Club Journals 1 2 3 4

Vintage Auto Swap meetings are never a social event, it’s “heads down” to look for that elusive spare part that you have been searching for to complete some current restoration project. The rule usually is – when you first look at the “heap of junk” spread out on the ground before you, if at first glance nothing looks familiar, then move on to the next hopeful vendor

My “thing” had been MG cars for years, but finally decided that seeing I “couldn’t take it with me”, it was better to part with it now and therefore concentrate on parts for MG’s or tools that can be restored and sold on E-Bay. This gives me an ongoing interest and supplements the pocket money. This particular morning’s swap meet, as I moved along I saw something that immediately caught my attention. No, not another “Sutty pump” or set of “King Dick spanners” but a small black metal toolbox. It looked just like the tool box that had been fitted to the DOT motorcycle which I had purchased in 1959.

Closer inspection revealed that indeed it was identical, new and had never been on a motorcycle. Some minor surface rust evident, but otherwise in perfect condition, complete with the correct knurled knob to hold the lid closed. after haggling about price, I bought it. Why? Nostalgia, sentimental value I guess.

It began like most other nights. The air was still and the ground was soaking up the rain from the usual afternoon’s downpour. The locals’ chatter had died down round their smoking fires and everything was still and quiet as we prepared for bed – checking first that no rats had climbed up from beneath the floor and ended up under our bed, then our pillows for any caterpillars which might have dropped out of the thatched roof. Where were we? Literally, at the end of the “road”, in the remote Western Highlands of Papua New Guinea. I remember putting the question to Lyle, an American Anthropologist who came later on to work in this area, as to why he had come to this part of the world and in particular this part of Papua New Guinea. He replied “Well, my research

showed that this is where one of the most primitive people tribes on earth are living

Light rain was falling, but otherwise all was peaceful until about

12.30 am. Through the misty fog and rain, came an hysterical call “Frank….. Frank…. Normie’s bleeding to death”. Pitch black outside, no streetlights or glow from distant towns, just - black. Appearing through the mist a ghostly figure, carrying a kerosene storm lantern, struggling up through the mud to our little house, was our friend from “up the road”

Emergency!! Stan’s wife was haemorrhaging after just arriving home (carried on a litter) that day with a very new baby. No phones, no radio link, no streetlights – in fact no streets! It was 1961 and we were based at a remote mission outpost, approx 6,500 ft above sea level, in the Western Highlands of New Guinea, ½ hour’s jeep ride and then 4 hours walk from the nearest outpost Government station. Our “friend” was an American Lutheran missionary who had an ex-army JEEP, a leftover from WW11 and offering little comfort, no doors and no protection from the elements. The “road” had just been completed, that is a “road” formed totally by manual labour, using sharpened sticks to dig and banana leaves to carry the shingles stones from the river, or whatever else was available at any given point, to make some sort of road surface. Believe me, not a combination sufficient to deal with such an emergency.

What to do…… The DOT of course! Here’s the plan

“Stan, take my wife Ruth (with our 2-year old daughter) up to your house and she will look after your 3 children while you get the jeep going and bring your wife and new baby, very slowly along the road to Laiagam. Meanwhile, I will ride ahead to our main mission station and get a nurse, along with the mission’s new Landrover, and meet you back along the road.”

 

What a ride that was on a 197cc Villiers-powered DOT (Devoid of Trouble). Pitch black, greasy clay road surface and smooth, slippery river stones – not to mention the endless, small log bridges spanning numerous creeks. These log bridges were planked with adzed or pitsawn timber and fastened in many places only with bush vines. After 2 or 3 spills, the light on the bike gave out, not that it was offering much light from the 6 volt magneto lighting system anyway. What had happened was that the headlamp had come loose with all the jarring and no longer had an effective “earth”. Try wiring a direct earth from the lamp to the mag in pitch black!! Laiagam was woken to the sounds of 197cc 2-stroke engine with exhaust exiting direct from a short pipe.

Stan’s wife was soon transferred to the more “comfortable” Landrover and rushed a further 30 odd miles to a Lutheran mission hospital where the doctor managed to stem the haemorrhaging. Half an hour later, the doctor said, and she would not have survived. My Dad would never allow me to own a motorbike despite the fact that his only source of transport when we were children was a 1929 Harley with side-box. My mates had bikes – Matchless 350 and AJS 500 (while mine was a BSA 350 with rear swinging arm - dream on!!)

When staying in Christchurch with my best mate, I can always remember the “look” from his father as Don would go to work on the bus and leave the AJS 500 for me to use. No licence eh! No hard hats either! Thankfully, no “Japanese imports” so the roads were much safer for young, aspiring motorcyclists in Christchurch. I guess after meeting Ruth, I found that an A35 was more conducive to developing a relationship (I was in Napier and she in Auckland), than a motor bike.

After 18 months of marriage, now living in our second house in Napier, with our daughter newly arrived, it seemed a good time to indulge and procure a motorcycle.

I’m not sure why I bought a DOT. Perhaps visiting a hill climb and seeing this DOT screaming up the hill. It not only sounded good, but looked good too. I am sure God was involved in it somehow, as shortly after buying it we were headed for Papua New Guinea to assist in pioneer mission work. The DOT was stripped completely and re-painted, re-spoked, re-everything and crated up for shipping to that “wild land of cannibals”.

I cannot think of a better motorcycle than the DOT for the conditions existing in a vastly un-roaded PNG in the 1960’s. The Japanese had not yet got into the scrambler bikes. The DOT was pulled, pushed, carried on poles, crammed into small Cessna 180 aircraft and it was our only form of transport over 8 years. When returning to NZ in 1968, the DOT was sold to the mission and never heard from or seen again.

 

I am now older, perhaps wiser, and looking for another Motorcycle (not sure about the wiser bit!!). I did own a 1904 Triumph and a 1923 Sunbeam but their attraction soon faded. MG cars have played a prominent part in our lives but they have now exited the scene. In my retirement, another DOT would “fit the bill”, but only one model, an SDH, 1955 Scrambler with direct lighting.

 

Searching…. Searching… “You’ll never find one of them mate, only 6 ever came to NZ”. God,, please let me find one!

 

An advertisement in the Trade and Exchange last week –

“Wanted - Greeves Motorcycle”.

A phone call led to many other DOT owners and one person in particular, who lives in Titirangi. “He has a DOT that came back from the Solomon Islands”, I was told. Could it be?? Surely not! I wonder?? How could I tell if it was actually my bike after all? I must follow it up.

Current owner’s reaction was,

“You’re welcome to look, but it is not for sale”.

Yes, believe it or not, when I saw it, there was absolutely no doubt. This was MY bike! I got so emotional I could feel the tears forming, not because of the changes that had been made to the bike, but because of the countless images that were invoked, the memories of what had been achieved and the lives that had been changed during our sojourn in PNG.

Richard had made dramatic modifications to the bike. Unfortunately, he had recently come in contact with the bitumen while racing at Pukekohe, cracking one or two ribs. He said he had been achieving 8000rpm from a 50 year old 197cc Villiers engine.

Of course, I couldn’t resist suggesting to his wife that he was getting to old for that sort of thing.

The Dot scrambler is now in my garage with its sparkling, green finished frame, and nearing the end of a total restoration.

Remember the small black metal toolbox?

 

Guess what was missing when I finally surveyed the DOT with its collection of bits once more in my possession?

This superb story and the pictures that accompany comes from

Frank Carter and Family of Auckland New Zealand.

Thanks.