. Which, by the way, is still going on as I write this.
Anyway, by 1969, my ability to deal with horsepower lust had run out. The cycle rags of the day had crowned the Commando king of the streets in ’68, and the current “S” model iced the cake for me. I was living and working in Manhattan by then, and the Yammie was out in my parent’s garage on Long Island, so I took a “sick” day and after two train rides and a hike, showed up at Ghost Motorcycles, a mafia front organization (I really believe this, but’s that another tale) in Port Washington. After an exciting demo ride as passenger and a halfhearted negotiation, I was the to-be owner of a fireflake blue 1969 Commando.
The following Saturday, armed with the proceeds of a quick personal loan for “medical expenses”, I turned the Twin Jet over to Ghost and took possession of the new mount. Fifteen kicks and I was on my way, certain that with the first nervous twist of the throttle the thing would kill me dead. Didn’t happen that way, but I did arrive at my folk’s house on one cylinder, the right carb having come loose about halfway through the twenty mile trip. A portent of things Norton to come.
Back to the ex-wife. Suspecting that a new bike would not exactly meet with her approval, none of the above had been cleared with her. Or even hinted at. Reasoning that since the little Yamaha had been blue, and so was the Commando, and not being exactly into bikes, she’d never notice the difference. The following weekend, I tested the theory with a trip to visit my parents, casually leaving the garage door open as we prepared to grill burgers and such in the yard. Sure enough, she glanced in at the bike on a trip back from the house. Then she glanced at me. Then she picked up her things and left. Two weeks later we were legally separated.
Back to the Norton. Logically, I got to keep it in the division of worldy goods that followed. Among other things, it took Diane, who was to become my new and permanent wife, and I out on our first date. It was a beautiful day, the Norton ran atypically well, and love blossomed. Alas, the Commando’s mechanical gremlins quickly led me to part with it, to be replaced by a strange but reliable Kwacker Mach III. But thoughts of those twin high pipes and their soulful music remained.
Fast forward to 1990. Age brings on nostalgia, which brought on the purchase of our first “old” bike. Not surprisingly, a ’69 Commando “S”, which has been repainted in fireflake blue. I keep hoping that if I look at it hard enough, I’ll be able to taste the clams at Pete’s and feel that surge of a new love again.