Full Throttle: The Glory Days of British Motorbikes Timeshift

MUSIC: "Woo-Hoo" by Rock-A-Teens

Before Elvis ever set hearts racing on our shores,

there was a home-grown sound

that was just as exciting to the ears of Britain's youth.

ENGINE ROARS

By the 1950s, British motorbikes were the fastest,

most desirable and coolest thing on two wheels, anywhere in the world.

For Britain's bikers, a passion for speed

has always been part of the thrill.

I think the second day after motorbikes were invented,

two people met and had a race.

Whether on the track...

Some of the guys would hold their throttles open by various means,

like with elastic bands and things, and just hang on.

..or doing 100mph with the "ton-up boys" on the A406...

You can bet he's the boy who's going to go flashing past

with the throttle wide open, and you can bet you

he's the boy in six months who's going to be in a coffin.

..British riders helped create the legend of the motorcycling rebel.

Pow!

The drug that they were addicted to was adrenaline.

It weren't just about having fights and, like, being yobs.

I mean, we was, and we did.

But this was no brief post-war love affair with speed and style.

Its roots go far deeper into Britain's past.

The prime exponent was, of course, Lawrence of Arabia.

For over 40 years, British motorbikes ruled the road.

At 70mph on a British motorbike, you felt like you was doing 170mph.

MUSIC: "Right Turn" by Link Wray and the Wraymen

It was in the early 1960s

that British motorbikes entered their most notorious era.

"Rockers" had an unruly and threatening reputation.

The press was full of tales

of transport cafes stuffed with young men, who liked nothing more

than tearing up bypasses at 100mph.

That post-war generation didn't want to go to the pub,

listening to pianos and whatnot.

It wasn't for them. They wanted excitement.

They were living in a time known as the jet age.

Let's pass the test and let's be...a ton-up boy.

They were known as "cafe racers" and their most notorious hang-out

was the Ace Cafe in North West London.

At 16, you can buy your first motorbike,

so, straightaway, you passed your test, "I want to try a 500."

Then you're ready for the Ace Cafe.

The Ace was a somewhat down-at-heel transport caff,

legendary among leather-clad bikers

for its jukebox stocked with the killer sounds of the day.

The spoon that served the sugar was nailed to the counter.

Most of the furniture was nailed down.

The jukebox was nailed down.

But what made it truly infamous

was the high-speed road that ran right past it.

London's North Circular Road became the Ace's very own racetrack.

The party piece was to come past here flat out.

Tales of high-speed dares cemented its place

as a social menace in the public eye.

The thrill that earned ultimate bragging rights was a jukebox race -

a rider's challenge timed to the length of a pop song.

Come in, jukebox, coin in...

ENGINE STARTS

..up to the Hanger Lane dual carriageway, do a U-ey,

and down before the record stopped.

So you come out the Ace caff flat out, turn, flat out back.

The dangers were obvious,

but a whole generation of young bikers couldn't get enough of it.

However, motorcyclists hadn't always been seen as the scourge of society.

Back in the early 1920s, Britain's roads were more suited

to the horse and cart than the motorcycle.

But bikes were being eagerly adopted as a means of everyday transport.

That's what makes us very different from America - that, in Britain,

the first kind of motorised transport that takes off

is the motorcycle. They're used in the 1920s in various ways.

Not just for fun, and not just for, um, commuting, but also businesses,

so they're used as sort of delivery vehicles,

beginning to replace horse and carts.

The roads would've been a difficult place -

they would've been empty of traffic -

but they would've still had their own hazards.

Horses were everywhere, which can sometimes be unpredictable,

especially if they're suddenly startled by

a loud-ish motorbike coming upon them and, of course, there's all,

like, the horse muck and everything else that has to be dealt with.

Traffic coming towards you was not necessarily friendly,

so that horse riders could wave in a friendly way,

or they might even try and have a go at you with the whip.

You have this ideal, thinking back to it of being

beautiful, open, sweeping roads, but actually, a lot of the time,

it would've been on little more than goat tracks, avoiding potholes,

trying not to fall off and missing stray dogs.

As roads were gradually tarmacked and petrol stations began to appear,

there was something stirring in the biker psyche.

For a war-torn generation,

bikes promised thrills and speed like nothing else.

When guys had lived through the horrors of the First World War,

then going fast on a bike was just exhilarating.

There wasn't anything scary about it,

because you weren't being shot at while you were doing it, so...

Yes, speed was an exhilaration,

rather than something to be afraid of.

Speed freaks then were known as "Promenade Percies"

and riding fast was an addiction that thrived, despite the perils.

Bikes were a little bit hairy,

um, probably more dangerous, proportionally, than cars

than if you compared the two today.

All of a sudden, an average guy could get that same sense

of exhilaration and speed and kind of progression and movement

that only a very few incredibly wealthy people

who had access to planes or fast cars experienced previously.

That sort of freedom to be in control of that, um,

even relatively,

modestly powered machine was like a trip to the moon, I suspect.

Riding fast on Britain's barely useable roads,

with no speed limits, attracted a certain kind of adventurer.

None more so than TE Lawrence.

