Not My Bike, Officer

My first motorbike was a wreck of a BSA C15 (250cc single). It got through more oil than petrol, often refused to start or would throw a sulk while on a run and leave me stranded. It didn't have a distributor cap on the spark plug, so I soon learned to ride with my right knee sticking out or suffer a several thousand volt reminder. Why didn't I buy a new cap? Well, I learned quickly, and it was fun to see friends who borrowed it for a wee run round the block wobble violently when they forgot my warning and touched the plug. But I loved that bike... ...for a while.

After two years I sold it to a young lad who came round with his mum and persuaded her to part with £20 of her hard earned in exchange for the sad excuse of a machine. I pretty well forgot about the C15 for about 18 months. Then one evening a police officer came to the door and, in front of my dad, asked me if I owned a BSA 250 motorcycle, registration... I said I had done, but sold it a long time ago. He asked me who to, but I couldn't remember.

He then tells me it has been reported dumped in a garden and if I didn't get it moved, I'd be charged with dumping it. "But it's not my bike", I insisted, but he repeated that as far as he was concerned it was my responsibility and I'd better get it shifted quickly, or else. "What am I supposed to do with it?", I asked. "Anything you like, it's your bike", he replied (I can still remember him saying that).

So I borrowed a mate and his van, went to the address and sure enough, there was my old bike. There was no one at home, so we loaded the bike into the van and like all good criminals, I put a note through the letterbox saying that I'd taken the bike, who I was and where I lived (as you would).

After a few weeks, my dad got fed up of this non-runner sitting in his garage and told me to get rid of it. I spoke to my mate and he said he knew of someone looking for C15 spares and would take it off my hands, so bike in van and off it went. A couple of days later, two police officers were at the door, with my letter in hand. "Did you write this note?", they asked. "Yes I did.", I replied.

They asked me where the bike was. I didn't know but said it had gone to a friend of a friend for spares. Then they told me that it wasn't my bike and I shouldn't have moved it without the owners permission. I told them another policeman had told me to move it, and their reply was, "we wouldn't do such a thing, the bike doesn't belong to you." So deep doo-doos! Off to the station for a formal interview...

However, the young owner said he didn't want to press charges if I could get his bike back, which I did manage to do within a couple of days. What had happened was that the bike had been in for repair (unsuccessful) and the repair shop had returned it to the correct house number but in the wrong street.

Post script:
Not my lucky year, I was made redundant and had to sell the car I had needed for work. Shortly before that, I had won a car radio from my employer but hadn't fitted it to the car, so wanted to sell it. I was going away on holiday with my parents, so made the mistake of asking my friend if he could find a customer for the radio. I thought he'd ask around, but he put a small ad in the local paper!

On my return from holiday, said friend is waiting for me. The police had seen the ad in the paper and recognised that it was my friend who had earlier handled the 'stolen' bike. No, honestly! They only went round to his house (his respectable father's house) with a search warrant looking for stolen car radios. Seriously! They didn't find any. He told them he was selling it on my behalf, so there was a message for me to get down to the police station as soon as I got back from holiday. Back to the station for another formal interview. I had the document congratulating me on my award of the car radio, so convinced the detective (I'd gone up in the world - no longer a uniformed officer) that it was my radio to sell, and I was allowed to go home with the warning to watch my step, because they'd be watching me!