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On the television they always have what they call perspective shots. A quick view of the scene where the action is to take place; it helps us all to get the idea. So, before we go any further, it was February 4th, a Sunday, and the run was called Winter Wanderings. The meeting place was Bromyard town square, a lovely market town where any readers from down south would be horrified to find that houses are a fraction of the going price and where people manage to live completely free of Austrian blinds and Sierra cars that they don't clean on Sunday mornings.
Jo and Jenny run a superb hotel on the square and whenever we have arrived there to meet the other chaps for a run, we've always been regarded rather cautiously by the hotel residents. For the most part they are grateful to be relieved of the chore of talking to each other quite so early in the morning, by the arrival of folk in black leathers and extremely disreputable Belstaff suits, many sporting pudding basin helmets (that would make the British Kite Mark see red with apoplectic rage) and goggles that look as though they might have some connection in the dim and distant past with some magnificent flying ace with a huge handlebar moustache.
At first they are suspicious - how have motorcyclists managed to engender this response in everyone? But then they realise, as all the helmets are removed, that the average age of the riders is somewhat in excess of 40 years, and that the bikes are even older. Flat tankers a lot of them; old deserves respect and so the residents smile and nod indulgently.
It has often occurred to me that it would be rather nice to go into the hotel and have breakfast, and so the plan was laid. We would ride to the start of the run, him on the James and I would ride my Honda C90, the forty miles from home to the start of the rally. We would then dismount, chat affably about rebuilds and so on and then go into breakfast, to the horror of the patrons who had regarded us safely from the other side of the glass bow windows, doubtless thinking, oh my dear, motorcyclists.
But it was February and the battery was flat, so we took a trip to Mel's, ostensibly to get a new battery, but more obviously to talk some more about bikes. My presence was a bit of a disadvantage in as much that the conversation did not turn to the latest list of women that Mel or the mechanics could 'give one to' and the usual offer of dirty videos was not made. Maybe they think I'm a lady. I counted the ubiquitous naked lady calenders on the wall. There were five; one of the women looked like she needed the forks of an FZR to hold her tits up, they were so enormous!
The Honda was rubbed over with a rag, started up and I was ready to go. The sky was clear, not raining, and I nervously mounted the bike, a little apprehensive as this was the longest trip solo and I had to get around the one way system in Worcester without making a mess of it and stalling. I became that morning a motorcyclist proper. Took what Pirsig said in Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance to heart and owned the road. Imagined myself as Ted Simon even, worked out that after my day's adventure I would only have to do 63,910 miles to catch him up.
I started singing. There's nothing like the early morning, the hills of Worcester and the almost overpowering sense of well being that riding a bike creates to provoke a bit of humming and then as things get better, full scale choral work-outs.
It didn't rain, I didn't stall it, I arrived to a certain (undeserved, I felt) indifference from the chaps in the square. I expected a much bigger reception; what I'd done was brilliant, heroic. I was a motorcyclist now. The relative newness of my bike (it's actually got a letter after its registration number) enabled me to leave the James miles behind (well, a hundred yards) going up hills. I felt rather proud about that. Okay, I accept Joey Dunlop has little to worry about, but surely no-one has their fantasies in true perspective when they are in the middle of enjoying them. I was racing in the streets and that was good enough for me.
My bike does not qualify for the runs. it's got to be over 25 years old. However, they said I could go on if I wanted. But I declined as breakfast was waiting. Besides I wanted time to talk about my spectacular achievement. It seems to me that after brief periods of intense physical exertion nothing delights a man more than drinking beer and talking about it. I didn't see why I should be denied my opportunity to do the same.
Motorcycling, like a lot of other things, is addictive. As I sat there munching my toast and marmalade I started scheming and planning. When could I get out again? If it feels this good in February what will it feel like in the summer? Within a few minutes of recovering from my dawn blaze across Worcestershire on a C90, I was bitterly regretting the breakfast booking and wishing I'd done the run as well...
The concept behind the Bucket and Spade run is one of Mike's. It's the same concept that underpins all the runs he organises. That is, persuade as many of your friends as possible to ride motorcycles all day long in all sorts of weather, with only the promise of a cup of tea and his company to offset the disaster, the rain, the pain in the bum and the stress of losing fellow riders.
I'm not surprised that 30 or so people do join him. The concept is a simple one. Leominster Bus Garage to Aberaeron and back in a day, for us a round trip of 250 miles, a mere nothing for a big Yam but a bit of a stomp for a bike over fifty or sixty years old. In many ways the Bucket and Spade has the stamp of a works outings. There is enormous promise and speculation, it's everything you remember from going to the seaside when you were a kid. The sun will come out, we're going to have fun. It's the highlight of August. The real troupers turn out for this one; everyone makes an effort.