Known as Lawrence of Arabia, for his exploits

in the Middle East during the First World War,

he struggled to find a place in peacetime life.

He had grown weary of the press attention his war heroics brought.

Thrashing along on a motorbike offered the escape

of adrenaline thrills and a chance to avoid the limelight.

Lawrence was the original ton-up boy.

He would ride from Bovington Camp to London and back again,

just to do it, um, and when you imagine the roads of those days,

it's just...it's unthinkable.

He wrote...

"When my mood gets too hot

"and I find myself wandering beyond control,

"I pull out my motorbike and hurl it at top speeds

"through these unfit roads for hour after hour."

"My nerves are jaded and gone, near dead,

"so that nothing less than hours of voluntary danger

"will prick them into life."

Finally, he turned up one Sunday, coming right across Dartmoor

from Plymouth to North Devon, where I lived,

on his 10 horsepower 100mph Brough Superior nickel-plated motor bicycle.

In the 1920s, there was only one make of bike

that offered the performance and glamour Lawrence was looking for.

His machines of choice were made by Brough Superior -

the first super bikes.

George Brough named his business Brough Superior

after he split from his father's company,

which was called plain old Brough.

He wanted to make the very best in fast bikes

and only something "superior" would do.

George was seeking motorbike perfection,

for those that could afford his high asking price.

George Brough started in 1919 and finished in 1939

and made about 3,000 bikes -

no two were the same in that 20-year period -

and they are today the Holy Grail, if you like.

Brough was an innovator with a keen eye for detail

and a sense of style that marked his creations as the most modern around.

Motorcycles that were made around that time had really not

come on an awful lot from a bicycle frame.

Brough were one of the first manufacturers to go with

really styling that we would recognise today in terms of curves.

From day one, his petrol tanks encompassed the top tube

on the frame, whereas everybody else still had these flat tanks,

these slab tanks,

so, in one, George Brough got the styling right and it took

the rest of the manufacturers eight, nine, ten years to catch up.

At his Nottingham factory, Brough's machines were made

to fit his wealthy clientele's exact requirements.

Like a good tailor, he would measure you for the bike and the handlebars.

If you were short - Lawrence of Arabia was short -

he'd put in a small back wheel and he would sit you on the saddle

and measure where your hands go and make the bars.

The speed and style of an SS80 or SS100 was for the elite few.

They cost more than the average man's yearly wage.

For a man like TE Lawrence, Brough Superior's promise

of unparalleled performance and exotic exclusivity

was the perfect match.

On a motorbike, you can put the world to rights.

I think that was very much part of Lawrence's joy of his riding.

Lawrence himself was a risk taker,

somebody who had lived a very full, exciting and interesting life

and so, at that point,

what other mode of transport could he have had than a Brough Superior?

You know, that was the natural fit.

The 1000cc Brough, from about 1925 onwards, was capable of,

in standard form, producing about 50 horsepower then, so that was 100mph.

A 100mph motorbike would've been completely outside

of everyday experience. Only a select few

would have any notion of travelling the roads at that speed.

Brough's high-performance super bikes were ideal for Lawrence.

He rode seven, crashed several, and kept coming back for more -

buying the latest model SS80 or SS100.

He named each one George and referred to them in his writings

as "Boanerges" a biblical reference meaning "Sons of Thunder".

He wrote, "The burble of my exhaust unwound like a long cord behind me.

"Soon my speed snapped it and I heard only the cry of the wind.

"The cry rose with my speed to a shriek

"while the air's coldness streamed like two jets of iced water

"into my dissolving eyes.

"I screwed them to slits,

"and focused my sights 200 yards ahead of me

"on the empty mosaic of the tar's gravelled undulations."

Although he'd survived several crashes relatively unscathed,

in 1935, Lawrence and his beloved Boanerges finally ran out of luck.

I heard the motorcycle coming back. I heard the engine suddenly race

and then...stop.

He came over the brow of the hill,

and there were two boys on bicycles.

'Suddenly, this man who faced death a score of times in Arabia

'meets a tragic end on a peaceful English country road.'

Swerving to avoid the boys, Lawrence had come off his SS100,

causing serious head injuries.

-CHURCH BELL TOLLS

-He died six days later.

Like many riders, he never wore a helmet.

Appalled at the needless death of a war hero,

the doctor who attended Lawrence

began researching the use of crash helmets.

As a result of Lawrence's crash, and the head injuries that he sustained,

the surgeon campaigned quite vigorously after that.

If he had been wearing a helmet, he would've been fine.

As a direct result of that,

um, quite a long time later, helmets did become compulsory.

The years in which Lawrence had indulged his passion

were golden ones for British motorcycles.

The inter-war period saw an explosion in ownership

and designs were becoming increasingly advanced.

Sport too was booming. Britain being Britain,

every aspect of riding a motorcycle had been turned into a game.

There was a competition event for everything.

# Follow the brow! Follow the brow... #

ENGINES REV

The sporting side of it was a big thing and it wasn't just racing.

There was all the club side of it. Every person who was

into motorcycles in the '20s would've been in a club.

