Me and my Brother Nick lived in a company house on the Mill Hill gas works in 1963. Nick was 17 and had a motor bike. I was 15, still at school and couldn't have one, but once in a while Nick would take me with him to The Busy Bee café on the Watford by pass. That's where I met Mick Brand, Honda Dick, John Toft, Dave Lambert, Snowy Snowden and Cad. And a bloke in a 3 wheel car who's name I forget and last saw running away from the cops after we got chased for stripping down an 'abandoned' bike by the side of the road. Cad was older than me, he might have been 18 or 19 but we struck up a friendship that endured. Like I said, I had no bike, but Cad did; a patched together 500cc single cylinder B32 BSA engine lashed to nice Gold Star frame. The thing always had well worn Avon GP tyres and leaked copious amounts of oil which constantly greased up the rear rubber, making the roundabout curves slick as a greased pig. I can't remember the number of times we fell off, laughing fit to cry as we rolled onto the grass verge, or the long evenings spent in his garage welding up the grooves on a seized piston. We must have made quite a sight amongst the shiny bikes and well dressed riders as we arrived at the 'Bee' on a Friday nite; both of us scruffy, wearing well used clothing with scrunched up newspapers inside our jackets to keep out the cold, oil dripping off the engine, the exhaust pipe ticking down to cool while we rolled up our fags and looked around. Cad was naturally unconventional and so was I, and our relationship was one of shared dislike for anything conventional or accepted. Once in a while we would attend "The 59 Club', a club for Rockers run by a couple of Rocker Vicars in a church off the Edgeware Road. On any Saturday nite, that stretch of road was the route the Mods used to take on their way downtown to the clubs, their stupid scooters buzzing down the road with a noise like farting animals, their little dolly birds on the back, high on pills as we littered the bend in the road with greasy food waste. At the cry of 'here they come', the club would empty and we'd line the road watching the inevitable slides and wobbles and flying bodies. Great memories, thanks for this site. Dave (diddle) Baughn. Toronto 2014.