The rucksack is loaded up, it's seven o'clock on a Sunday morning, the bike's ready (he's done the obligatory fiddle with the chains) and it's just a case of cramming the waterproofs in on top of the lunch. Even after the summer we've just had there is no way we are going to trust the British weather. Anyway, if we do take them it won't rain, for the same reason we take the puncture repair kit and the great weight of Whitworth spanners, swinging like a hanged man in the tool bag.
Leominster Bus Garage, nine o'clock now, and a chap in plastic sandals turns up from nowhere to talk about bikes. Every time we stop people come up to us wanting to talk about bikes. Everyone says Hi and hello, lots of bikes - Sunbeams, a Rudge, a Scott, lots of natty little Ariels and some modern (fifties) bikes.
Someone tells Mike of a particularly hazardous road they had gone down the day before. It says unsuitable for heavy traffic - but was actually unsuitable for any traffic; gestures of an incredibly steep incline with water at the bottom. Mike takes all this in with the expression of a father listening to a son who has just discovered what it's like to get drunk. Oh God, I think, it won't be long before that one is incorporated into the route card.
There's the sudden noise of a bike being kicked over. It's the Sunbeam Sizzler, the rider has firmly strapped on his pudding basin, goggles down; a couple of riders want to get ahead to have breakfast. They wind on the throttle and zoom off. 25 minutes later, when we leisurely set off, they are a quarter of a mile down the road in a hedge.
Different thoughts must cross our minds as we travel along. If you end up behind some riders, you'll see the pillion gesticulating wildly about things; the bike must be quieter than the Sunbeam I'm on the back of. They don't think about work, all of them say they leave that well behind them, maybe they just think about riding. This bend, the car in front, the weather, where's some rider got to.
Next, one of the engines starts to overheat and loses compression. We stop in the Welsh equivalent of the Amazonian rain forest. Huge great trees with dense foliage blocking out the sun. Sometimes, when you look at a bloke sitting on his bike, you can almost visibly see him invoke God's help in keeping the thing running. His own expertise and his mates crowding around muttering encouragement goes a long way but in the end if the gods say you're out of the game, you are. Anything from a head gasket to a bush gone in the gearbox, and that's the end of it. Even simple things can go wrong and sabotage an entire day's riding.
Eventually, the bike is fixed and we're all back on the road. After a swim on Aberaeron beach we stomp off into town, thudding along in the great heat in our huge Derri boots. Sometimes I look at us and think they won't let us in but they do and we have tea and cakes.
On the return journey, one bike develops a puncture in the back tyre. We're on the Drovers Road and luckily someone has a repair kit. The men yank at the tyre, push it this way, pull it that way, get the tube out, feel around the inside of the tyre wall as gently as a man reading braille, but nothing is found. Later on we all regret this as 20 miles down the road the puncture comes back just as the bike is leant over in a bend.
The main body of the section had left us by this time, it's pouring with rain and no-one has a puncture repair kit left in working order - the glue looks like toothpaste after the boy scouts have been at it. We leave him at a garage 70 miles from home to ride back and get a trailer. By the time we arrive home his wife's phoned to say it's okay he's fixed the puncture.
Then his wife phones again, it's punctured again, can we get him? Back 80 miles to the pub he's managed to stagger into. Load bike, drink beer, hastily eat chips and home again (the same 80 miles): knackered and exhausted like kids after a day out at the seaside...
He was planning a weekend's motorcycling and camping in Wales and I was listening abstractly, not thinking about much in particular while he wistfully wittered on. As I didn't actually say, no way, I'm not doing that, nor make a prompt refusal, I was enmeshed in a plot beyond my powers of disentanglement. For a pillion rider acquiescence is a yes vote.
What he actually said was that there would be zephyrs of breeze gently flapping against the opened slit of the tent, that through this slit there would be rays of golden sunlight, that the sounds awakening us would be those of bird song and the distant refrain of a babbling brook. Like all motorcyclists, all the same, the continual triumph of optimism over the experience of years and years.
It was only when he mentioned that the campsite was located in Wales that I had real pause for thought - it always rains in Wales; I even had photographic evidence from past exploits to prove that Wales was not the place to go camping and motorcycling. Especially on a vintage bike, the bloody thing breaks down. And I have to sit there biting my lip trying not to ask what was the matter with it, for fear of getting thumped with a Whitworth spanner.
Does anyone really camp in Wales in the wettest April in recorded memory? And do people do it on a bike that this year celebrates its fifty-first birthday, after a rebuild that left no compression and something else wrong that when he explained it to me sounded as complicated as the internal digestive processes of a double stomached goat. Surely, no-one would envisage it.
But he does, and why? To get out with his mates? No, to get out with mine. The weekend is the Spring Rally of the WIMA and an impressive bunch of women they are too, By comparison, the men in the vintage club are quite gentle. These women do things like going to the International Meet in summer (1200 miles each way) on MZ 125s. I've only been at this a short while and even I know that's mad. They go to Digwall (north of Inverness) for a rally; most people wouldn't go if they inherited a Scottish castle and an estate.