There would've been this huge community,

and they wouldn't have just raced, they would've done hill climbs

and grass tracks and, kind of, they used to do trials

and they'd even do, like, pillion trials,

where you'd have someone on the back of the bike

to do a trial, and long-distance trials,

and there was always some kind of club involvement in it all.

Despite their popularity,

bikes were seen as challenging and somehow apart from other pursuits.

Even on the racing scene, motorbikes started to be perceived

in a different way to their four-wheeled rivals.

You'd still get people just riding around in their normal clothes,

although, in the racing scene, you do start to see stuff developing.

The car drivers would always wear white suits.

Nice, clean white helmets and goggles.

They were sort of pristinely turned out, so you've got a black,

leather-clad motorcyclist, covered in dirt, who, you know, whizzes round

lap after lap after lap getting dirty and it just...

There is this real sort of, separation.

The feeling that bikes were "a bit different"

was apparent at the prestigious Brooklands circuit.

It was one of the only custom-built racetracks in the world

and had been an important part of the bike scene from the beginning.

Yet, even here, bikers were becoming outsiders.

Brooklands, the most prominent British race circuit,

that closes in 1939. At that time, there is a real hierarchy of, um,

the establishment in the racing community.

Most cycle racers weren't allowed into the clubhouse at Brooklands,

whereas the car racers were.

They were looked down upon even in that scene as well.

But there was one place where the riders were already king -

the Isle of Man "Tourist Trophy", or TT races.

The event was founded in the early 1900s on the Isle of Man after

racing on the roads in mainland Britain had become outlawed.

The place became the spiritual home of British bikers.

Raced over a 37 mile, mountainous circuit,

the TT was a challenging time trial against the clock,

testing courage to the full.

There really is, um, nothing else like it in the world.

There wasn't back then and I guess there isn't now.

'The TT races are about to begin

'and, um, all the competitors are lined up.

'A lot of activity going on at the moment around the starting point.'

The rider would come face-to-face with the starter, who had his flag

in the air, and the guy would set his bike as he wanted it to start.

'Oh, yes, yes, the starter's flag is going up

'and he's watching his chronometer ready to give the signal

'for number one - that's Frith - to start on the stroke of 11.'

-CLOCK STRIKES, ENGINE REVS

-'There goes the starter's flag!'

As the flag drops, he would push, run, with the clutch held in,

then let his clutch out and jump onto the saddle.

-'He's away!'

-ENGINE REVS

And he'd hope it would fire and run straightaway and off he'd charge

and, most of the time, especially the top guys, they would.

'And now, here comes number two.'

They would have got it worked out to such a degree that they'd know

how many steps to take before jumping on the bike and it perhaps

looks a bit rudimentary, or a bit basic, but there was actually

an awful lot of science and a lot of thought would've gone into it.

-Nothing would've been left to chance.

-'He's away!'

Unlike Brooklands, the TT track was on everyday roads,

a far more familiar environment for the average rider,

despite its pitfalls.

It was a 37 mile track, which are public roads...

..with hairpins and hills and bumps and villages.

The rough road surface with drain covers and kerbs

and walls and hedges.

Over a mountain, the variation of the course itself, different conditions.

'It's at Ramsey that the mountain course begins.

'It's the hardest part of the run, and, incidentally, the course

'passes through some of the most beautiful scenery on the island,

'but I'm sure the fleeting riders are too occupied to notice it.'

They touch, um, today, 180,

but in the '30s, they would've been doing "the ton" -

parlance for 100mph - and, on the Sulby Straight,

speeds there would've approached 110-120.

'Jimmy Guthrie's leading all the way,

'setting a cracking pace at an average of nearly 80mph,

'slowing up on the turn, imagine what his top speeds must be!'

It was an extreme race that required equally extreme commitment.

Some of the guys would hold their throttles open by various means,

like elastic bands and things, and just hang on,

it was as simple as that.

Really, they were running quite close to flat out an awful lot of the time.

'He's coming down now, around Windy, turning wide.

'Here he comes! I can just spot him! And according to my timing...'

How they managed to achieve the lap times that they did,

on the machines of that time, in the conditions on those roads,

incredible, incredible guys.

'The enormous strain on both driver and machine

'in this gruelling 265 miles race can only be appreciated when

'we realise that they fly round the course for nearly 3½ hours on end.'

'Difficult corners and a seven mile climb in each of the seven laps

'makes it a thrilling sight for the spectators

'and a more thrilling struggle for the drivers.'

To handle the stresses and strains of such an arduous race,

the TT racer of the 1930s needed to be a hardy breed.

CHEERING

When you're riding a bike which has got no real suspension,

the saddles are not brilliantly comfortable and, you know,

it's a fairly ferocious thing.

There was no kind of let up. It was really, really physical, hard work.

These were fit guys who were doing it.

If the riders were tough, the bikes had to be even tougher.

For the bike companies, there was more than just pride at stake.

This really can't be underestimated,

its importance, in terms of motorcycle development.

The TT was an absolutely marvellous proving ground for manufacturers

in an era when people were concerned about reliability.

Naturally, we buy something today, it's not going to break.

Very different time then.

And so, for a manufacturer to be confident enough

to put their machines through two, three laps,

what better place to prove the reliability of their machine?

