About Cloughie
I started riding in fields in the early 80's. From French Two strokes, to C90s. I am self-taught, learning to repair my machines by watching like-minded idiots on YouTube.
Jumping on a bike with a mate is the best way to relax and allows only one thing.
The Joy, The Grease, and The Road
I’m no expert, but if it’s gearboxes, electrics, carburation, or converting to electronic ignition—I’ll happily roll up my sleeves and give it a go. Over the years I’ve tackled most jobs that come with keeping old bikes alive. I’ve never laced a wheel or re-pressed a crank, but aside from that, I suppose you could say I’m fairly confident—as amateurs go!
If you’d like to reach out, you’ll find a link at the top of the page. Drop me a line—I’d love to talk bikes.
Now, how many of you can still remember the smell and sound of an RD screaming against a Suzuki X7? I still grin at the thought of two-strokes leaving big four-strokes coughing in the haze of blue oil smoke. That smell, that sound—it was pure mischief on two wheels.
I’ve owned all sorts of bikes over the years, from twist-and-go scooters to proper British classics. My real passion for classics took root after I suffered a stroke. During my convalescence, I found comfort and purpose in recommissioning my very first British classic: a 1966 BSA Bantam D7. That little Bantam lit a spark that still burns today.
Since then, I’ve built up a small stable of classics. What I love most about motorcycling is that it’s completely agnostic—gender, faith, politics—none of that matters. Once the helmets are off, I find myself swapping stories over a pint with friends who share the same love of the open road and the same belief that motorcycling bonds us all.
I’ve ridden far and wide: to Rome, across the battlefields of Europe, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. In July 2022, I took to touring locally on my T140E, kitted out with Craven panniers. That setup sparked plenty of curiosity from fellow riders at campsites, proving that every bike has a story—and panniers, it turns out, invite questions!
My favourite roads? The ones that lead to coffee shops by day or pubs with a bed and breakfast by night. Nothing beats sharing a beer with German, Italian, or Belgian riders who truly “get it.” No matter how long or lonely the road south feels, we all seem to gather at the same filling stations, swapping tales about bikes, engines, and life on two wheels.
Of all the machines I’ve owned—Nortons, Triumphs, BSAs—the one that has stolen my heart is also the cheapest: a scruffy little 1959 BSA C15 I christened Dripster. Keeping her on the road has been a challenge, but she’s family now.
COVID, though a dark time for many, gave me the gift of time—time to learn, to watch, to push myself further. Before then, I mainly stuck to two-strokes, confident enough to split crankcases, rebuild gearboxes, and even make my own wiring looms. But when lockdown came, I had my C15 on the bench needing a top-end and gearbox rebuild. With parts plentiful and affordable, I decided to take the plunge myself. What started as a challenge turned into a triumph of patience, persistence, and love for the craft.
Motorcycling has also opened doors to a wonderful online community. I’m active across Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter—not because I have all the answers, but because sharing questions, mistakes, and small victories can help others take their first steps into the world of classic bikes. If I can’t help, I’ll know someone who can.
Here in the UK, as soon as the weather allows, I’m out riding most evenings with my wingman Simon. And I always say: strangers are just friends I haven’t yet met. So if you share this passion, get in touch. Let’s talk bikes, let’s share stories, and let’s keep the wheels turning.
Rewritten version 2
The Joy of Grease, Grit and the Open Road
Wrench in Hand, Smile on Face
I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m no expert mechanic. I haven’t trained formally, and I still couldn’t lace a wheel or re-press a crank if you paid me. But if it’s gearboxes, electrics, carburation, or swapping to electronic ignition, I’ll dive in with spanners flying. Over the years, I’ve made enough mistakes to learn a thing or two—and found enough successes to keep me coming back for more.
I suppose that makes me a confident amateur, which, in many ways, is the heart and soul of classic motorcycling. We’re not all workshop gurus, but we’re willing to learn, willing to get our hands dirty, and willing to keep the old iron alive.
And for me, that willingness has taken me on a journey far bigger than I ever imagined.
When Two-Strokes Were King
Cast your mind back. Can you still smell it? The unmistakable tang of two-stroke oil in the morning air. I can. The high-pitched snarl of an RD squaring up against a Suzuki X7, the crackle and smoke hanging in the still air—it was glorious. I remember grinning as the two-strokes darted ahead, leaving the supposedly bigger, stronger four-strokes to chew on a haze of blue mist.
Those were the days when bikes felt cheeky, anarchic, alive. You didn’t just ride a two-stroke—you joined a gang of mischief-makers on wheels.
