The British appellations-café racer, Mods 'n' Rockers, doing the ton-must seem quaint to younger ears. Weaned on 150-mph production sportbikes, hip-hop doggerel and video games, they probably view the '60s as the Dark Ages of motorcycle development.
But in 1969, having a café racer was absolutely tits. Or, as the Brits would say, smashing pumpkins. But not many kitted English twins-Dunstall Nortons, Rickman Triumphs, Dresda Tritons and so on-made it to the States in those days. And those that went to second and third owners were often neglected, modified or ridden to scrap. In 1987 a friend offered up a dormant Norton Atlas for my amateur roadracing effort: Dunstall 810 engine, disc brakes and café bodywork. I noticed two burly lug nuts welded to the front of the lower frame tubes, so I had to ask. "The guy I bought it from mounted highway pegs," the owner said. That kind of thing.
Then, as now, the three-part ergonomic demographic for riding position was set: recliner, upright or crouch. Crouchers were a distinct minority in the U.S. Our street scratchers were mostly garden-variety British twins with flat bars, solo seats and rearset foot controls. Those a rung lower on the economic or credit ladder rode Ducati singles, Suzuki X6 Hustlers, Kawasaki triple fuse-bikes, Honda twins and such. Then, in '72, the Yamaha RD350 took the game up a notch. Shortly after that came the Ducati 750 Sport-a factory café racer-and then the desmo 750 Super Sport. Hootchie Mama!
But back to '69: My stock BSA 650 Lightning was aching for stubby bars, sleek alloy tank and a racing seat. But my bank account, and job as a PR flack for TV Guide magazine, were on the downhill slope. Obviously it was time, as old Ben Franklin had once observed, to "quit the scene," which I did by fleeing to England, where I was witness to the bloom of café racer creativity, the reinvention of rock 'n' roll and the wonderful era of the miniskirt. Thank you, Jesus.
Though I had missed the little gathering at Woodstock, the debut (free) concert of Blind Faith in Hyde Park was a good connection to the British rock revival movement. The breeze carried the music around the natural amphitheater, fading ... then returning. Chords of Clapton, whiffs of reefer. Mick was there, man. And Donovan. Far out!
The mods and rockers elbowed one another for standing room position, the London bobbies looking on sternly. One of the leather-and-chain lads pegged me for a Yank and inquired of my English mission. "Café racers," I said, and if the money held out I would get to the Isle of Man for the TT.
"Bloody, 'ell, you say," he said. "I've got a caff bike for sale myself. It's a Panther. Nice bit o' kit, too: bum-stop seat, clip-ons, footrests up 'n' aft. It's yours for 400 quid."
"What's a Panther?" I asked astutely.
"A sloper, mate. A 600cc single, gobs of torque, gets down the road smartly. The twins only pull away on the straights."
But shipping a bike to the States wasn't in the budget, and as it turned out, neither was the Island. Giacomo Agostini would win the Senior and Junior TTs for MV, in the absence of the recently knighted and retired Mike Hailwood. Poverty would pull me home, and a copywriting job with Goodyear allowed the purchase of an unmolested '67 Velocette Thruxton, a gentleman's roadster. I would later come to realize that, like the quest for the perfect taco, the search for the ultimate café racer is a long-term deal. Patience is mandatory.
In my case the term was five years, when I walked into Portage Cycle in Ravenna, Ohio, and spied a curiously yellow-orange Ducati 750 Sport. Terry, the mechanic, had bought it, but said they had another one coming. "Take it for a ride," he said. Story short: I bought the next one, strapped a duffel bag on the tank and headed back to California.
The right café racer is the right one, even 2500 miles from home. And now, 33 years and hundreds of bikes later, I can't say I've ridden a better one.
By Tod Rafferty
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