Accept no substitutes, these are the real deal "Hells Kitchen NYC" T shirts.
C'mon down, get in line and grab these suckers while they last. E.D.
23 Apr 2011
The new English Don Website is open for business
Log onto the new E.D. website. Start collecting all the iconic SD Cycles NYC t-shirts and merchandise. Offered on a rotating basis, keep checking back for the latest retro shirts and special collectors deals in the future.
22 Apr 2011
Blue Bike Blues. Snippet from the E.D. autobiography.
fROM THE UPCOMING AUTOBIOGRAPHY BY ENGLISH DON
and the chapter titled, Blue bike blues.
............It's 2 30 am, middle of the week, the streets are cold and silent, London in the 1970s and they roll the sidewalks up by midnight. It had been another great night out up in The West End. I was 18 and burning both ends of the candle with gusto.
The exhaust note of my BSA one lunger cracked and boomed bouncing off the storefront canyon of the Uxbridge Rd as it snaked West through Shepherds Bush, Acton and on home. A damp , misty drizzle swarmed around the street lights. Earlier that week I had finally tracked down and fixed a problem where moisture was running down the ignition wire and getting behind the points cover, by way of a dry cracked rubber boot and gromit. Whenever it rained the bike would stall out and die at the Shepherds Bush roundabout heading into town or at the same spot on the way back. I had gotten real fast at whipping out the points plate, mopping up the wee puddle in the timing cover and drying the points with a cigarette lighter. Out with the plug, rotate the cam and set the gap( Another great learning experience sadly missed by today’s spoilt middle aged entry level 'bikers'). This time my 35 pence investment in a new gromit and cover gasket ensured me of a hot dry spark and I was already miles past the benchmark stall location. A few choruses of "My little Sister's got a motorbike" by Crazy Cavan was in order so I sang along in my head.
Down a gear, a quarter wick of throttle takes me up and over the hump that landmarks Ealing Common Underground station then into fourth gear on the down grade. The slap echo fades, replaced by the deep hollow thump from the megaphone muffler as the buildings peel away to line the North Circular running perpendicular towards Hangar lane. The lights are green, wiping my steamy goggles with the greasy thumb of my gloves was a bad idea so I pull them down around my neck and hunker low into the collar of my Lewis Leather jacket, squinting as pin pricks of rain begin to jab at my cheeks.
The prince of darkness, Mr Lucas, provides me with a meagre yellowy beam barely enough to see through the wet fog expanse of vast Common parkland. Lucky the road is straight as an arrow 'cos their aint no light poles until you get to the other side. Not another soul on the road I was alone.
After a while the orange glimmer of Ealing Broadway appears reflected in the wet sheen on the street. It had been dry and sunny for a week or so and being an arterial commuter route the blacktop is well worn and heavily patched. A good old gutsy downpour usually breaks that grimy surface and washes the dirt down the camber to the gutters and drains but this nights' mist was dank and sinister. The moisture, insufficient to flow merely lifted the oils in a slick film and daily rush hour traffic through town ensured plenty of cage droppings to form 20/50 weight black ice. Back in the shelter of the tightly packed buildings, bright town-centre lighting gives me a false sense of security. A storm of big city riding lessons for an overconfident young rocker was gathering just down the road a piece and I was about to drop my guard.
Down a couple of cogs slowing into a 45 degree left hander, off the gas I was expecting to ease on the brakes and stop at the T junction by the North Star pub but again, the light was green in my favour. HAHA, I gunned 2nd gear through the intersection and wound it on up. Acres of plate glass amplified the bratatat machine gun exhaust ricocheting up from street level to violently invade the bedrooms of the drones slumbering in flats and maisonettes over the store fronts. 'I AM HELLION', bwahahahaha. Up into that satisfying 3rd gear and it's never ending powerband, the onslaught of speed and noise pleasingly wicked and rude. Passing between opposing department stores Bentalls and John Sanders the evil din is lifted a full four stories up and over the rooftops escaping to be heard as far away as South Ealing, surely.
Coming up fast, the road forks. The last long 45 degree curve to the right and the Uxbridge Rd becomes a straight wide boulevard for 3 miles to the Hanwell Clock tower. If I catch all the greens I could be in bed in 20 minutes. The left fork is Ealing high street heading South. In between the fork is Middlesex County’s version of NYCs 'Flatiron Building' and occupying the sharp facing corner was Lilley and Skinners' shoe shop. Approaching the bend I was too quick and I knew it." No problem", I reasoned with myself. I had taken this baby at least oooh, a dozen times, in the dry, in daylight.. "Just get off the gas, lay it hard over, power out of the curve and the bike will stand back up with minimal fuss"....Time to add a couple more yawning hazards. Days before I had made the wise choice to postpone replacing the balding rear tire instead spending the coin on that rockin' megaphone muffler and a ' must have' set of Z bars. Well my traction and grip, or lack there of, was about to get a whole lot worse.