The idea in spite of the fact that I had failed to nip it in the bud, was now assuming gigantic proportions. Maybe it was straightforward curiosity. Imagine a group of women who adore motorcycling as much as men, and whose idea of a good time is doing the Monte Carlo or riding from Sussex to Darlington on some enormous machine they can hardly stand astride, just to see a mate. Could it be that here was really the group of women he'd been looking for?
I felt as though I had been duped. I'd joined WIMA on my first day out on the bike when we went to Founders Day, hoping, I think, to have a little credibility of my own. A group of women that could in their own small way compete with the men that I ride with each weekend. I sought company, solace, thought that there might be women out there as perplexed and bewildered as me about motorcycles; naive and sweet, supporting their men and doing things like pressed flower work.
But no, I discover after six months of reading their journal they are a group of extremely competent enthusiasts, several of whom go out and leave their men behind to look after the children. I was nervous about meeting them. He was looking forward to it. He had a certain credibility, he was going on the Sunbeam, I was bringing up the rear in a jeep laden with enough kit to keep the average Everest expedition safely and adequately equipped for several months.
I also had the Big Dog, the one who barks very loudly every time he hears a motorcycle start off. He was my company as we drove down to Wales with huge barks ricocheting round the jeep like Tyson beating three kinds of you-know-what out of a piece of corrugated iron every time we came near a bike. So I was to arrive with the same lumbering passivity of a woman in purdah.
I needn't have worried. The women were magic. Our paltry 80 mile jaunt to get there was nothing, most of them had come several hundred miles. Imagine the scene, about 15 women gathered in a group to watch him start up the bike, much amusement at the sight of such an ancient device as a kickstart. He couldn't start it. They were incredulous, but to their credit they didn't jeer when he sheepishly came back for the tools...
The run on Sunday morning was kept modest for our benefit, but the Sunbeam, despite or because of its rebuild, didn't let us down. It was great to have her out again. I have been so indoctrinated that I refuse to accept that a motorcycle can be proper if it isn't black - we were on the only black bike.
Lunch was a brilliant affair, laid on by the WIMA rally officer. I think she used to be a chef somewhere, she's the only person I've ever seen riding a BMW wearing a checked cap back to front, a pair of clogs and an apron...
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I should have known better, after my cousin's George's experience with Velocettes, than to sink myself up to my neck in debt by buying a 1962 Venom. Mind you, his MSS (that's the cooking version of the 500 Venom) had its good points.
George had originally meant to buy a Gold Star but went for the Velo when he found that the insurance was going to cost more than he was willing to spend on the bike itself. Low down grunt on the MSS was immense. It gave the original meaning to the fire at every lamp-post ride, seeming to give you a punch up the backside at each stroke as you accelerated from 0 to 30mph in about 5 bangs.
The handling was of the think it round the corner variety and, of course, the sound was lovely. This still applied even after the fishtail end of the silencer had been sawn off, following a kickback which blew most of it off. When you were close behind this gave you a sensation of being constantly slapped in the face, since the exhaust, being slightly upturned, was directed straight at the following rider.
So much for the good side, what about the snags? Well, the famous starting ritual wasn't one of them. Many bets were won challenging people to start it first kick, but given the correct knack (of which more anon) it was easy to do. I overcame this difficulty whenever I borrowed it - we lived on a hill and bump starting in the time honoured fashion was fun and great for the macho image.
The number one snag was the clutch. Not for nothing did the handbook devote two full pages to its adjustment. This had to be done in at least three places but the most critical of them was the slip ring holding the sixteen small clutch springs. A special Velocette tool could be purchased to assist this process, or alternatively a nail accompanied by a hammer and chisel did the job for George.
On the outside of the clutch was the final drive sprocket held on by one nut. Excellent for racing because you could alter ratios in a moment. There were snags to this arrangement, however, as I discovered once when yet again I had the bike on loan for the weekend. Incidentally, you may wonder why it came into my possession so often - one reason was the chronic lack of reliability of my Norton Terminator, the other was that George preferred to spend his weekends dressed in his best suit consuming amber liquid, for which a motorcycle wasn't strictly necessary.
So there I was full of the joys of spring, approaching one of those nasty bends which go left under a bridge and then right again as they come out. The whole route lined by solid stone walls. As I braked as hard as the MSS's SLS brake allowed, I changed rapidly down the box to take full advantage of the engine braking. This suddenly ceased to exist and the stone walls approached much faster than expected. Sweat popping out of my brow and elsewhere I laid it over as far as it would go, freewheeling around the corner and stopped, badly shaken, the engine ticking over but no drive. Examination revealed that the nut holding the final drive sprocket had come loose.
George finally sold the bike when it literally became piston-broke. The last I heard it had been ridden home 90 miles from Scarborough road races by the next owner, with a broken front down tube. He thought it was handling a bit strange, which just shows that some people have the sensitivity of a half brick when it comes to riding a motorcycle.
