Copyright (c) umgweb.com 1998
I was in two minds about handing over £500 for a 1962 AJS 350 single. Oh, it looked nice enough, with polished casings and shining alloy, but the engine was reluctant to start, rattled like a metal band gone west on ecstasy and I knew sod all about British bikes. But they get to you like that. Read a few copies of Classic Bike, hear their motors go duff, duff duff and study the rugged engine lines for a while.....all of a sudden you just have to experience one for yourself.
Go for it, I hear a small but insistent voice in my head scream. So I did. Riding home I was almost charmed by its soft power delivery, the echo of its apparently open exhaust off suburban dwellings and a chassis rigidity that was miles different from my more normal, well worn and neglected, Japanese hacks.
Dismay began to set in on the first bit of deserted open road. A 60mph top speed was bad enough, but it was accompanied by an excess of filling dropping, handlebar shedding vibration. I had no idea how much power the AJS was supposed to put out, but it accelerated slower than a CD175 and had an even worse gearbox. The four speed unit was full of false neutrals and reduced my expensive trainers to ragged remnants.
I hadn't actually risked starting the AJS, the previous owner had got it going after about 20 kicks and had refused to turn it off. When my left hand finally tired of fighting a clutch that felt like the cable was corroded solid (but was actually functioning as the maker's intended), the resulting lurch stalling the engine dead at the lights, I had to attempt to kick the deadbeat into life in what felt like bare feet! It took six thigh killing kicks, left me swearing like an enraged dock-hand.
Home was a welcome sight. My neighbours thought I had gone off my trolley, ignored my protestations that it was a British classic motorcycle bought at a bargain price. By the next day I had dug out some proper motorcycle boots (that hurt like hell to walk more than a few yards) and commenced with the impromptu fitness routine involved in starting an old English thumper. After renewing the points, HT lead and spark plug, I’ve reduced it to five kicks from cold and two from hot. I've also lost almost a stone!
I'm not sure if it was just the starting or the free-vibro massage. The long stroke OHV engine always vibrated, from tickover all the way up to 7000 revs, the fury and barbarity increasing in direct proportion to engine speed, except at 50mph in fourth when there was a sudden, almost ethereal smoothness. I suspect this was a cunning arrangement by the original designers to ensure that the rider was forced to cruise at a speed that would not damage the engine. The vibes mostly hit the handlebars, making me think that the best way to prepare for life with the AJS would be to get a job working with a jack-hammer. It was so bad that whenever possible I cruised around at 50mph.
My mates with LC's, and the like, found the sight of me pottering around on the AJS hilarious. Although it would go around corners okay, the SLS brakes were as antique as the performance. Fade, fade, fade the front seemed to squeal every time I hit it in anger. It wasn't supposed to be quite that bad, whipping the wheel out revealed both linings and shoes down to the rivets. I'd heard stories about drums locking up solid once they were worn past a certain point so had both ends relined and bunged in some shoes (there's a British bike dealer nearby).
There was a noticeable improvement in braking after that but they still weren't up to a standard that the Japanese would demand for a commuter 125. Engine braking would've been an effective aid to rapid loss of speed had not the chain threatened to fall off the sprockets. The back sprocket looked merely worn, the engine sprocket had a tooth missing. The latter was only removed after taking the whole of the primary chain and clutch assembly off - anyone who thinks British bikes are easy to work on should have his head shoved down a toilet. I will admit the alloy was of a better quality and the screws came undone without the usual hassle. The pathetic chain primary drive was as far gone as the rear chain. After sending off for spares, cursing the bike for a couple of weeks, I was finally back on the road.
Surprise, surprise the gearchange was transformed and a lot of the fearful engine noises had disappeared. The bike felt able to push itself to a stunning 65mph. I'd given the motor a full service whilst it was in bits, the valves' tappets being awkward in the extreme as the kept changing as I tightened the screws. If there had been more than two valves I would've taken a hammer to it. I don't know what the recommended services are but I had to set it up every 750 miles, otherwise vibes threatened to shake the bars loose.
I put some Avons on the wheels, was quite impressed with the way it could be banked over during spirited country road riding. The frame was as good as many recent middleweight Japs and the suspension, though short in travel, gave the Ajay a nicely taut feel. Yet more praise for the ancient single, I couldn't fault the riding position or saddle comfort! The mudguards were full without looking ugly, kept the worst of the weather off both rider and bike. After I'd put on one of those tiny numberplates, the integral rear light looked really neat. The Ajay was full of such details that were a pleasure to the eye.