Stroke of Fate, Stroke of Luck
My deeper love for classics came from something unexpected. Some years ago, I suffered a stroke. Recovery was long, frustrating, and uncertain. But while I healed physically, I needed something to heal me mentally. Something to focus on.
Enter a scruffy 1966 BSA Bantam D7. My first proper British classic. I recommissioned it, slowly and clumsily at first, then with growing confidence. Piece by piece, nut by nut, I brought it back to life. That Bantam wasn’t just a bike—it was a lifeline. Every hour spent tinkering brought me closer to recovery. Every cough of the engine was a reminder that both it and I still had more miles left to give.
Bikes Don’t Care Who You Are
Since then, the garage has filled with more machines: Nortons, Triumphs, BSAs, even the odd scooter. But more important than the bikes themselves is the bond they create.
Motorcycling is gloriously agnostic. It doesn’t care about gender, politics, or background. Helmets off, pint in hand, I’ve swapped stories with riders from all walks of life. Germans, Italians, Belgians—we might not share the same language fluently, but we share something deeper: the love of two wheels and the open road.
And that, to me, is what makes motorcycling special. It binds us. It equalises us. It gives us a tribe.
Roads to Rome, Roads to Anywhere
Over the years, my bikes have carried me far. I’ve ridden to Rome, traced the battlefields of Europe, and meandered across countless backroads. Sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of friends who share the same hunger for tarmac.
One ride that sticks in my memory was in July 2022, when I set off locally on my Triumph T140E. I’d fitted Craven panniers—a proper bit of kit—and instantly they became a conversation starter at campsites. “What year’s that?” “Where’d you get the racks?” “My mate had one of those!” Strangers became friends simply because I’d strapped boxes to my bike. That’s the magic of the road—you never really travel alone.
As for favourite roads? Easy: the ones that end at a coffee shop by day, or a pub with a bed and breakfast by night. I’ve lost count of the evenings spent swapping tales with European riders over a beer. Somehow, no matter how far south you go, you end up at the same filling stations, the same pubs, with the same stories being retold.
Meet Dripster
Among my collection, one bike shines brightest—and it’s not the famous names. It’s not the Nortons or the Triumphs. It’s not even the Bantam that started it all. It’s the cheapest bike I ever bought: a battered little 1959 BSA C15, christened Dripster.
She earned the name honestly—leaks like a sieve, temperamental as the weather, and just as likely to leave me scratching my head as grinning from ear to ear. But she’s mine. Keeping Dripster running has been a challenge, but also a joy. Sometimes, the underdog steals your heart, and for me, she’s become part of the family.
Lockdown Wrenching
When COVID struck, the world slowed down—but my garage came alive. Up until then, I’d stuck mainly to two-strokes. I was confident splitting crankcases, rebuilding gearboxes, even making my own wiring looms and fitting electronic ignition systems from Boyer, Pazon, and the like.
But Dripster sat on the lift, demanding attention: a top-end and gearbox rebuild. Parts were cheap, readily available, and I had nothing but time. So I took the plunge. I learned. I studied videos. I made mistakes. And slowly, the C15 came back together. That rebuild taught me patience, resilience, and gave me confidence that, with enough determination, I could tackle just about anything.
It was a lockdown lesson I’ll never forget: the bikes don’t just need us—we need them.
Sharing the Passion
Motorcycling doesn’t end in the garage. For me, it’s also about community. I’m active on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter, not because I claim to be an expert, but because sharing the journey helps others take their first steps into classics.
Sometimes I’ll post a question. Sometimes a success. Sometimes a disaster. But it all adds to the pool of knowledge, and if I can’t help someone directly, I probably know someone who can. That’s how this world works: you only get out what you put in.
Friends for the Ride
Here in the UK, as soon as the weather breaks, I’m out most evenings with my wingman Simon. We don’t need an excuse. The ride itself is enough. We’ll clock the miles, laugh at the breakdowns, and fix what we can with whatever tools we’ve remembered to bring.
And that, perhaps, is the best thing motorcycling has given me: friends. Strangers quickly become companions, companions become mates for life. I always say strangers are just friends I haven’t met yet—and on a bike, that’s truer than ever.
Why We Ride
So why do we do it? Why the endless tinkering, the grease under the nails, the roadside fixes in the rain?
Because these machines are more than steel and oil. They’re time machines, therapy, and passports to adventure. They carry our stories, our scars, and our smiles. From the smell of a smoky two-stroke to the thump of a big Brit single, every ride is a reminder: we’re alive, we’re free, and we’re part of something bigger.
And for me, that’s reason enough to keep the wheels turning.