FRANK WESTWORTH
“And it started. Of course it did. It ran badly, but encouragingly. Helmetless, legality-less and senseless, I rumbled back to the shop, perspiring only copiously. The Huntmaster smoked from everywhere.”
IT WAS 1978 – MAYBE 79, MEMORY STRUGGLES with precision. The classic bike had only recently been invented and harmless old clunkers were yet to be elevated to some mysterious near-mythic status which they didn’t enjoy when new.
They were entertaining times, not least for those bewildered, like me, by the sudden and inexplicable popularity of harmless old