As the technology raced ahead,

one manufacturer excelled above all others -

Norton. For them, winning the TT became an expectation

-and wins meant sales.

-CHEERING

Often, the phrase was, well, "Which Norton won the TT this year?"

Not, "Which bike?" But "Which Norton?" They dominated.

They had the best riders riding for them.

The bikes were the toughest, probably the fastest.

'The winner, who by the way won the Junior TT earlier in the week,

'was Guthrie on a Norton with an average speed of 78.01mph.'

You could see the aces riding the bikes that you could buy racing

and that was a hell of a thing at the time.

The local salesroom could give you a road version of the very machine

that had just won the world's toughest race.

Norton's International model was the closest thing

to the TT dream the average rider could buy.

But Norton's winning streak would be rudely interrupted by world events.

In 1938, er, Norton won the TT,

but for 1939, they virtually withdrew from, um...international racing,

because they'd started to build bikes for the Army.

In 1939, as Britain geared up for war with Germany,

there was another team waiting to take Norton's place - BMW.

People know it as the Nazi TT, um...

where the German entrants, um...

really basically turned up uniformed and jackbooted.

The Nazi Party had taken control of German motorsport,

investing heavily in racing technology.

BMW had the world champion, George Meier,

and bikes that were far ahead of the competition.

The German government, of course, were behind, um, their car racing

and their motorcycle racing efforts and, in the motorcycling,

that extended to all classes, with BMW in the 500.

The German bikes were actually very good, with their shaft drive.

With no Norton factory team to rival them,

BMW won first and second places in the Senior race.

BMW did win that race. An exciting race.

No bones about that. And, um, the Germans...

That was the first time, if you like, that they had planted a flag,

on the top of our mountain.

BMW's second place rider was British man Jock West, shown on the right.

He chose not to join in with his team's victory salute.

Just three months after the TT, Britain was at war with Germany

and the motorbike would be put to military use.

Men to ride them also had to be commandeered.

Ron Arnold was one of them.

I had no thought at all of riding a motorcycle.

Before joining the Army, I couldn't drive.

But I had to specialise in something. Everybody had to specialise.

So, I became a Despatch Rider.

NEWS THEME PLAYS

'In addition to mechanical systems,

'the human method of communication still ranks very high in modern war.

'The Despatch Rider is most able to cope

'with rapidly changing conditions. Upon his shoulders rests

'the responsibility of maintaining contact

'between the many positions in the field,

'even before more permanent methods of communication

'have been established.'

I think they first give me a BSA.

Known as DRs, Despatch Riders and their bikes

were expected to operate in any weather conditions

and deliver messages wherever they were ordered to.

And, in due course, bit by bit, er, they provided me with the rest of it.

'Here, the wise DR does things methodically

'and takes care in his dressing.'

Double texture rubber coat, almost down to the ankles.

A pair of goggles.

They taught me how to ride a motorcycle and how to use a map

that other people could understand what I was referring to on that map.

'Trained to adjust themselves rapidly and thoroughly, there is

'little that a fully fledged DR doesn't know about finding his way,

'not only with maps, but making use of his own powers of observation.'

You were also issued with a Despatch Bag.

-Gotta be there by six.

-Very good, sir, I'll be there.

I never bothered to look what's in it. It's handed to me.

I put it round my neck, I go, I deliver it to my officer.

As well as his supposedly weather-proof uniform,

the Despatch Rider depended on his bike.

Birmingham Small Arms, or BSA, were the most common bike in the field,

but not always the most popular.

I found the BSA, um, quite cumbersome.

They're a good road bike, and we're mostly going cross-country.

Roads are on German maps.

'The SDR memorises the route, taking care not to mark his map,

'and heads towards the village.'

' "There's the road I came along,

' "I'd better get another landmark to make sure.

' "There, that church."

'Right! Better than asking the way.

'Questions near the fighting line are dangerous.

'This DR used his brains instead.'

If the BSA left something to be desired,

Ron much preferred his replacement.

Fortunately, I was handed a Norton motorcycle.

It was lightweight, I could throw it about,

I'd be able to move with it as well.

Norton was a very nice machine.

-For you, sir, special despatch.

-Thank you.

Six o'clock.

-I see you left London at six o'clock?

-Yes, sir.

-That's jolly good time. There you are.

-Thank you, sir.

After cutting his teeth in England, Ron Arnold was posted to Normandy.

We arrive on the beach.

"Move! Get off the beach! Move! Move! move!

"Move off the beach!" So we leave the beach, eventually,

and we end up in a meadow.

In that meadow, my bike, in its tarpaulin,

it's pulled off, and I am now alive.

In the Second World War,

Britain used more motorbikes than any other country.

By its end, the manufacturers had made more than 400,000 of them.

Throughout the conflict,

British society had been exposed to motorcycles like never before.

Both the clothing and machines that had been made for the Army

would have a lasting impact

on how the public viewed bikes in the post-war years.

In peacetime, as the bike industry began picking up the pieces,

new machines were mostly for export and therefore hard to come by.

But it wasn't long

before civvy street was awash with second hand bikes

and ex-War Department stock sold on the cheap.