So why, then, did I buy a Velo. Well, I had ruined my Norton Dominator 99, a superb machine not to be confused with my previous Navigator, by fitting a device known as a Wal Phillips fuel injector. This was supposed to vastly improve acceleration, which it did. Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of myself and a friendly dealer (who raced an outfit with one on) it was impossible to achieve clean carburation. It would tickover okay and run above half throttle but in between there was nothing.
Subsequent events had an air of inevitability about them. Faced with a sharp uphill bend, I had a choice of either shutting off and chugging round, or full throttle and ear-'oling around. Being in those days made of the stuff of heroes' I opted for the latter.
Halfway round the corner I saw a damp patch right on my line. Knowing what was coming was the worst part, and I was already relaxed when I hit the ground, so didn't sustain any injury. My passenger was less well prepared and I'm afraid I was a little brutal as I hauled him to his feet, to help me pull the wrecked bike out of the hedge.
Looking for a replacement, I read a report in The Motorcycle, which assured me that Velo's were the next best thing to a BMW. Quality engineering they said. British craftsmanship, they said. Nothing like the hearty thump of a big single, they said. After starting my almost new prize, I rode off into the gathering gloom. That's when I noticed a strange phenomenon. The faster I went the dimmer the lights became. Not a totally satisfactory state of affairs.
After riding home slowly I discovered the problem - Mr Millers famous dynamo was of course belt driven and the belt was slipping. Incidentally, it was necessary on this model to remove the silly plastic sidepanels to get at the engine and dynamo. This I later found was typical of Velo's. It always seemed that to get at any component you had to first remove at least two others. For instance, there was no less than eight bolts holding on the cylinder head. This on a simple single.
I found that the Venom did not have the punch of the MSS. It seemed to start to buzz at about 65mph and levelled out at 90mph. Average consumption was around 70mpg. It wasn't a patch on my Norton for acceleration or top speed. About the same, on reflection as my present 300 MZ. I was disappointed. I did, however, learn the famous starting ritual. First petrol on. Second choke closed. Now comes the clever bit - tickle carb until petrol trickles out, then slowly depress (not kick) starter twice to draw mixture into cylinder. Next deliver the traditional long, swinging kick using all your weight.A first kick start results. I still use this technique on my MZ and it works. The trouble is that a lot of people reared on electric starts don't kick the pedal, they only push at it.
My disappointment with the Velo increased when I discovered its thirst for oil. Its first long trip was to the Dragon Rally, a journey of around 150 miles each way. The weather was fairly mild that year but even so I wasn't thrashing it. My surprise was great therefore to discover that at the halfway mark (Chester) it needed a pint of oil. In all it used four pints for the 300 odd mile trip. Friends made remarks about calling at the garage for a pint of petrol and a gallon of oil!
This was a motor with only 12000 miles on the clock. The final straw came when the gearbox developed four neutrals. This in itself was not too bad but with it came a habit of drifting out of gear on the overrun. This meant that you shut off for a corner and then as you put the power back on nothing happened. Recognising that I had neither the engineering degree required to fix it myself nor the bank balance to pay for others to do it, I took it back.
Most of my riding was being done by then on a £30 Norton which I had bought to keep the Velo company. The finance company were only too keen to sell the Velo off and leave me with the balance to pay off - for the next two years I was paying for a bike I no longer owned. Needless to say, that since then I have never bought on HP again. At least Shylock only wanted his pound of flesh, not the blood as well.
W.J.Bartle
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It's a sobering experience. The sight of old friends and acquaintances quietly turning their backs, mumbling embarrassed excuses before taking their leave in mid sentence. Some even crossing to the other side of the street to avoid your once welcome company. One individual making it all too apparent that you will be no longer welcome in his shop.
What heinous crime could account for such cold retribution? Murderer, sex fiend or worse? Well, yes, much worse, in fact. I had part exchanged my immaculately restored BSA A65 for a Japanese motorcycle. The one sin which can never be forgiven in the eyes of the Classic Berk aficionado.
Not so heinous if you have always walked with the enemy - at least your colours were nailed to the mast from the beginning. Such people are merely tolerated, pitied even, as unredeemed heathens who could not help their state of eternal damnation. To blatantly change sides, however, was indicative of voluntary betrayal, conscious cohabitation with the devil.
Despite pointing out to my detractors that I was not the first in this long and well documented exodus to the East, such appeals to historical precedent fell on deaf ears and closed minds (probably the effect of riding vibratory British machines). In retrospect, I suppose I should have expected some such reaction.
Sadly, when part of a group, group identity tends to eliminate any objective view of said group. No matter that to outsiders you may appear as a collection of eccentric oddballs or raving nutters, you, as a privileged insider can always bask in the warm reassurances of the collective consciousness. If all this sounds a little like an example of political psychology - you may be right.
Fanatics of any creed share the same frightening characteristics of blinkered vision and bigoted opinion. Traits so common in our political and economic system, that they give the advantage to our rivals. Institutionalised incompetence and corruption my have been the perogative of past management in the post war British bike industry - looking further afield today and you see nothing has changed. No wonder that the Japanese are now producing their products in this country. It seems the pupil has come home to teach the master.
