I bought my Norton at the end of 1998 from Collector Cycles in Houston. The information provided was little more than a postage stamp sized photo in Walnecks. Together with an all too brief blurb stating the nomenclature of the machine. Calling the dealer for more information proved only slightly more enlightening. “It’s a 1974 Norton. Stored for 15 years. Needs restoration. You’re the fourth call today about that bike. No price breaks!”

Well, you can all guess the rest of the story. I paid the man what he was asking. Then paid to ship the beast to my home in Norman, Oklahoma. When she arrived I was less than thrilled. This was no Honda! The paint was bad. The chrome was worse. Rims pitted, exhaust barely attached, the seat had a hole in it, giant ape hanger bars, burned out headlight, carbs gummed into oblivion, ancient Avons dried and cracked. Everywhere I looked was another problem. The only unaffected parts were the engine and the gear box. But I saw all the names I recognized from the magazines. Smiths clocks, Lucas electrics, Avon tires on Dunlop rims, Amal carbs. It was all original and I was in heaven!

With a few hours work on the carbs and a new battery I was able to breathe life into the fabled Norton power plant. “At least it runs!” I was elated. I only knew these bikes by their reputations. To my knowledge, I had never even seen one in person. I took her for a very tender cruise around the block. My first experience with a right hand shift. The old Avons were cracking and shedding their skins with every rotation. The holes in the mufflers were echoing like gunshots. I was terrified and giddy on that first ride. I could feel the potential power at low speed. I had no idea what she could do. I just knew that I wanted her to do it, right now!

Off to the tire store. $300 later I was mobile. Soon there after I replaced the headlight, the mufflers, all the foot rubbers, handlebars, cush drive buffers, all new cables and few other difficult to locate bits. Suddenly I had a machine worth riding. Even in less than stellar condition this bike was a mount worthy of worship. The tone of the exhaust at full clip made everyone check it out whether they were enamored of bikes or not.

I rode her like this for the next few months. All the while drinking in any information I could glean from whatever meager resources I could locate. Ah, the bad old days. Before the internet rescued an entire generation of motorcycle fanatics. All the literature I came across told of the constant maintenance. The weak spots in the engine and drive train. The ever present electrical gremlins that plagued British iron.

OK, I’ll admit it. I was terrified. I thought my bike was going to self destruct after every Sunday cruising session. I decided to park the “fragile little thing” until I could maintain her.