A lot of surplus motorcycles were converted back to civilian use,

you know, were repainted from army khaki

into any colour as long as it's black kind of thing,

to get Britain mobile again.

We're getting a proliferation, again, of bikes.

We've got the ones now from the '20s and '30s.

Obviously, the second-hand market grows,

the more bikes there are around, uh...

so they're becoming more available.

In amongst all the austerity, there was a dream bike

that offered a glimpse of what the future might hold,

a hand-built fantasy for motorcycle fans

that contrasted deeply with the world around it.

The bike to end all bikes - the Vincent Black Shadow.

It was the ultimate - and rightly so, you know.

# They're building an atom bomb

# Blow me out of this place

# They're building a bigger bomb

# What a crazy human race... #

They couldn't find a road fast enough to test it on,

to do that, even though there was no speed limit then.

They used to do all the testing on the A1 at dawn.

Its standout feature, visually,

was it had a...all-black engine,

and it had a five-inch speedometer.

# Oh!

# Did you ever hear such a noise...?! #

For buyers with lots of cash, there's the Vincent HRD,

the most expensive bike on view, costing near £600.

Its cooler-than-cool looks made it a pin-up for British enthusiasts,

but its real claim to fame was speed.

A highly tuned version of the Black Shadow

was taken to the western US state of Utah in 1948

and on the Bonneville Salt Flats made history.

The American rider in the desert

stripped down to his... to a pair of bathing trunks

and, uh...flattened himself

along the tank and the seat of the bike.

And rode at 150mph like that.

And in a straight line.

I mean, these guys were heroes.

It was an unbelievable speed, um... for those days.

Vincent's design stood out in an era of making do

as a symbol of progress and engineering skill.

They were...in another quantum leap in terms of performance.

Even on British roads, unthinkable speeds could be achieved.

To be able to do 110 was incredible,

but to be able to HOLD 110,

with no bits falling off

and, uh...you know, nothing going bang,

was...was phenomenal.

Record-breaking speed and technical innovation

didn't bring the Black Shadow social approval.

Bikes had a bit of an image problem,

and despite Vincent's state-of-the-art designs,

they ceased bike production in 1955.

It wasn't like having a sports car.

Even though it was horrendously expensive,

it was still a motorbike... and tarred with that brush.

Britain was also changing.

Society was on the move.

Expanding road networks and new out-of-town suburbs

drove a boom in the demand for personal transport.

As consumerism took hold in the 1950s,

the middle class increasingly wanted cars rather than motorbikes.

Cars were aspirational status symbols,

and they kept you warm and dry.

Every man's got a car, poor man and rich man.

You can't keep him off because he's a poor man or a working man.

He's just as entitled to have a car on the road as you are!

And it wasn't just aspirations that were evolving.

If grown-ups wanted cars,

there was a new group that would take motorbikes off their hands.

Teenagers.

# We're gonna jump, little children, jump

# We're gonna jump, little children, jump

# We're gonna jump, little children, mother and poppa's gone... #

You're beginning to get youth subcultures emerging after the war,

and it's part of a whole debate in society about these new youths,

these young people who are having more money,

who are having more independence.

The old traditions of respect,

whether it's for your parents, for the Church,

for the establishment, for Parliament, whatever.

All of those things are under threat in the post-war period.

Motorcycles, and scooters, of course, become part of that youth generation.

The generation gap becomes a social concern.

The anxiety around teenagers and motorbikes was quick to set in.

Marlon Brando's 1953 film The Wild One

ignited a full-blown moral panic,

with its portrayal of delinquent bad boys on motorcycles.

Brando's sneering, disdainful performance

captured a threatening sense of rebellion

that was emphasised by the film's use of costumes.

The gang's black leather jackets

in stark contrast to the ordinary townsfolk.

The director made Brando's Johnny

menacingly disengaged from authority figures,

and the artistic mix worked so well

that British censors banned the film.

-Where's that bunch from?

-I don't know, everywhere.

I don't even think they know where they're going.

Termites - ten guys like that give people the idea

everybody who drives a motorcycle is crazy.

The British Board of Film Censors described it

as a "spectacle of unbridled hooliganism."

When that hooligan happened to be riding a Triumph,

it was no wonder British youths took his image to their hearts.

For teenagers, bikes were a way

of marking themselves out from the rest of society.

They might not always have been able

to get the fastest and flashiest around,

but for some it became a lasting love affair.

I was 14, and it was a Norton 600,

and it had a sidecar on it, and I gave ten bob for it.

My first motorcycle was an ex-WD 350 Matchless.

When you're 16, it gets in there permanent,

first of your life, like riding a bike.

Teens created a motorbike scene all of their own,

and transport cafes were the centre of this new world.

Racing from venue to venue, the cafe racer had come of age.

Young people are hanging out.

I mean, maybe they're not old enough to drink yet,

they're not able to take part in pub culture,

but they also don't necessarily want to be part of pub culture,

which has associations with the older generation.

I mean then, them days then, it was coffee.

No-one drunk. Drink a beer? No, I wouldn't drink.

