Over the years, ARNOLD HARRISON, of Manchester Road West, Little Hulton, has written many tales in this column about the olden days. Today he recalls his time with a motor cycle . . .

IN my mid-teens, my interest turned to motorbikes. I think we can blame Geoff. Duke for that, and the adoration that followed him.

We were the three angels of Deane -- Wilf lived on Wigan Road with his Panther 250cc; Theodore lived in Manningham Road with his BSA Bantam 125cc, and myself in Glen Avenue with my BSA 500cc competition model, registration ECA 685.

Safety equipment virtually did not exist as today. The designer gear at the time was an old pair of pants tucked inside your wellies, an old jumper topped by a jacket and a pair of goggles (not always worn); sometimes a cap and a pair of enormous gauntlets.

It was a hands-on feeling against the wind and the rain. Helmets were not worn and practically unavailable only to professionals.

One Sunday however, my mother saw an advert in the News of the World, which offered, at the price of 10 shillings, genuine slightly used tank driver's helmets, which could be of use to the modern day motor cyclist.

I had to have one, which was sent for with a postal order, and mother waited patiently for its arrival. "My genuine slightly used tank driver's helmet" fitted like a pea on a drum, and I must have resembled Frank Spencer - until it accidentally got lost on purpose.

On a Saturday, we would visit Anderton's motorbike shop at the bottom of Bridgeman Place, and hang out a while before having a run to Charlie Robinson's on Bridge Street. Sometimes as a change, we would have a ride to King's in Manchester.

On a Sunday, it was "off" for the day. The A6 would be calling us to wend our way northward to the Lakes and all their beauty.

Theodore was two to three years older than Wilf and myself, and his party-piece on a Sunday was that when he got up in the morning, he would leave on his pyjamas and put his outdoor clothes over the top of them -- the theory being if he was ever involved in an accident he would be ready for a hospital bed.

I think it was 1950 or thereabouts when Chorley New Road was being re-furbished into its structural format of large concrete sections.

This particular evening, we decided to have a run to the Crown at Horwich, not to drink, but to survey the scene and strut.

We rode up Wigan Road to Beaumont Road and along its full length to Chorley New Road, at every opportunity overtaking each other demonstrating our skills and bravery.

At Chorley New Road we turned left for Horwich. The road work in progress at the time was in the vicinity of Lostock Junction Lane, and the right hand side of the road was closed, with single traffic on the left controlled by lights.

It was evening, and dark. I could just see the lights in the far distance and the single line or traffic building up. To my embarrassment Wilf had just overtaken me, so it was payback time.

I wound up the throttle and decided to pass everything in sight, which I did. In a split second the lights were in front of me, on red; I was on the wrong side of the road, which I suddenly ran out of.

I shot between two warning barriers and dropped about three feet below the surface of the road to the foundations, where the work was in progress. I missed a cement mixer by a few inches, avoided a portable compressor, and came to a halt in a pile of sand, still sitting on the bike.

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heodore and Wilf had seen my impression of Evel Knievel and had stopped further down the road to walk back and see the carnage.

I freed the bike from the pile of sand and found it to be unmarked.

How do I get out of my predicament, three feet below the surface of the road? I looked round the work site for any possible answer, and to my delight saw a plank of wood about 10 feet long and nine inches wide.

I placed one end on the ground and leaned the other end up to the road surface to form a ramp.

After walking up and down a couple of times to test its strength, I kicked up the bike and gingerly rode up, back onto the road.

The traffic was in my favour, so I roared off in the direction of Horwich. The incident was over, the problem resolved, and all in the past.

My most unforgettable adventure was Christmas time of the same year. I had been advised to have a run into Manchester to view the Christmas lights and decorations on King Street, which was off Deansgate.

I went on a Saturday afternoon -- it was Manchester, it was Christmas, it was bursting at the seams with people and traffic.

I slowly rode along, glancing from left to right in my searching for a particular street. In the distance I could see a policeman on point duty controlling a busy crossing -- what seemed like the next second I looked forward again. He was standing in front of me, his back turned to me and his arm outstretched indicating me to stop!

I braked violently, ducked under his arm and stopped in the middle of the crossing, causing traffic to swerve and brake.

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orns were blowing, irate drivers were shaking their fists, it was the origin of "road rage". I only needed to have been wearing my "slightly used tank driver's helmet" and the scene would have been complete!

He screamed at me to get off the bike and push it to the railings at the side of the road, which I did.

"I am having you", he cried as he pulled his notebook out of his pocket.

Notebook in one hand, he began to search for his pencil with the other - shirt pocket, jacket pocket, top pocket - but there was no pencil. Trouser pockets, still no pencil! I know he was an officer of the law, but he did come out with profanities!

Behind him, on the crossing, all was gridlocked and in chaos. He looked up at the sky, perhaps for inspiration and guidance, before turning to me slowly and in a gentle voice asked: "Would you have a pencil on your person, Sir, which I could borrow." I replied, also with respect: "I am very sorry officer, I must have left it at home."

He had a final look behind him at the growing chaos, and in a changed tone of voice, without mincing his words issued me with an ultimatum: "Get out of Manchester and never come back."

As I could see the hairs protruding from his nostrils begin to twitch, this I did without delay, but I have been back -- Father Christmas does exist, he just appears in different guises.