In impractical things (as defined by my wife), I am a fairly practical man. When I wanted to restore an old car, it had to be a Corvette, because its dimensions fit my workspace. When I wanted to go auto racing back in the 1990s, I chose a Miata, even though I had to listen to the usual spate of “girlie car” jibes. But the Miata was dead reliable. For four years, I’d drive it to the track, race all weekend, and drive it home. All I ever did was change the oil and brake pads. In motorcycling, I chose sport tourers. Nothing fancy, and just one at a time, with just enough sport and just enough tourer to be practical and fun.
But oh, how I long to be impractical. Not in any big, splashy, I-won-the-lottery way. Just a big ol’ shed full of old motorcycles and parts and tools that I’d picked up here and there. A shed full of projects in various improbable stages of completion – a café racer here, a street tracker there, a bobber just waiting to be bobbed. A collection of old gas tanks and two-stroke engines would be nice, too, just to look at while contemplating life and stroking the chin whiskers that such a man would inevitably have.
Recently, I met a man like this. A man with a large shed full of the kind of stuff such dreams are made of. Now, I wouldn’t call Terry Jones impractical, because he actually builds bikes with all the stuff stored in his workshop. But brother, I’d never get away with what he’s got going on. In small towns like Jones’s home of Pefferlaw, a “collector” can afford to have enough space for several projects. And the amiable Englishman’s workspace is full. He’s been building “bitsas” (bits of this, bits of that) since his early teens in 1960s England, in Whiston, near Lancashire, to be exact.
“It was all peer pressure, really,” says Jones. “You grew up with either Mods or Rockers. We were working-class Rockers.” He was hanging with the Ace of Clubs gang at the time. “Everything was suits of cards or dice for club names.”
There were 20 members in the club, and they had a pile of old bits and pieces that they had collected from various builds, mainly BSA 650 A10s. They told young Jones that he could go through the parts and put something together for himself. His past experiences owning a Mobylette and a ’59 Triumph Tiger Cub (years before it was legal for him to ride) had given him enough experience to complete his first build.
After a few bikes, he got his hands on a ’68 Norton (exactly the same as the bike he’s built in his current collection, except the original bike had an open megaphone exhaust). “I rode that original bike to the Isle of Man TT three or four times with my wife,” says Jones. “We used to drag along the Promenade.” He says he could beat almost anything with his Norton, until he came up against a Kawasaki triple in 1971. That Kawi blew right by him. “That was a real low point,” Jones adds, ruefully.
Jones moved to Canada in 1975, and shortly after that, he started buying up BSAs – Thunderbolts, Royal Stars – whatever he could find. He rode them until the late ’70s, when fate led him back to an old friend. He had gone to see a fellow about buying some parts, when he spotted a ’68 Norton 650 SS in the garage. It was a pile of junk, but it was the same as the bike he’d had back home. His favourite. So, of course, he bought it.
It took him a decade to get it on the road, including a number of trips to England to source parts. “It’s not like now with the Internet,” recalls Terry. “You’d go and bang on the door of some old machine shop in Birmingham – that was machine-shop central. Ten minutes later someone would answer, you’d go in, and there’d be a tiny reception area with a counter. Tell the man what you want, and he’d disappear in the back. Some time later . . . maybe he’d come back with a part.”
While working on the Norton, Jones has also been able to amass a formidable collection of what he calls stuff. He gives me the tour.
“Oh, that’s a 1960 Suzuki 250 two-stroke motor I’m working on.” he declares. “In England, it’s called the Super Six; there’s another one over there. That’s a Suzi 250 frame I made with a phony engine so I can fab up expansion chambers. That’s a ’71 CB750 I made to show some guys that you can build a bike for little money – it’s my everyday café bike. I’ve got $500 in it; it’s a good runner.”
The tour goes on. Over here is an old Wolf riding jacket, complete with patches; over there, an original Manx seat. A 1970 Norton Commando frame hangs high on the wall. His 1920s Ford lathe is being used to work on some pistons. Jammed in the back is his everyday Triumph Trophy touring bike. In another corner is a jumble of several partial bikes. He looks over at the pile and sighs. “There’s one I got for my son. He started on it, but then left it.” He looks a while longer at the tangle of frames and parts. I get the impression he’s thinking of future projects.
Jones might be a good guy to know if you’re looking for something. At one point, a friend of his stops by and the three of us talk bikes, including Jones’s plans for his Suzuki 250. His friend nods with a gleam in his eye, saying he’d like such a thing too.
“Oh, I know where there’s a really good 250, ready to ride,” Jones tells him. “Only 500 bucks.”
Geez. If his friend doesn’t grab it, I might. I know a guy who’s got a lot of parts . . .
Ultimately, we come to his vivid red Norton, you know, like the one that got away “over ’ome.” Jones starts rhyming off the stats: ’68 Norton slimline featherbed frame, early ’50s Norton ES2 500 cc single (also has Norton 650 and 750 engines stashed around here somewhere), mid ’60s Amal monobloc carb with period float bowl extension, original Roadholder forks . . . and the list goes on.
So much to take in; so many great details. I ask Jones if we can wheel it outside for more photos and to shoot some video for the Motorcycle Mojo YouTube channel. “Whatever you want,” he replies. “After you’re done, you can take it for a ride up the road here, so you can get a sense of what it would be like to do the ton on an old bike like this!”
The bike hasn’t run for months, but it fires up quickly in the sunlight. Video is rolling, exhaust is barking and Jones is about to roar away when . . . the return spring on the centre stand breaks – along with my hopes of riding this beautiful vintage café racer. I’ve used up all our time, as Jones has to get ready for his shift at work, so there’s no time for repairs now.
“Well,” he says, “come back next spring, and we’ll go for a ride.”
You bet I will.