The cherry on the cake was a sewer cap so old it was prolly laid back when Jack the Ripper was pioneering nip and tuck surgery for gentlemen's escorts. The cast diamonds and makers mark had long been polished smooth and lubricated with oily rain, it lay in wait at the apex of the curve. Off the gas pull her over, sweet, now power on. My wheel spun wildly on the manhole then as it found grip after the cap, bit in hard and the ass end came round from the right standing me up for a high side sending me out of the saddle for what seemed an eternity. With the bike now at 90 degrees to the kerb, my fingertips barely touching the bars, I landed back in the seat grabbing a big handful of throttle. I shot forward across the sidewalk and slammed into the knee-wall under the shoe store window..........
As I regained concious I could hear a voice asking of my welfare, barely audible over the bells of the burglar alarm. There I was dazed and bleeding surrounded by broken glass and a 100 sets of Hush Puppies. I sat up looking down at my right hand, willing it to rise and wipe the warm blood now filling my left eye and flooding my face and neck, it would not move. "Are you alright?" said the London Bobby leaning into the storefront, his hand gripping my knee and shaking it. "What?", I blurted, He repeated, "Are you alright?. Are you hurt?". In a panic I blurted, "Where's my bike, where is it?". Looking down at the glass strewn sidewalk the Beezer lay silent. "Pick it up", I shouted. "Pick it up, all the petrol is leaking". "Don't worry about it son, are you OK?" dismissing the importance I felt for the machine. "Pick it up!!", I bellowed, he complied, wheeling it to one side and setting it on the kickstand. I had now butt-shuffled forward so my legs dangled over the window's edge, a shattered collar bone rendering my right arm limp and useless. Again the copper asked me if I was alright, looking down to my bare hands I demanded "where's my fucking gloves?"...."They're still on the bike you plonker", chorteled the patient cop. Sure enough my gloves were clenched in a death grip around the handlebars, I had shot clean out of them at the point of impact.
Luckily there was a Police call box on that corner and the Rozzer dialled me up an ambulance. After helping me out of the window and steadying me on my feet he asked "Have you been drinking Sir?", to which I replied "No, I've been fucking dancing, what do you think?". "Now, now there's no need for all this bad language",he said, adding an apologetic, "I have to ask these questions, Police procedure y'know". He made me keep my helmet on and chatted amiably waiting for the meat wagon. When it arrived they sat me in a chair/hand-truck type affair after binding my arm to my chest and staunching my lacerated brow. As I was loaded into the wagon I asked the Cop, "What about my bike?", "What's gonna happen to it?" He assured me all would be ok and closed the van doors.
The new Ealing Hospital was not yet built so they took me all the way to The West Middlesex in Isleworth. After a couple of hours I got X-rayed, had my eyebrow stitched and left with my arm in an immobilizing sling. I took a cab home to the rooms I shared with "Shaun the Boy", my workmate and fatefully, the guy I bought the bike from.
Dawn was breaking and the birds were loud and irritating as I lay down awkwardly on my bed. My room mate had woken demanding a full account of the wreck and was now doubled over pissing himself laughing. Just then the doorbell rings. Shaun looked out the window. "It's the Old Bill". Sure enough a black Police Transit van was parked outside the building and several Cops were milling around. "Ahh fuck, they're gonna nick me for sure". I hobbled down the stair and opened the street door. A burly sergeant with flat cap and long coat asked my name, after confirming it he curled his finger under my chin and with his other hand pointed to the sidewalk gathering."Step this way Sir and join us on the pavement". To my disbelief they opened the van doors and lifted my (not too badly) battered bike down, then parked it behind the hedge in the front yard. -With hands clasped behind their backs some rocking heel to toe in shiny black boots, they formed a semi-circle round me as the Sargent lectured me on the dangers of motorcycles, novice riders, faulty equipment and inclement weather. He never once mentioned drink driving, liability, property damage or insurance. After 10 minutes they bid me good day and left. No radios, computers, shiny green reflective jackets, sporty German saloon cars and piss poor attitudes like today’s, by the book, weenie Police.
Those were, "The good old days", for sure.
ENGLISH DON. APRIL, 2010.
Press Pages. Great music Vol 1
Check out all the cool tear sheets from Iron horse and The Horse BC with the one and only Five Points Band crankin' the tunes. Turn it up!! E.D.
Press Pages. Great Music
Check out all your favorite tear sheets from Iron Horse and The Horse BC while listening to the all American tunes of The Five Points Band.
Crank it up.
E.D.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)