by David Dewhurst
I am starting a new restoration project, but this one is vastly different from all the other projects I have done before. Everything I have restored to this point has been a model I have raced. Whether it was a Bultaco Sherpa, a Husky 390CR, or an Ossa Phantom, they all brought back happy memories of a long-past racing career and the thrill of holding the throttle open a few seconds longer than the other guys into turn one. They were all important steps as I progressed from novice trials rider to expert motocrosser. They were all memory notches carved in my racing tree.
As I started to remove the first rusty parts from the 1960 BSA Gold Star Catalina Scrambler in my garage, I realized that the Gold Star is more than a great memory for me. It represents something even more significant. It represents a Moment—the split second in time when something so significant happened that it changed the course of my life.
I was only eight years old when I first saw the Gold Star at Cuerden Park in the north of England. It was 1961, and I had a passing interest in motorcycles. My dad’s engineering company was half a mile from the track, and despite his complete disinterest in motorcycles, he offered to take me to the British Championship race on that fateful weekend.
As I type these words, the smell of Castrol R and the sound of 500cc four-strokes come flooding back. It was a long walk from the car park, and as we got closer to the track, the sound grew louder, and the rich smell of Castor oil blew gently uphill. I had watched grainy black-and-white TV images of BBC television scrambles, but the shock of seeing the color, the noise, and the action up close was more than my young brain was prepared for.
My dad grabbed my arm as I tried to run over to the line of heavy rope marking the edge of the muddy track. He realized the danger, while all my 8-year-old brain could see was excitement. I broke free and stood mesmerized as bike after bike came roaring up the hill before turning left and diving into the bomb hole. It was the first Moment of my young life.
Over the Tannoy system I heard the names of motocross heroes I had seen on those Saturday afternoon TV events. Factory BSA riders Jeff Smith and Arthur Lampkin raced past at what seemed like an impossible speed on their Gold Stars, and in their wake were an endless stream of privateers on similar Small Heath models. It seemed like everyone was riding. BSAs and from that moment on I always thought of a Goldie as the perfect scrambler.
In later years, I had similar “Moments.” The first time I saw Giacomo Agostini on the mighty MV Agusta tear around Oliver’s Mount, the four screaming megaphone exhausts and the bright crimson paint left an indelible mark on my brain so bright that it seems like yesterday. Watching Cal Rayborn muscle his booming Harley roadracer around Oulton Park at the Trans-Atlantic Trophy race in 1972 was an audio-visual score that still plays in my ears. Feeling the ground shake as Randy Goss pitched his XR750 into turn one at the 1984 San Jose Mile is a stronger memory than the first big earthquake I felt in California. Seeing Freddie Spencer effortlessly drifting his Honda CB750 out of the final corner at Laguna Seca forever changed my understanding of real motorcycle control.
Each of these “Moments” is seared deeper into my memory than all the fantastic memories I have from racing out on the track. Alright, I’ll admit that losing the front end in turn one of a downhill fourth-gear start while leading a 30-bike field still haunts me a little. And the time I was pitched over the bars of a 1979 400 Maico with a resulting wrecked shoulder does flash a few neurons now and again. But for all the pain and exhilaration of racing, I remember the life-changing “Moments” the most.
The sights and sounds of those Gold Stars were the hooks that reeled me into an entire life working in the motorcycle industry. If I had never experienced Ago and his MV, I might never have started shooting pictures for Motorcycle Weekly in London. If I’d never seen Cal Rayborn and his booming Harley-Davidson, I might never have dreamed of moving to America.
Please don’t get me wrong. All my many years behind the handlebars and behind the camera have provided some very vivid memories. Photographing Freddie Spencer as he scored victory in both 250cc and 500cc races at the 1985 Italian GP in Mugello is a vivid memory I will never forget. Watching Joey Dunlop scream through Ramsey on his way to the Isle of Man TT victory is a memory I will always treasure, alongside Guennady Moisseev’s 1978 250cc win at the British 250 motocross GP at Kilmartin, Scotland. I also have happy memories of standing on the top step of the podium of an AMCA expert motocross race and having the great fortune to race a factory 450 Kawasaki motocross machine for a story in Trials and Motocross News.
But fun as those memories are, they pale in significance compared to the life-changing “Moments” that all happened in the blink of an eye. That is why the Gold Star Catalina Scrambler in my garage is more than just another bike restoration. Instead, the BSA signifies the closing of a life-long loop that has lasted over sixty years. I just called my scrambling hero, Jeff Smith, this morning and explained how he and his factory, Gold Star, completely changed my life. He modestly downplayed my suggestion as an exaggeration, but I know it is not. Every time I walk up to the dirty old Beeza in my garage, I am swept back in time to that instant, that “Moment” when my life changed forever. That is what makes the Goldie much more than just another restoration. It is more of a thank-you gift to my inner child who, truth be told, is still an awestruck, wide-eyed eight-year-old.
