Real Steel 1939 U-Model Harley-Davidson
“My ego was somewhat deflated when I… discovered that I picked up the prize for Best Rat Bike!” said Ronny.
BEING COUNTRY born and bred in Victoria, motorbikes started for me in the days when you could get away without much rego or a licence. Around 1965, I bought an old BSA 500 cc off a bloke I knew, not sure if it was 20 quid or $20 I paid for it. Even though he became one of my best mates, I still reckon he ripped me off. When the old thing went it was a flier, and when it didn’t go, well that’s another story. I wasn’t game to take the bike home ’cause I didn’t know how the old man would react. I thought he might have taken it off me but, with hindsight, I reckon he would have got behind me and had it in good running order which I could never do.
Then another mate got hold of an even older Ariel. It was great for spot-lighting foxes and rabbits. It developed a bad habit of playing up when you headed it for home. I’m still traumatised by that thing; it cost me a pair of boots from having to walk home every time we took it out. I never did like eating rabbits anyway.
After leaving home and chasing work in Queensland, I went through a series of rice-burners, nothing too serious, just bikes to get to work on and a bit of fun on weekends. Although I did learn a few hard lessons around this time: I discovered the hard way that rain, a disconnected front brake and a six-pack of beer under your belt don’t mix. I ended up skidding over an embankment. Of course I blamed the Japanese heap of shit! I’ve still got tears in my eyes from the pain the doctor inflicted on me scrubbing the metal out of my knee with what looked like one of those steel brushes used on horses.
I went through a quiet period as far as bikes go and knuckled down to a bit of work. Then one day a bloke I know was piecing together an old 1939 U-model Harley-Davidson that was found in an old shed down Newcastle way. One thing led to another and I become the new owner.
You can have a lot of fun riding these old bangers around, especially when you can get a mob of compatible bikes together at the same time. I was invited to join a group called The Lost Souls, a not-too-serious mob who get together every May Day to go away for the weekend. Our last run included three Panheads, three Shovels, my Flathead, and an Indian out of the ’30s as well. We ended up at a Russian motorbike rally. Before we left I spent a lot of time making the old banger sparkle like a diamond and rode it for two days before we got to the rally. After a few beers I was quite proud when my name got called out to go and collect an award. My ego was somewhat deflated when I finally came to my senses and discovered that I picked up the prize for Best Rat Bike!
Anyhow, I’ve had worse than what the Russians have dealt out to me. One summer I was out on the road and it was hotter than hell so I’ve pulled up for a spell at a little country store to let things cool down a bit. While I was blowing the froth off a cool beverage, this old cove drove in and I saw him pointing at me. It wasn’t long before he came over while waving to his missus to join us. He was telling me the story of when he was a young bloke and had a bike similar to mine with a sidecar that he used to court his future missus in. He went on for a while telling me stories of some of their bike trips when he looked me square in the eyes and says, “Did you buy it new?”
Well fuck me dead! When I look in the mirror, I know the years haven’t been all that kind to me but my father was 13-years-old when it was made and the bike 12-years-old when I was born — not sure whether I need a beauty therapist or a new mirror. I sometimes think of that old bloke and his future missus riding around the back blocks somewhere trying to shag her in the sidecar.
One day I thought I had taken my last bike ride on the old Flatty when a car came out of a rural driveway and went straight across the road and hit me. I was very lucky it wasn’t a T-bone and I ricocheted off his bullbar. Luckily there was a bit of kerb and channelling which I hit that got me airborne before going through a barbed wire fence. Before I went through the fence, my life flashed before my eyes and had me yelling like Geronimo. The old bike got airborne enough to go over the first three strands of barb and I took the fourth strand about four inches below my chin. Luck was on my side that day and the top strand broke; glad it wasn’t a new high tensile wire or I would have been still groping around the paddock looking for my head!
In the paddock I couldn’t get up; the tops of my arms were chewed up a bit and a gash over my chest. The old cove that hit me wouldn’t come in the paddock to assist. I started yelling at him that I needed help and all he could say was, “Who will I call?”
“Eeer, for fuck sake, ya might as well dial me a pizza for all the good you are!” I yelled back at him.
Anyhow someone finally got an ambulance and off to hospital to get patched up. And my old ’39, well, fixed that up no worries; they’re made of real steel, not like that Russian crap!
Early in 2010, I was fuelling up at a servo and a bloke I knew pulled in and started telling me about a new club starting up. At the time I wasn’t interested in joining any club but went along to support them on their first ride. At the first stop they started collecting membership fees, and hearing some of the ideas they had, I decided to give them a go. Now a lot of my life revolves around what become the Tweed Coast Chapter of the American Motorcycle Club (TCAMC). What a great mob of blokes with around 30 members, and don’t forget the sheilas who are a bunch of good ‘sorts’ with five full members and another about to get her full licence. We also have quite a few social members riding pillion. We have a great social life, rides and overnighters, and inter-chapter events, and stories that will be talked about forever. Along the way we raise quite a bit of money for our two charities — the Make a Wish Foundation and the Tweed Palliative Support — which is very gratifying. We’re hoping to add other charities as we go along.
I’m getting old now, but not as old as my old ’39! I’ll be quite happy to see my days out riding the old banger with The Lost Souls on the May Day Weekenders and hanging out with a beer in hand having a good time with the best mob ever at the TCAMC.
Photos by Rod Cole; story by Ronny
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