It was with a mixture of sadness and relief as I rode the BSA for the last time. I felt as if I was taking a cherished animal to the knackers yard. I confess the relief far outweighed the sadness as I rode away on an F reg Suzi GSX750ES with only 1000 miles on the clock. Never more would I have to cringe in embarrassment as ordinary saloon cars rushed past, leaving me gasping atop a vibratory, oily jackhammer, which took sadistic revenge on the rider if cruised at anything approaching 70mph.
Sure, there were decades of technology separating the two machines, but the design of the BSA was already obsolete when it was new. With 16 valves and careful cylinder head design, the Suzuki actually had more torque than the poor old BSA. It would pull from 20mph in top right up to an indicated 135mph. In fact, so good is the power delivery that it makes you wonder if things like GSXR750s are worth the effort with their two stroke like need to keep the revs high for power (6000rpm in the GSXR's case).
With a relatively light mass of 460lbs, sixteen inch front wheel and sophisticated suspension it is a joy to steer around corners. Its longish wheelbase aids straight line stability. At relatively sane speeds it returns 45-50mpg. The bikini fairing is cosmetic only. Fuel and oil temperature gauges are useful. In 1000 miles the O-ring chain has needed no adjustment. Suzuki certainly got it right when they revised the frame and suspension of the GSX750 in 1983. Accompanying a GSXR750 to the BMF rally I was surprised at how well the ES acquitted itself.
Its racing brethren tends to be much more peaky. On long twisting roads the R could not shake the ES, admittedly he was carrying a passenger. He was a tall chap - we had to stop occasionally while he straightened his cramped limbs. The ES was an armchair by comparison. I found the rear brake has to be applied with discretion if wheel lock is to be avoided. The multi rate anti-dive forks works very effectively.
The engine is a direct development of the venerable GS750. The later version has plain main bearings and twice as many valves adjusted by lock-nut tappets. Valve adjustment is critical if damaged valves are to be avoided, otherwise the unit is bulletproof with none of the complexity of watercooling or electronic fuel systems.
Having attended a few Brit only rallies on my BSA, I have come to realise that polishing old relics with briar pipe clenched firmly between teeth is not really my scene. I am still young enough to appreciate the sheer power and superb engineering of the modern Japanese machinery. It was very fortunate for myself that classic prices had gone through the roof, otherwise I could not have afforded the Suzuki.
And there's the rub, the classic scene has now been hijacked by the Sotheby brigade who have little appreciation of motorcycles for their own sake, but rather as an investment. As if the country was not already groaning under the weight of investment experts, banks, building societies, property developers and sundry other pimps and their cohorts, who don't actually produce or design, but rather shuffle money about, which indirectly extends to shuffling people as well.
I can understand the appeal of old machinery. Such home grown products however flawed are rendolent of happier times in these islands. When Britain held its head high in world markets, the Yuppie and VDU had not been invented, a family could survive as a unit without both parents forced to work every daylight hour to pay for a ridiculous mortgage. Rain forests were still relatively unmolested, the ozone layer was still a layer and not, as we are now informed breached. It is tempting to become trapped in that never never land where time has stood still. We are all guilty at one time or another of indulging in the vice. Unfortunately, time has the uncomfortable habit of not standing still. Time for another blast on that Suzuki.
Gerald Sturdy
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Good British motorcycles from the sixties are hard to find. When my cousin was trying to sell his '61 Falcon I was first in line. The combination of a stock chassis and only 9000 miles was too much to resist. The bike had spent much of its life greased and stored. My cousin had completely forgotten its existence until he found it buried at the back of his garage. A quick replacement of all the perished parts and he was back on the road for 2500 miles before the machine came into my hands.
The price wasn't too high as the engine had taken to cutting out and the starting was difficult. The motor was made by AMC, an update on the old Villiers single cylinder stroker - a quite infamous device. The long stroke layout with marginal lubrication was prone to failure when revved high; keep it below 5000 revs and you'd probably be okay. As the engine was basically a smaller version of the 250, both sharing the same 73mm stroke, it was quite tough.
After a bit of poking around I found the points on the right-hand end of the crankshaft. They looked new but there was lots of arcing when they opened. The condenser looked old and was the most obvious component to replace. The arcing went away, starting became a second kick affair and no more cutting out. The replacement from a car shop (it doesn't matter that it's 12V instead of 6V) only cost a quid. My cousin was pretty sick when I revealed the cheapness of the repair as he'd thought the piston was nipping up.
The engine didn't make much more than 12 horses but it flowed out from tickover and made the bike a pleasure to potter around on in town. After 50mph it ran out of steam, 60mph possible but not really recommended for long periods of time. Performance was slightly better than an MZ 125 that my neighbour owned, much to his disgust. A slight leak in the exhaust allowed a really loud bang in the silencer on the overrun. I really enjoyed watching pedestrians jumping out of their skin. I think the leak came from where the downpipe mated with the exhaust port. A very loose fit that no amount of gasket goo fixed because the engine heat melted it.
