Copyright (c) umgweb.com 1998
I have fulfilled few of my youthful dreams. Perhaps that is why I went a bit mad five years ago. To judge by the comments of my family I ought to be locked away. My most heinous crime was to hand over £9750 for a series C Vincent. All through my youth I had wanted to ride one of these 1000cc vee twins, they had dominated the road like no other machine, even if in reality few were made. I could never afford one then, the biggest bike I laid my hands on was a 1966 Triumph 650 which had spat bits all over the road whenever I went over 70mph.
The usual story followed, wife, car, kids, mortgage, suddenly you're fifty, your whole life seems to have disappeared. The kids have left home, the mortgage is paid off and your bored out of your skull even when you should be counting your blessings and looking forward to a leisurely retirement. Then I picked up a glossy motorcycle magazine that heaped praise upon praise on the venerable Vincent. That was what started it all.
Coming back to motorcycling aboard a Vincent is not a very clever move. My initial test ride of the machine went okay. Heavy clutch, heavier gearbox action (buy some proper boots, I told myself) and a raw edged feel to the thumping vee twin between my legs. Up to 60mph in stockbroker belt Kent, the chassis wandered a bit and the forks clunked when I tried to use the incredibly stiff double sided front drum, but the joy of being back on two wheels was incredible. I soon convinced myself that the engine noise, like there were a few ball bearings loose, was quite normal. The vendor told me they all sounded like that.
I should have become a little suspicious when the owner demanded the money in used fifty pound notes. The bank manager was summoned to check on my identity before the bank was willing to hand over the money. I've been so out of the game that I didn't even bother to check the engine number against that in the registration document. It had a new MOT and six months tax, shone beautifully in the summer sun and a new set of tyres whose sidewalls were still glossy black. Completely rebuilt 2000 miles ago, confided the vendor, go for a 100,000 miles, no problem. But that didn't stop him writing sold as seen on the receipt.
The ride home, some 50 miles, was rather more enlightening. The four speed box developed a penchant for locking up in second gear. Much revving, slipping of the clutch and booting was needed to persuade it into first or third. To compound the problem it wouldn't hold third, the gear slipping out and sending the revs soaring.
Once into top it would motor along quite happily up to 70mph. After that it became frightening. It wasn't just that the engine vibrated so much that my feet fell off the rests, although that was bad enough, the steering was also wicked. The bars tried to twist out of my hands as the Girdraulics forks wobbled from side to side. I backed off the throttle and it got worse before it got better. The bike had veered off the crest of the road heading straight for a hedge. Desperate braking had little effect on the lack of retardation. I narrowly avoided writing off nearly ten grand's worth of metal.
I moderated my pace to 55 to 60mph. The seat was also pretty strange as it seemed to move around and perched the rider high above the machine. The bike felt quite light and its dimensions were more in line with a Japanese 250 twin than a litre bike. By the time I arrived home I was a bit of a nervous wreck. The family came out to see the bike. With the engine whirring away noisily to itself, dripping oil and shaking the chassis, I don't think they were too impressed. After buying some serious motorcycle clothing I was ready to tackle the brute in earnest.
Or I would have been had not the beast refused to start. Family and neighbours were crowded around waiting for the machine to fire up. On about the fiftieth kick it fired up and I sagged down on to the seat. My muscles had just about recovered from operating the controls from the previous day but all that effort turning over the vicious vee had left me drained of energy. Mr Vincent was somewhat ahead of his time but not in the provision of electrics. I eventually got the technique right, or near right, and could get a cold engine fired up on the fifth, sixth or seventh kick. Hot engines are easier except that they occasionally backfire. Even a new magneto didn't help.
The Vincent had quite an advanced chassis for its time (the 1950s), using the engine as part, indeed most, of the frame. The rear suspension is not that dissimilar to early Yamaha monoshock efforts save that where you would expect a single shock Vincent provided two. This minimal frame helped keep the mass down and should, in theory, have been very stiff. The low centre of gravity should also have helped. Unfortunately, the excess of bushes in the complex if stiff front forks were well worn out. The previous owner had tightened up the bolts so hard that the excess of movement was not immediately apparent, it took a few miles to become obvious.
I found all this out the hard way. I was convinced that the wobbles I had experienced at 70mph were a mere transitory experience that could be ridden through! On the first bit of straight, I gritted my teeth and opened her up in fourth. I was sort of aware of a rush of air and the kind of stomach lurching feeling you get on a Big Dipper, but these were in the background. Most of my attention was devoted to the wretched way the machine was wobbling all over the road as the Vinnie roared past 90mph.