Drugs? What's drugs? No-one knew what drugs was.

But it was clean, it was good clean fun.

Cafe racers spanned the country.

There was soon a place for riders to hang out in every city.

The notorious Ace Cafe's position on the inner London ring road

made it the pit stop of choice for many of the capital's young riders.

It was whizzing around North London.

It could be in Birmingham or Manchester.

Huge demographic explosion.

Fast bit of road, neon,

a soundtrack, their new soundtrack, rock'n'roll music.

You've got the Busy Bee, you've got the Ace Cafe,

and they're going to be riding their bikes backwards and forwards to them.

They're just whizzing around from cafe to cafe,

hence the term, "cafe racer".

You finish work, had your dinner, eight o'clock, time to go.

What you have is, in the late '50s and the early '60s,

you have the first generation

of post-war young men that haven't been conscripted.

They are...living in a world

where their working conditions, pay, holidays are improving all the time,

because of government legislation.

You also have greater availability of credit,

so they're buying motorcycles on credit,

they can buy clothing on credit.

Bikes had long ceased to be just forms of practical transport

or playthings of the elite.

Now they were objects of youthful desire.

And they went to the heart of the identity of those who rode them.

Like any new social scene,

biking would develop its own strict styles, code and culture.

# Don't mess with my ducktails

# Don't mess with my ducktails

# If you mess with my ducktails, I'll get so mad at you... #

The image of a rocker back then

was motorbike boots with, erm... white socks going over.

The actual reality of it was

you'd be quite posh to be able to afford proper motorbike boots.

A lot of the lads I hung around with,

they either wore wellingtons with... turned down...

It was a fashionable thing! Erm...

Or... Or ex-army boots.

Light blue jeans were a thing that rockers were synonymous with,

but that's because they was cheap.

The look of the ton-up boy and rockers

didn't always have room for crash helmets.

Some people just didn't wear them,

because they didn't really take much attention to risk,

or it was just too much of an expense.

Some did.

Generally, we only wore a crash helmet if it was...

..if you knew it was going to be really cold,

or if we was going on a long run, say if we was...

Back in them days, a long run would be Brighton,

cos the bikes weren't so reliable!

But you'd wear a crash helmet not for safety,

but for more to keep the elements away.

You didn't really wear a helmet, because them days, Billy Fury days,

and a crash helmet mucked your hair up.

The thought of putting this thing on, A, it didn't look so good!

B, it flattened your bouffant, your hair.

When you arrived at the Ace Caff, you had the big quiff,

forward with the Brylcreem, it looked right.

When you had a helmet on, it was hassle,

it just mucked your hair up.

Because it wasn't law at the time, I think the reason...

You didn't have to wear a helmet, so you never knew the difference,

and I used to just love going along

with the wind roaring through my hair and...

You do see some fantastic... caps being worn,

the white topped, dark peaked helmet,

with a chain across the front, and it's a very stylised look.

One particular item of clothing, though,

was not only set to define the bikers as rebels,

but destined to become a universal and lasting fashion icon.

# Good time, baby

# Go...! #

If you could afford one,

a leather jacket was the essential bike accessory.

# Good time, baby

# Let's go crazy... #

You start to see the American influence come in

with the black leather jacket,

which has its roots in a few different areas,

but primarily almost a direct appropriation of military uniforms.

Almost all of us wore leather jackets.

I mean, my first leather jacket I got when I was 14.

Most of my mates couldn't afford new leather jackets,

so we had like hand-me-downs from the ton-up boys.

Often bought from military surplus,

it was these symbols of rocker life that disturbed older generations.

You can do a direct image comparison

between the black leather jacket and the...German tank crews.

The silhouette and the design, the lapels, is almost identical.

The patches and customised designs on the jackets

carried other connotations

for those who had witnessed the Second World War.

You're 16, 17, you suddenly get a motorcycle,

you put on a leather jacket, so you have patches on the arms,

you have patches and badges on the front of the jacket.

You also have insignia being painted on the back as well.

Your parents, who may have seen lots of images

or actually been to war themselves

and, you know, been close up with the enemy,

are going to draw some comparisons to all of this.

Their uniform is black leather,

their hair a sergeant major's nightmare!

And the two words on everyone's lips - the ton, 100mph.

The growing distance

between the leather-clad upstarts and wider society

became most apparent when the rockers got on their bikes.

Roads were a Wild West frontier of unrestricted speed.

We used to race from one roundabout to the other,

and you'd go up and down there,

and we found that you went up and down four or five times,

then someone would have phoned the police,

or the police would arrive, so you'd go up and down twice.

The cafe racer lifestyle was a dangerous one.

Britain's roads were being improved, traffic was growing.

And around transport cafes,

leaking lorry oil added to the hazards of riding fast.

No, you don't think of the risk, I don't think of the risk now.

The youngsters who are wanting to show off to each other

will come past here flat out,

and flat out on an old Brit bike is somewhere perhaps 80mph,

and certain machines perhaps just over 100mph.

Leading the way was the ton-up boy,

committed to going as fast as possible

regardless of the consequences.

You come into these cafes and you meet them.

You meet the ton-up boy.

