THE
LAST
RIDE...
WORDS: Roger Moroney
here are some rather marvellous
plans afoot and they revolve around
my oldest brother... the lad who taught
me how to ride a motorcycle. Although
I taught myself how to fall off them.
Paul had bikes since he was a teenager and
covered plenty of distance, on the roads
and on the tracks when he rolled one of his
‘Team Clive” bikes out at a club meeting.
That was until he took a bit of a tumble
during an event which had been set up on a
great expanse of tarseal where cones were
used to lay out the track. He was riding
a bucket racer and lost the front end. He
tumbled a bit and when you’re in your mid-
60s a tumble takes no prisoners in terms of
how it can affect the old bod’.
He gave it away then and sort of focused
more on a couple of cars he’d gathered
together. Like an MGB GT and a very smart
and modified Mini. But he never abandoned
motorcycling altogether as it was in his
veins, as it is with me. I don’t get out too
much now but when I do I’m 34 again – not
64 – and my ‘den of infamy’ is filled with
motorcycling stuff from pretty well every
aspect of it.
Same as Paul. He’s got motorcycle posters,
pictures, books, DVDs, video cassettes
(remember them?) and models all through
his gaff.
Paul Moroney: finally going
to the Isle of Man TT races
So, yeah, he got hooked when his hair
was greased back and the Everly Brothers
were holding the charts to ransom. I got
hooked when my hair was over my collar,
my trousers were flared and Free’s ‘All Right
Now’ raced to number 1.
But the years did not divide things one
little bit, as Paul gradually edged from the
early Velocette and BSA through to an XJ650
Yamaha and a CB400 single. I had Japanese
fare from day one, and we swapped bikes
from time to time.
He was smitten with my GPX600 Kwacka
and at that time I also punted a Honda
350 Four. As he also did. And so it came to
pass (it simply had to) that I’d been out to
his place one morning and when I set off
to return home he joined me as he had to
shoot into town to get something.
The only thing that was missing was the
starter’s flag.
We misbehaved and used the 10,500 revs of
the things to “give ‘em a bit of a clean-out”.
At one stage across the motorway stretch
we were side by side and put it this way... we
might as well have been on the back straight
at Pukekohe.
Madness and not to be condoned, but, hell,
we had a beer on who would eventually
brake first.
Paul did... I won.