The four speed box and chain primary drive for the unit construction stroker was probably quite advanced in its day. I found the gearchange much more clunk than click whilst the primary chain churned away. Once into a gear it wouldn't leap out, which was its best point, but rolling to a standstill it'd lock up in whatever gear was chosen. The clutch noisily fried until it started to drag when the engine would stall if we couldn't move off. Neutral could then be selected and the mill would start first kick. I tended to look well ahead and plot a course that avoided too much waiting at junctions.
The Amal carb would also disturb by leaking fuel over the engine, a trickle rather than a gush, but enough to make the engine misfire. In the end I had to take the carb off, clean the crud out of the float and fit an in-line petrol filter. Tickover varied daily, according to humidity (I think) and was quite a reliable guide to the prospect of rain when it'd tickover fast enough to shake the tank! Fuel was a reasonable 75 to 85mpg.
Although, under mild use, there wasn't too much vibration apparent in hands and feet (helped by new rubbers), every week I had to go over every single bolt on the bike. The engine mountings loosened fastest, so I drilled and wired them. A couple of times I caned the engine, I had no choice as I'd misjudged traffic speeds in an overtaking manoeuvre, which made everything buzz heavily. Two of the engine bolts had broken their wires!
I once tried to start the engine when the plug was oiled up. No way, but I did managed to break the kickstart lever in half. The jagged remnants took a liking to my leg, leaving me screaming all the way to the hospital where I had several injections and twenty stitches. Worse still, I couldn't find a new lever, ended up having a Triumph item modified to match the splines on the shaft. After 34 years I suppose parts do become a bit fragile.
Fragile's the best description of the chassis. There were a couple of good points. Large mudguards kept the worst of the weather off the bike. A deep saddle gave impressive comfort when matched with the upright riding position - ideal for gentle riding. The 18 inch wheels allowed fitment of modern tyres with impressive grip.
Those were the good side, the poor aspects centred around the antiquated suspension and a somewhat minimal frame. On smooth roads the ride was acceptable if a little on the harsh side. Steering was neutral if heavy for a 275lb motorcycle. Rough roads had the front wheel all over the place, both ends doing the pogo-stick roll and the bars trying to jump out of my hands. It was better to have a light grip on the bars rather than trying to fight the larger oscillations, that way they died out rather than amplified still further. Oddly enough, the wobbles were more intense at 25 and 50mph but died down at 30 to 45mph.
Pot-holes were even more of a problem. The forks felt like they were going to break and I almost ended up side-saddle when the jumping chassis was hit by a double whammy - the back wheel hitting the same black hole whilst the front wheel was still jumping up and down wildly. No damping in the forks or shocks, you see. Under that kind of abuse the frame deformed like it was made out of rubber.
Such an old machine couldn't be blamed for lacking damping and not being able to cope with modern roads. A dramatic improvement was wrought by fitting a Triumph Daytona front end and old pair of Girlings. That lasted for less than a month as someone wanted the Daytona forks for a real Triumph and made me an offer I couldn't refuse.
The drum brakes, all of five inches in diameter, were good for shock tactics. They certainly shocked me, anyway. To be fair, they'd pull up strongly from 50mph - just the one time then they'd need an hour or so to cool down again. They were sensitive, softly slowing the bike down, giving the impression that they would work even on icy roads. Even with such a weak front drum, the forks would still shudder in their bearings, although the massive mudguard acted as an antique form of fork brace so they didn't twist.
The chassis problems might sound a bit profound but with a little care the bike could be plotted through town and along my favourite country lanes. For some odd reason I really enjoyed my journeys on the mild stroker. Inexorably there were breakdowns. The occasional need to tweak the points, the time the cylinder head came loose, the silencer trying to fall off - just a few examples of the more memorable events in a year's worth of riding. The Francis Barnett defined riding as an adventure in which anything could, and usually did, happen.
I found the lights so appalling that I avoided night riding with the same fidelity that I avoided the local yobs, who seemed to have reverted to the Middle Age, stoning people, like old buggers on ancient iron, who didn't fit in. Exactly what early indulgence in sex, videos or drugs turned them into rabid rabble I wouldn't like to say, but I've been tempted several times to let my dogs loose on them. That would be a proper lesson in brutality and define their true position in life. Erm, the FB's fitted with diabolical 6V lights that go out at tickover and cast, at other times, a yellow glow a mere foot in front of the bike. Absolutely useless, I've seen better stuff on a pushbike!
In a year I only did 3750 miles, which tells you a lot about my relationship with the bike, but it was fun, honest. The only major engine work was taking the top end down to clean out all the accumulated carbon from the basic stroker lubrication process. This was a 750 mile chore if I wanted to avoid the performance of a constipated moped.