You meet the... the rogue, like, you know.

He won't bother about what... what you think of his driving,

cos all he's bothered about is getting past you,

anywhere, at any place, at any time.

You can bet he's the boy who's going to go flashing past

with the throttle wide open.

And you can bet you he's the boy, in six months,

who's going to be in a coffin.

Yes, really, I was a ton-up boy.

When you was a ton-up boy, it was speedo,

you looked at the speedo, 90, 91...

And it gradually crept up, 100mph,

and then you think, "I just done a ton," you know,

and that made the day, because you did a ton.

I had a BSA Gold Star

that was actually a Clubmans racing bike with lights on,

and it's what I started racing on.

But I had a younger sister, who would be five or six years old,

and I used to go and pick her up from school.

You've got the rev counter and the speedo on the BSA like that,

and she's watching it, and she goes rushing in to her mum,

saying, "Mummy, Mummy, we did 100mph!"

My mother went mad!

There was another strand to rocker life.

Some of their hang-outs were notorious

for being as rough as their leather jackets.

The Chelsea Bridge Boys

were an infamous band of rockers who gathered next to a tea kiosk.

It was notorious in the '50s and '60s as a place of ill repute.

You didn't go up there,

and if you did, you was bad, you was deemed to be a bad boy.

People wouldn't even walk over it,

and if you had a scooter, the scooter boys wouldn't ride over there,

cos if they did, the scooters got thrown over Chelsea Bridge.

It was hardly Hell's Angels stuff,

but always central to the action at the bridge

were the motorbikes they doted on.

It was these that delivered the real thrills, spills and adrenaline.

It weren't just about having fights and, like, being yobs.

I mean, we was and we did,

but for us it was more like the thrill of getting on a motorbike

and riding it and opening the throttle

and going as fast as you can, and going into a bend

and getting it just right and coming out the other side

and you'd think, "Wow," it was just a buzz.

That was the common denominator, we all felt that.

Although they rode whatever they could afford second-hand,

or perhaps new on HP,

cafe racers favoured a certain type of bike.

They were influenced by the styling and look of TT racers

who, like them, raced on roads.

But racing bikes traditionally used single-cylinder engines.

For rockers, it was twin-cylinder engines

that offered them what they wanted, quicker acceleration

and performance geared for the streets.

Twins were generally associated with rockers,

ton-up boys and rockers generally.

Cos you could tune them and go much faster.

Triumph had set the standard.

Their chief designer, Edward Turner,

developed the Triumph Twin before the war,

and through the 1950s they released bikes

with sporty, American-tinged styling.

Their finest hour was with the T120 Bonneville launched in 1959.

Named after a Triumph speed record

set at Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah,

it was THE bike to be seen with,

featuring dual carburettors and era-defining cool.

The ton-up boys loved it.

In the same year, motorcycle sales hit the roof.

Cafe racers may have been setting the fashion

for quick and stylish machines,

but the bike industry only had eyes for lucrative American exports.

Young riders found they had to customise these designs

to make them their own.

At no time did any of the manufacturers,

the Triumphs and the Nortons and whatnot,

ever look to the youngsters and ask them what they wanted.

The kids bought the machine and then adapted it to how they wanted it.

It's very seldom I'll have a bike more than six months.

I prefer to chop and change, rebuild.

As a hobby, I don't keep them just as a form of transport.

They are a hobby with me.

I like to have a bike,

and when I've got the maximum performance out of that bike,

I'd rather sell it than keep it and then start on something else.

People could think that they were Geoff Duke

or whoever their particular Norton hero was,

John Surtees, whatever,

by dropping the handlebars

and putting the footrests a bit further back

and getting down to it.

Head down, arse up - it was the best position to be in,

A, for aerodynamics, and B, to keep control of the bike

if you went into a bend and you got it a bit wrong.

With a fine weekend, a powerful motorbike

and a girlfriend on the back, the ton-up boys set off.

Two short days for riding high and fast,

to wind and weave,

and often to be a menace.

Huge progress comes about

as a consequence of the pursuit of speed,

but it does come at a price.

Cafe racers were paying with their lives.

In 1960, nearly 14,000 riders under the age of 24

were killed or seriously injured.

# He rode into the night

# Accelerated his motorbike

# I cried to him in fright

# Don't do it, don't do it... #

One lad that lost his leg, he went on the inside of a coach.

The coach was turning left, and so was he.

He literally, as it swung in,

he run over his bike and took his... took his leg off.

Underlying the mythical tales of teenage road races

was a harsh reality.

On the roads around the Ace, the casualties started to mount up.

Race to the Neasden Bridge and back.

I'd do 90mph around there.

And some didn't come back,

because, you know, Neasden Bridge is a well-known place.

You could try and take it flat out, but it was impossible.

With the volume of traffic growing and the roads not modernised,

there was a wave of popular feeling that this was no longer...fun.

# Please wait at the gate of heaven for me... #

Absolute carnage on the roads, the casualties went up and up and up.

The pursuit of speed, at one level,

is regarded as a noble cause.

But for the mass of society,

it's often regarded as a threat and a challenge.

The public backlash was keenly felt by the rockers.

