Holy SMOKER

A long time ago, in a city far, far away... I shared a flat with a truly great guy; ace guitarist, enthusiastic motorcyclist and enormously smart. A doctor, in fact, although not of the medical variety. Barrie’s doctorate was in the then cutting-edge art (or possibly science) of nuclear magnetic resonance spectroscopy. Even today I have trouble spelling that.

Barrie rode a Norton, a 650SS, often considered to be the best of the pre-Commando Norton twins. It looked great, complete with its leather-lookalike tank cover, Dunstall Decibel ‘silencers’ and swept-back pipes, all topped off with one of those truly vile quilted plastic foam seat covers. This last wasn’t a performance enhancement; it was an attempt at preventing rainwater soaking the highly absorbent Norton seat. It failed.

The actual performance kit, however, produced a really rapid motorcycle. It was also very, very loud. A pal down the lane ran a new Commando, and the 650SS would keep up with that until the flying riders encountered a dual carriageway (rare in 1972 Norfolk), at which point the Commando would pull steadily away. The reasons were simple: the Commando weighed less and made more power – and it didn’t blow up, which the 650SS did with tedious