As a serious commuter the FB really needs better suspension, brakes and lights. The engine's still up to the job. As a reminder that the British motorcycle industry produced some gritty commuters the Falcon's not half bad. I think the appearance has more class than Jap equivalents like the Honda Benly. It's also a talking point with fellow old codgers who can remember the golden days. I'm open to offers on the bike as I've explored its capabilities fully.
R.L.
Return to Contents for Odd Brits
Ashton-u-Lyne had, for many years, been the place to push your bike to the limit, be it a 50cc Itom or a road going 500cc Manx Norton. Many arguments were settled on this one and a half mile, up hill, down hill straight. This is the story of one such that started in 1968 and ended 20 years later.
In any town, from '58 to '69, there was always one cafe which was a haven for rockers and anyone with a fringe association with bikers. The Cave was one such place situated on the main street of Ashton-u-Lyne. Its main plus points, as I recall, were a picture of Twinkle on the juke box and plenty of cheap espresso coffee.
One evening in late August '68 Geoff and myself had been out for our usual blast around town, usually a five mile stint. This was about our limit with clip-ons down on the bottom yoke and stock footrests. If your back didn't give in your wrists surely did. Geoff's bike was a pretty Tricati, 500cc Triumph motor in Ducati 250 Mk3 frame. Geoff was working in a local stove enamelling firm so everything we had became stoved, gloss or hammer finish. My BSA C15 had even acquired silver stoved wheel rims.
We pulled around the back of the Cave to see the bikes already there. The one that caught my eye, as it always did, was Phil's Rocket Gold Star leant against the wall - it was pure menace. High level pipes swept down each side into short Daytona megas that the local Plod had rattled his truncheon inside two nights previously, shouting something about baffles. A studded hump back seat completed the bad boy image.
Phil was only two years older than us, but he was light years ahead on style. He was a sort of cross between Billy Fury and Heinz (some of you will remember him), with dyed blond hair in a ducktail at the back. Standing over six feet the women loved him, and he surely loved them at least the once.
We entered The Cave to see Phil sat alone, turning a packet of Senior Service over and over on the yellow fablon covered table. Geoff sat down next to him while I ordered three coffees. As I carried them over to the table, the differences between Phil and Geoff were extremely obvious to the eye. Phil's chest filled his jacket as should a well worn leather, with Skyways and Ten Ten badges on the arm, a homemade Triumph tank badge belt holding up his jeans. Geoff's plastic imitation leather could have stood up on its own, and he sat there practically rigid - those jackets did nothing for free movement.
As I sat down Geoff and Phil's eyes were drawn above my head, and next I felt a hand running through the back of my hair. Turning around and spilling the coffees, I saw Janet and Freda. We'd met them two weeks earlier on Hyde fairground. I know that your memory fades and plays tricks on you after 20 years, but at the time these bleached blonds with thigh high skirts were the Barbarellas and Bridget Bardots of the moment.
These two girls were total speed freaks and the talk soon turned to fast bikes. My owning a C15 rather left me out of the conversation. Janet asked Phil if his RGS would beat Geoff's Tricati along Lees Road. Geoff's eyes lit up at the thought of racing Phil and exaggerated claims of 125mph from the Tricati flowed from his lips. Phil had been there before and he just let Geoff talk. After five minutes of utter bull, Phil got up and walked to the Cave door. Geoff was quickly silenced by his abrupt departure, but was gratified when Phil turned and stated, 'Nine o'clock Sunday morning, okay?'
The Cave echoed as Phil's BSA pulled round the front of the cafe, around the corner and accelerated away. After what seemed like an eternity we heard the bike change into second gear. Fitted with an RRT2 close ratio gear box - not that quick off the mark but good for 70mph in first. Geoff's face had turned as white as the sugar bowl at the thought of his David and Goliath act to come.
Sunday was a long time coming, made even longer by Geoff's constant tuning. But to his credit he got the bike running really sweet. Geoff was usually a total show off on his bike, but he never told a soul about this race.
We were both up at 7am on the Sunday as we had to pick the girls up from Hattersley. They had been designated their roles the previous evening. Janet was to start the bikes, I was to sit at the cross road junction to stop any traffic crossing the main road and Freda was to be at the finish. We arrived early at 8.45am. Conditions were perfect - dry, calm and probably the nearest we would ever get to the Bonneville Salt Flats.
20 minutes passed and then Phil appeared, roaring towards us, looking for all the world like someone had built the bike around him. The unmistakable smell of Castrol R hung in the air, I never found out if he mixed it in the tank or ran the engine on it. Traffic was light at that early hour, the odd car and little chance of any police interest.
My C15 fired into life at the second prod and Freda straddled the seat, pulling her red PVC mini-skirt even higher than usual. The mile and a half from start to finish seemed to take forever as my mind raced over what was to come. Freda was duly positioned at her allocated spot and I turned back for the midway position at the junction. Janet dropped her glove and the bikes were off.