We'd go into caffs and places like that and they...no leather jackets.

There wasn't many places we could go to,

so, as a consequence, we ended up in less than desirable places.

We was just like anybody else.

We wanted to hang around with blokes

who had the same interests as us, simple, you know.

But because of the reputation, and I guess our dress mode

and the noise of the bikes and the aggressive way we used to ride,

it kind of, like, all melted into a picture

which wasn't too appealing

to the normal, decent people back in them days.

The powers that be were worried,

but the establishment hadn't given up on them just yet.

An inspired group of vicars had an idea,

to try and bring the cafe racers back into the mainstream.

In 1962, the Reverend Bill Shergold

would make a journey to the infamous Ace Cafe.

His mission - to try and tempt the wayward youngsters

to come to a new youth club

and escape unscathed himself.

So he plucked up his courage

and set off on his motorbike into the unknown.

He wrote, "I wrapped a scarf around my neck

"covering up my dog collar.

"About a dozen bikes

"ridden by sinister looking figures in black leathers

"roared past in the opposite direction.

"I felt almost sick with fear.

"I was in such a panic that I opened up the throttle

"and fled past the Ace as fast as I could."

This wasn't where you'd expect to find a vicar.

Anywhere where motorcyclists gathered

was a place where normal people, respectable people wouldn't go.

A few weeks later he tried again.

He wrote, "I entered the forecourt at the Ace.

"It was packed with bikes.

"Hundreds of boys were milling around, laughing and talking."

"'This is it,' I thought.

"'I shall almost certainly lose my trousers

"'or end up in the canal.'"

Yet gradually they were won over by Shergold

and his inclusive, non-judgmental style.

Although this is a church club,

its purpose is to bring together young people with a common interest,

motorcycling.

Their shared interest convinced the rockers at the Ace

that the 59 Club was somewhere worth a look.

As well as a new place to meet, it organised rallies and ride-outs,

even activities like subaqua diving.

Bikers joined in their thousands,

and the 59 Club became the biggest motorcycle club in the world.

For those who joined the 59 Club,

it meant more than the establishment could ever have dreamed.

My first moment or night of going there

was definitely, for me, life defining, it really was.

And it kept me on a path within motorcycling

for the rest of my life, really.

But it was still somewhere

the rockers and ton-up boys could revel in their lifestyle.

By the mid 1960s, though, that lifestyle was under threat.

Rock'n'roll seemed to have had its day.

A younger generation was coming through

that did things very differently.

They became known as mods,

famed for their love of sharp suits instead of leathers,

coffee bars over transport caffs.

They wanted soul music, not rock'n'roll,

and, worst of all, from a rocker's point of view,

scooters, not motorbikes.

How would you explain this fanatical devotion

by scooter enthusiasts for their gleaming machines?

You kind of, like, got the fact that they were good for riding on

and wearing decent clothes.

-But it's a mod - how can you get pleasure from riding that

-BLEEP

-thing?

They're like little hairdryers, you know.

How can you get pleasure from it? It was alien to us.

Mods represented progress -

with their Italian scooters, a more international outlook.

Rockers and motorbikes were being left behind

as the rest of Britain moved on.

Mods were looking to the future,

and tension between the two saw things turn ugly.

If you get into a fight with a mod, you've got to watch it all the time,

like, they'll pull your hair, claw at you.

They start it, you know what rockers are like, don't you?

It really has come to something

when people can't take a short holiday

without the threat of long-haired youngsters with knives

indulging in an orgy of hooliganism.

Only a handful of clashes happened between mods and rockers

at seaside resorts like Brighton, but it was too late.

The press and polite society had their pantomime villains.

Adolescents on motorbikes became identified with thugs

and rubbed in prejudices against motorbikes

that many people have always had of them.

The noise, danger, dirt and discomfort.

The rockers' misbehaviour amounted to a knockout blow

to the prestige of the two-wheeled machine in this country.

What do you think about society?

Dunno, it don't bother me.

As the media fretted about delinquent youth,

the mystique was fading fast for British motorcycles.

The industry began losing its battle

against a flood of Japanese imports rising throughout the '60s.

These were humdrum, practical machines designed for commuters,

bikes guaranteed to get you to work, rather than get you excited.

British bikes had this thing called character,

which is a euphemism for being not very reliable.

Yet what couldn't be taken away

was the spirit of fun, coolness and rebellion

that British bikes had represented to the world for so long.

It's no accident

that whilst rockers struggled to find a place in '60s society,

their style and attitude became legend.

The motorbikes they blasted through the streets on

are still lusted after...

..and even 50 years later have a look all of their own.

The restless energy of Lawrence,

the bravery of TT racers

and the individuality of the ton-up boys

took a utilitarian form of transport

and gave it a very British take,

a full-throttle affair.

You couldn't really put it in words - it was just such a fantastic feeling.

# Come on, Michael, trade your motorcycle

# And get yourself an automobile

# We can't make love on a cycle, Michael

# Like we could in an automobile

# Ah, come on, Michael, trade your motorcycle

# And get you some wheels with a top

# We can't make time on a cycle, Michael

# And I want you so much, I could drop. #