Although it drank oil at a wolfish rate the mildly tuned motor consumed fuel like it was the finest wine. I quietly amused myself finding how far I could get on the four gallons before reserve was needed. I actually did 110mpg riding at 30 to 35mpg but cruising at 50mph was even more impressive - dead on 100mpg! That gave a range of 400 miles. It once went down to 90mpg but that was due to my gritting my teeth when doing 65mph for an hour. I had to tighten up almost every bolt on the bike after that desperate excursion and felt like I'd gone ten rounds with Tyson.
No-one would believe my tales of economy and I doubted it myself, checked the mileometer against known distances and made sure about the amount of petrol I was putting in. There seemed something very odd about such an old bike weighing 400lbs, on worn components turning in such good economy. Why on earth didn't anyone develop this type of engine? With modern materials and knowledge it could be made into an amazing motor.
I know it's dead slow. You don't have to tell me that. The one time I ventured on to the motorway I thought I was going to die, no-one else wanted to bumble along at 50mph and I ended up riding on the hard shoulder until the next exit. I'll have the last laugh the next time there's a fuel crunch and everyone has to motor along at 50mph!
The speedo reads 87000 miles, the past owner was completely evasive about its history so I've no idea how many times it's been rebuilt or if it's completely original. In the last year it's done over 9000 miles without needing any serious attention but constant tender loving care. I've uprated the electrics to 12V and put in a TLS front wheel. Both have made the bike about ten times safer as the original stuff is laughably naff even with the distinct lack of speed. The engine's ancient but surprisingly reliable whilst the chassis is actually better than most Jap hacks I've owned. I've grown to love it, manifold warts and all.
William Garland
Return to Contents for Matchless and AJS
It looked quite good for a five year old with 22000 miles under its spoked wheels, as far as I could see under the illumination provided by the street-lamp and the reflected glory of its own headlight. The engine went phut-phut without any nasty rattles and I couldn't find any obvious crash damage. A brief blast on the pillion confirmed that it might be the bike for me. The vendor wanted £1500 but accepted £1200 with indecent acquiescence, and a rather shifty look from his deep-set eyes in a face so pudgy I was tempted to burst into laughter. Surely this clown couldn't be putting one over on me? Perhaps I should've offered £750.
The twenty mile ride home wasn't mind blowing or highly stimulating but neither was it dangerous or in the least bit disturbing. I rather hoped the G80 would turn out to be a sensible motorcycle just about up to modern road speeds, which was exactly my first impression. Performance was never arm stretching but it wasn't so slow, with a bit of gear shifting, that I felt likely to be run down by cages. A brief blast up to the ton confirmed that the engine was working fine, if with a fair bit of thumper vibration.
By the time home was attained I was in a fairly good mood. Parked up outside just as a few spots of rain began to fall. God must love me after all. Or not! The next morning I came out of the house, had trouble finding the Matchless. It appeared that someone had dumped a rat bike in my street and made off with my new motorcycle, which wasn't even insured yet!
Before the tears came, a close inspection of the rust heap revealed that it was actually the Matchless! As the realisation dawned, wifey popped up out of nowhere, demanding to know what the hell was going on - this surely wasn't the bike I'd spent an hour praising and justifying spending 1200 notes on when there was a long list of domestic stuff that had priority? Now, the wife's a big gal and not one to be trifled with, so I sort of mumbled something, feigned astonishment at her observation and got off with a bit of name calling. True love and all that!
I got out the cleaning tackle and set to removing all the rust on the cycle parts, nuts and bolts, spokes, headlamp, shocks, etc. It was all surface stuff and cleaned up quite nicely. Or nicely enough to placate the wife and persuade her that a trip down to the shops with her on the pillion was in order, after sorting the insurance.
I'm no lightweight either, so it was suspension down on the stops and wifey half off the back of the seat, staying on by grabbing me in a rather intimate bear-hug...the neighbours came out to watch and gave us a round of applause when we tottered off. Nice people.
Even in first gear the 500cc OHC thumper engine had taken on a deep, strained note and the transmission whirled away, making groaning noises. Hmmm! Up into second, the power flattened off and the poor old thing had trouble gasping up to 30mph. Third gear got us up to 40mph whereupon a junction reared up ahead. The Matchless weighs a mere 350lbs but we totalled over 30 stone, an excess that had the front disc fading away to nothing.