Phil was on the inside of Geoff and lagging slightly behind due to the first gear. At about 100 yards from me the sound of the two British bikes was sheer music, both on full bore it could have been Hailwood and Agostini dicing at Oulton Park - the tension was intense. Just as Phil was about to take the Tricati, Geoff swerved into the kerb, although he still denies it to this day. The road then had a grass verge a yard wide, then a small pavement bordered by a drystone wall. Phil had nowhere to go but up on the grass.
Now, a BSA 650 with clip-ons is no machine for motocross. I could not see much as the dust from the dry grass rose like a rooster tail as the buckling machine powered on like a runaway train right down the grass. The rear of the bike was thrown out and then back again. Phil held the first swing but lost the fight on its return. The bike went down on to the road, hitting its right footrest which flipped the machine over again. It came to rest facing the wrong way laying in a pool of oil and petrol.
Geoff was first to get to Phil as I was running - when I got there Phil was up on his feet. His well worn leather had the elbow ripped out and his arm was badly grazed, but he was certainly in one piece if uncannily quiet. Geoff was denying swerving in, and both riders were in a state of shock. We went down to the fallen bike to check out the damage - the left clip-on had hit the lovely red and gold tank badge and carried on to dent the tank. The high level megas had flattened out and popped the cone out of the end. Apart from this, it had very little damage. Phil climbed on the machine and departed without any drama, the BSA disappearing from view but surprisingly going the other way from Phil's home.
We were just going to set off home when Geoff heard the sound of a bike in the distance, and a moment later Phil came over the brow flat on the tank, megas blaring as he passed by at well over the ton. He wasn't out to prove anything but I think he needed to resurrect his nerve after such a close, near fatal encounter.
We didn't see that much of Phil after the race - he stopped coming in The Cave and his bike stood forlorn all the following winter, leant on its clip-ons outside his terrace house.
Things changed as time rolled on - Fonda threw his watch to the ground and at that moment he signalled an end to the cafe racer. We all went from speed to style overnight. Extended teles were at a premium, central oil tanks and swinging arms went in the bin. Reality bit hard - moulded tanks cracked after a couple of miles and Whaley Bridge to Buxton over the Tops just wasn't LA.
Geoff and Phil never got into chops, but Geoff kept the Tricati in the back of his shop, gathering dust. Phil's RGS disappeared from the front of his house and was not seen or heard of again until 19 years later. Janet got married in 1971 and Freda just disappeared. Geoff and I kept in touch but slowly drifted apart until last winter when he phoned me out of the blue.
He was rebuilding the Tricati and wanted to know about having wheels rebuilt. My interest was aroused and I went to see the completed bike. No hammer finish this time, but a beautiful gloss black frame holding a blue-printed Daytona engine and sat on Roadrunners. Geoff allowed me to take the machine out for a spin, the handling was still superb but the performance seemed tame after my years on big Japs.
A few weeks later while out on Lees Road on my CBX I saw a BSA at the roadside with the rider crouched at its side. Curiosity and natural comradeship compelled me to turn around. I put my bike on its stand and walked over to the BSA rider. "Need any help?" I asked the rider, a tall guy about 40 with a receding hairline but vaguely familiar. "No, just changing the main jet, she's running weak," he said. I looked over the bike, a concours RGS but fitted with Taylor Dow top yoke and an alloy tank. I went to the rear and grinned, my mind flashed back 20 years. There it was, the small studded humpback seat.
"It's Phil, isn't it?" I said. The rider nodded still not recognising me. "I'd know that seat anywhere," I continued and he smiled and I knew that he remembered me. Phil had started a construction business in the mid sixties which had really taken off in a big way. He told me that he'd taken the BSA to his father's house where it had stayed until last year when his father died. He made the decision to have it professionally restored.
The guy who did the job sure knew his trade, no extra chrome or allen screws to be seen. Phil said that when he got the bike back he knew he could never be happy with the dual seat, so he rang the restorer to inquire of the old seat. Luckily, he had hung it on the wall like a trophy from times past and it was soon reunited with the bike, much to the restorer's disgust.
Our talk turned to bikes and times past - I told him Geoff had rebuilt the Tricati and then I caught a glint in his eye. I knew we were both thinking the same thought. "You want to go for it again," I said, and I knew the answer before he spoke. "Arrange it for Sunday, you know the time," Phil said. I rode straight to Geoff's, knowing the answer before I arrived. Geoff still had a wild streak that probably never will be tamed.
Things were different that Sunday - no Janet or Freda, both riders wearing helmets. I rode my CBX up to the junction to stop any traffic as before, 20 years ago. I flashed my headlight to start them off. Both machines grew larger - Phil was on the outside pulling strong as they passed me, then I noticed he had no helmet on, his hair blowing in the wind. At the finish Phil had a 100 yards on Geoff. He just carried on as Geoff came to a halt and that was the last we saw of him.
Barry V. Lesterd