I began to understand what a pilot feels like when he starts to black out. My vision became so blurred from the vibes as the beast roared ever onwards past the ton, that I could barely make out the road. The wobbling did not become any better as you speeded up, but it became no worse either. I could feel that, after a fashion, it was possible to keep the machine on the right side of the road. The really frightening tank slapper came when I backed off for an approaching corner.
I thought I was going to expire on the spot from a heart attack. The bike ended up going into the corner at 70mph on the wrong side of the road. Somehow we wobbled around. As soon as I could I pulled over. My whole body was shaking from the experience and I felt like I had gone ten rounds with Mohammad Ali. By then the front forks had loosened up to an extent where even I could not fail to see the problem. The ride back home was very slow and very sad.
I'm not that stupid. I knew to get the machine into shape I would have to spend more serious money on the Vincent. Much to the family's relief I put an advert in MCN, the bike up for sale at £9500, the cheapest one in the paper. I sat by the phone all week but no-one called. The bike sat sulking in the drive, still gleaming, somewhat evilly to my eye, in the sun. I pushed her into the garage, propped the bike up on its centrestand and tore off the front end. I soon found out why the brake didn't work, the shoes were down to the rivets and the linings were deeply scored. I took the forks to a friend who owned an engineering company. He told the apprentice that it would be a good test of his skill to refurbish them. I don't think he'd make much of an engineer, but the bodge job removed most of looseness.
The reassembled machine would run up to 80mph without too many wobbles, although the back end had started to weave, but not dangerously. At speed it required a lot of muscle to chuck through the bends. Relined and fitted with new shoes, the double sided front drum was able to pull up the machine quite well from 70mph, but any faster caused fade to set in. They also didn't like wet weather, the drums filling up with water. Brief sorties up to 110mph were possible but the vibration made it difficult to maintain for more than a few seconds.
I was worried about the engine noise. I couldn't believe that the bike could sound so noisy yet be healthy. The vibes were also worrying, if I switched the huge but dim headlamp on the bulb would blow almost immediately. This may have been down to the battery being ancient and decrepit but it was difficult to find one of the right size and wattage to fit in the small space available.
I resolved to visit a meeting of the Vincent Owners Club, at least then I could compare engine noises. There were lots of bikes there but many of them looked like they never turned a tyre. Returning to my machine after the reassurance of hearing a few other machines - half a dozen Vinnies ticking over would give the noise abatement society mass apoplexy - I found a crowd of Barbour jacketed ancients around my machine. I heard them slagging it off something rotten - wrong engine for that year's chassis, non standard exhausts, seat and chassis bits plus a poor finish. They reckoned I'd have to spend a few thousand getting it up to standard; not to do so would be letting the side down. I decided it wasn't the type of club I wanted to join and roared off happy enough in the knowledge that my engine was probably more or less sound.
It did seem to eat oil, though, a pint every 150 miles. Poodling along at an almost pleasant 70mph I was a bit annoyed to have my day dreams interrupted by the engine backfiring and spitting. The strong smell of petrol came up from down below....the back cylinder's carb had fallen off. The temptation to throw a match on the petrol covered engine and claim on the insurance was resisted. The carb went back on okay after I'd unfurled the toolroll.
The next 1500 miles went by reasonably enough. I was becoming used to the machine's idiosyncrasies and after a period of muscle building was beginning to return from back lane trips with a huge grin over my face. It couldn't last of course. The clutch started slipping and power began to drop off. Engine noise increased to an even more dizzy level. My perusal of the Vincent workshop manual revealed the machine as basically simple but featuring some very strange engineering. I was quoted thousands for a full engine rebuild. I was learning the hard way that Vincent spares are very expensive and labour extortionate.
For the next three months I entered a strange nether world of used Vincent parts, arcane knowledge and the remnants of the British engineering empire. In short, the more of the engine I stripped the more did it reveal itself as comprehensively knackered. If you were to look at the individual components parts, you would not believe that such worn items when assembled into a vee twin engine would actually produce a running motor. The previous owner had been a bodging virtuoso! Anyway, after much hassle and about two thousand notes I was able to put the motor back together.
It still rattled like it was full of loose ball bearings but after 2000 miles of running in I found it was capable of an indicated 120mph. Not without a lot of torment, though, for the vibes were indescribable and the handling rather unpredictable. I did put some new bushes in the swinging arm, but this didn't stop the bike going into some vicious wobbles....I tried the steering damper but it only seemed to lock the front forks up.
Not that I wanted or needed excessive speed. I was happy with 70 to 80mph but it seemed strange to me that a bike so big and expensive was so unable to safely achieve speeds greater than a good Japanese 125! I have spoken to other Vincent owners who become very vehement when I suggest the handling is less than perfect. They swear blind their machines will do 135mph with rock solid stability.