My terrified scream alerted the wife that something terminal was about to go down. We wobbled across a main road, the cagers blaring away at the sheer effrontery with which we crossed their path. Luck was on our side and a major pile-up avoided, but only just. Now, the wife was once rejected by the VAT people as being too pugnacious as a potential employee so I knew I was in for a verbal bashing for endangering her frail body, so I didn't pull over. Not even the rotted through exhaust of the Rotax was able to dim out her barrage of abuse.
We finally wobbled to a halt in the shopping centre, she who must be obeyed falling off the back of the bike. I kept my facial expression neutral. She then complained that all the vibration had left her legs feeling all funny and that her piles were playing up and that I was riding far too fast and that I should stay on the right side of the road and that she supposed the bike wasn't that bad really and that maybe I wasn't such an idiot after all - despite the obvious pains the vibes had also got to a place that nothing else dare venture!
So with these mixed blessings life with the Matchless continued. Every time it rained the bike sprouted corrosion until I took it all apart, stripped everything down to bare metal, coated with red-oxide paint and finished off in several layers of black. Rebuilt wheels with stainless steel spokes and new shocks solved most of the other problems, which all means I really should only have paid about £500 for the bike. Never buy a bike without examining it first in daylight!
The 35hp single never really held any great surprises, it was one of those mild, bland motors that you couldn't really criticise for doing anything wrong but was never going to provide massive stimulation, other than in the form of excessive vibration at the extreme end of the throttle play.
That limited it to 75 to 80mph cruising, with a little bit of go left in hand for taking cagers who were tottering along at a similar speed. Fuel was a reasonable 55 to 65mpg, though it did burn through the oil quite heavily when used on the open road. Certainly, after a 100 miles a very keen eye had to be kept on the level.
Handling was basically similar to a seventies Brit, which meant hard suspension, steady turning and few nasty surprises. The only thing it didn't really like was hitting a hole with the front end when banked over in corners. Then it would shake its head and rumble away angrily for a few yards until the chassis sorted itself out. I suspected the steering head bearings, as I could never set them perfectly for any length of time, becoming either too tight or too loose. It was mildly annoying rather than dangerous.
The riding position was fine for short trips but long distance stuff sent my buttocks to sleep and provoked pains in my shoulders and neck. Two-up riding was impossible for anything other than short trips, due to our mass and sheer bulk; emaciated youths might well fare better.
I kept the bike for all of six months and about 3000 miles, in which time none of the consumables showed much sign of wear - the drive chain was a bit stringy to begin with but didn't do anything nasty as long as it was adjusted every 250 miles. I did no engine maintenance other than change the oil once.
The bike sold for £975 and I felt pretty happy to see the back of it, despite losing a few hundred quid on the deal. There's nothing really wrong with it, other than the propensity towards rusting overnight which can be cured with a strip and paint, but there's also nothing much about the bike that excels. Save for its name and classic appearance, it's a pretty dull thing, especially compared to its replacement - a 500 Indian Enfield. A real man's bike that lets you know all the effort involved in extracting power from the combustion process, and one that happily shrugs off the excessive mass of its rider and pillion.
H. Lee
Return to Contents for Matchless and AJS
Ronnie told me I had to have a go on his latest. Knowing his penchant
for twenty stone mama's I was about to demure when he muttered
the magic words, AJS. Okay, Vincent or Velocette...or almost any
model from the glory days of the British motorcycle industry would
have been more impressive. But you have to take what you can get
- the combination of the fearless nature of UMG, and yours truly's
well known need for bouncing the engine in the frame of test bikes,
makes available machinery rare and I'm still waiting for that
call from the glossies with an irresistible offer of fame and
fortune (I keep binning the letters before they can get to you,
son - Ed).
It was in this frame of mind that the AJS 14CSR was wheeled out into the daylight. Ronnie's a cut and weld maniac so I was surprised when it turned out to be a stocker. Ronnie had found it in some old dame's garage and bought it for the proverbial song. A bit of polishing, new cables, fuel and oil had it as good as new. Well, sort of.
The Model 14's a fairly rare old bus, the CSR model even more so. Ran from 1958 to 1966, the later ones having better metal in their engines. A unit construction OHV single of 248cc with a bore and stroke of 70x65mm. The stocker made a mild 18hp, the CSR, which I was about to swing my leg over, twenty horses.
Ronnie had already measured the engine up for a seventies style chopper, figuring that hippy nostalgia was finally going to catch up with the motorcycle game and he was going to make a killing! So he wanted the engine back in one piece but reckoned it was safe enough to 90mph on the clock.
