1958 Matchless G3LS (350cc)1958 Matchless G3LS (350cc)My first bike looked like this, except it had been painted with blue house paint--with a brush! I taught myself to ride and got my first driver's license in Ghana, West Africa. I learned to drive on the left side of the road, with roundabouts and all that lingering British legacy. My Dad bought the bike for himself, but had difficulty with the brake and shifters being on opposite sides from his previous Honda 55. He'd rev up to a gear change and then hit the brake instead of shifting. Between that and the compression release system that nearly threw him over the handlebars, I think he got too frustrated to bother with it, so I happily took it over.
I had some wonderful times on the back of that bike. Almost daily I would ride to the nearby beach or harbor and hobnob with the locals. (It's no wonder I only completed one year of correspondence school in the two years I was in Ghana.) The old Matchless threw a chain at one point and I watched its graceful, whirling arc over my shoulder as it nearly took out the windshield of a taxi. It dripped battery acid on my leg, which ate through several pants legs and several layers of skin before I figured out it wasn't some tropical rash. And, because it was so hot and humid I often rode in shorts. Of course I dumped it on my bare leg--exhaust pipe down--and burnt off a pretty big piece of skin. When I got home and bent down to look at the damage, I touched the hot pipe with my knee and raised yet another silver dollar-sized blister. On cold days I can still see the scars, some 40 years later. I really loved that old bike.
My First Driver's License
I made inquiries in Accra about getting a motorcycle driver's license and made the mistake of revealing my age. The clerk said I was too young and dismissed me summarily. So I took a mammy wagon about fifty miles up to Koforidua where the clerks wouldn't know me and found a friendly guy at one of the bush meat vendors who was willing to "rent" me his Honda 250 for my drivers test. I think I gave him two Cedis, or the equivalent of two dollars. And there, on a road that was more pothole than road, on an unfamiliar bike, I took my test. I was the subject of no little curiousity--a "European" kid, trying to maneuver a borrowed bike among the potholes. I was, apparently, quite entertaining, judging by the laughter. The examiner took pity on me and passed me--even though I am sure he knew I was under age. I had "forgotten" my passport at home in Tema, so I couldn't prove it. Anticipating trouble I had placed a 5 Cedi note in the folds of my written test. The examiner smiled at my clumsy "dash" and handed the note back to me. I gave him one Cedi instead and he nodded, "That is more appropriate." There is a difference, you see, between a bribe and a tip.