I don't know what the compression was (are there any UMG readers so fanatical about these things that they think I should look it up - surely not?) but kicking the engine over was akin to being knee-capped. It wasn't so much the sheer force of slicing through the combustion chamber as the ill-sited and poorly geared kickstart mechanism. I was wearing boots that would give a Nazi an erection, the times I slid off the pedal did no permanent damage but it was nevertheless an irritating little bastard.
Eleven long kicks it took, with old Ronnie pissing himself with laughter. I kept the throttle far enough advanced to make the front guard try to shake itself free from the vibes. Hefty steel it was, too, braced at several points to withstand life in the fast lane. Even though this was the sporting version, it was still a sensible shape, none of this silly minimal plastic nonsense.
The engine didn't want to tick over steadily, kept me busy on the throttle, determined not to stall it and go through the tedious starting routine again. Right through the rev range there was no escaping from the vibration - the clock read 19000 miles, the lack of engine rattles, knocks and smoke suggested it was still in reasonable shape.
By far the best thing was to clunk it up to top gear as soon as possible. I even tried running it in top at 20mph with a touch of clutch slip, but was soon dissuaded by the smell of smoking clutch plates and the fearsome amount of heat that was wafting up from the delinquent single. From 40mph onwards it would thump away like an idling pile-driver, smoothing out momentarily around the 60mph mark (relatively, it was still thrumming the pegs), then putting my teeth on edge as it accelerated past 70mph.
80mph turned up eventually, the bars actually trying to leap out of my hands. In the pursuit of retaining both the UMG's and my own reputation for wanton abuse, I held the throttle to the stop as the Fens slid past in a blur that would make an expressionist painter's reputation.
Commendable was the riding position, the way it let me easily brace my body against the wind, and allowed me to absorb the otherwise harsh bumps that hit the chassis via suspension so taut it was more like riding some rigid framed horror than a relatively modern motorcycle.
Acceptable, too, was the chassis geometry which ameliorated the need to keep the lightest of grips on the bars to avoid my fingernails falling off from the phenomenal levels of vibration resultant from putting the engine deep into its danger zone.
Be fair to the old horror, there appeared to be no falling off in power, it just seemed that every element in the motor was shaking itself apart, that they had been so distorted by the unlikely forces involved that added to the natural unbalanced primary vibration was another slew of jumping, rattling components so far from their design parameters that they were moments off exploding.
By 88mph I was all for backing off but still a small part of my mind was determined to better Ronnie's 90mph. I don't know if I succeeded or not because the next time I glanced down at the clock, the whole headlamp assembly had swung loose in its clamp, going into a self destructive frenzy on the lower yoke. I was convinced, at that point, that a majority of the nuts and bolts were going to rattle free and leave me flying through the air on an exploded motorcycle.
Backing off, as in slamming the throttle shut, I thought I could feel the engine give a sigh of relief. I pulled over, spent an amusing (yeah, sure...) twenty minutes tightening up all the nuts that had come loose. The engine was also low on oil and the chaincase appeared to be spitting out lube like there was no tomorrow.
The rest of the ride was a touch more subdued, mainly because I wanted to give my eyesight a chance to return to normal. I felt like some cartoon character who'd had his eyeballs swivel in his head. The only other moment of insanity was trying to ear'ole the thing through a couple of tight curves at about 50mph. The marginally mounted swinging arm gave a few shuffles which coaxed the handlebars into shaking from side to side a couple of times.
Nothing to worry about, I thought knowingly, when the bike underwent an involuntary shuffle and tried to head for the other side of the road. I'd already worked out that the SLS brakes were a pile of horse manure, the drums actually distorting when any force was applied to the levers, so I tried to pull her over again.
The 330lb machine was extremely reluctant to obey, though in normal riding it went where it was pointed without too much effort. The rather wimpy front forks had somehow become a bit twisted and thus locked up. My muscles eventually won the day, along with a little help from slamming the throttle shut, though the chassis didn't like that either but at least it was doing its suicide dance on the correct side of the road.
When I mentioned this, Ronnie pointed to the tyres, some ancient Dunlops that had cracked sidewalls. I could've given the nutter a slap for endangering the Malone frame, but I suppose I should have been professional enough to check it out before swinging a leg over. Yeah, sure.
So there you go. A properly rebuilt and tyred CSR's probably the business, but some old horror that's been stored away for a couple of decades is another matter entirely. I suppose you could brace the chassis, sling in a modern Jap engine and have some fun. Even mad Ronnie was wondering if a couple of Isolastic mounts would work in his chopper, which says all you need to know about the engine.
Malone