In the past few years I've put 22000 miles on the rebuilt engine with something like reliable service. The bike needs fettling after every ride. Bolts come loose, bits do fall off and it needs a full engine service every 750 miles. Consumable wear is moderate. It's not much fun on the motorway or at night, but the bike is not used for anything other than my own pleasure. It could have been a complete disaster but I'm happy to have fulfilled and enjoyed one of the great dreams of my youth!
Roland Barry
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When you've once owned a bike registered FKU 40, you don't forget it. Not even twenty years later. After ten years, when a day without riding a bike led to serious withdrawal symptoms, I lived through a period of grubby vans and used Cortinas as the family grew....and grew. Four kids but no bike. The habit had been kicked.
I was in a traffic queue when I saw my old number-plate. It was on the back of my once brand new Vincent Comet, itself on the back of a lorry. I stuck like glue, I'd have followed it to hell and back. We passed several breaker's yards without stopping, then halted at a dealer's showroom. I cleared out my wallet and placed a deposit before they could get the Comet off the lorry. God only knows where the rest of the money was to come from, but this was fate. A million to one chance. I had to have my bike back.
It was a mess. Anything but a Vincent and it would have been scrapped. It had suffered the indignity of pulling a sidecar and every repair for the last ten years was an almighty bodge. Most of the springs had been replaced by rubber bands and the whole bike bristled with non-standard bits trying to solve problems even Vincent had never anticipated.
The dealer was about my age and knew his history - no more Vinnies because the company had gone bust in the late fifties. His employers also knew some idiot would pay silly money for the privilege of pouring even more money into this bottomless pit of a bike. Even so, the dealer seemed touched by my general lack of guile and lunatic enthusiasm. After phoning head office, rock bottom price was £65.... I was devasted. I didn't want to "collect" it. I wanted to ride it. It sounds silly now, but in the early seventies £65 for a heap of scrap just because it had Vincent on the tank was outrageous. Rampant inflation hadn't hit us yet, nor had the concept of a restored Classic Bike. Everyone who wanted to ride simply bought a new, or nearly new, Triumph or BSA. A few people buzzed about on Jap tin and plastic but nobody took that seriously.
I came to an agreement with the dealer. He gave me a week to raise the cash and since I had a few days holiday coming up, said I could use his workshop to make a start on the bike with occasional help from the apprentice mechanic. The bank manager used to ride a Triumph and fell for my heart rending performance. I must have put on a good show because he wiped an eye and insisted I should have at least a hundred. We were in business.
Helped by an amused apprentice and a reluctant twelve year old son - who didn't get excited until the first time he heard the engine run - the first objective was to get through an MOT. It took three attempts. I then followed a restore while you ride policy which was slow but spread the cost and was more fun. Or it should have been.
The disappointing way in which the pride of my youth went, stopped and steered was lost in the ecstasy of the first long, 20 mile run, and I wanted an excuse for another ride. I found a spare helmet in the attic and insisted my wife join me on what was bound to be an exhilarating summer evening's run....
After about three miles the Comet began to fire erratically, spluttered, spat and stopped. Some twenty sweaty kicks later it back-fired through the carb and burst into flames. It was sheer panic rather than quick thinking, but I managed to turn the petrol tap off before it welded itself into a permanently open position. The fire died away leaving nothing worse than a well cooked carb. My wife didn't enjoy the three mile walk home in wellies and never went on the pillion again.
A look behind the timing chest revealed a fibre gear which carried the auto-advance and retard mechanism. which had had enough and turned itself into bread crumbs. A few weeks later the main bearings tired of going round. It felt like the hand of God bringing the machine to a halt. Clearly a decree had gone out that the Vincent should go no further - and it didn't until a major engine rebuild had been completed.
That kept me off the road until the following spring because I could only afford to have the work done a bit at a time. Even new, mechanical silence had never been a high priority and the motor sounded like rattling nuts and bolts in an aluminium bucket. Some thought its looks so magnificent that it had been designed by God, but others described it as a plumber's nightmare.
Other problems included an incredibly light centrifugal clutch that was either in or out - a disaster waiting to happen in traffic until you got used to it. Starting was a ritual known only to seasoned owners and the handling an acquired taste. Up to 10mph there was a weave, thereafter being replaced by a feeling of being on rails. The steering was so fixed on the straight ahead that it took a few hundred miles of practice before you got the knack of scratching.
The bike bristled with original features and advanced technology but production methods were primitive.....I'd been on a pilgrimage to the factory where handmade meant the place was like a collection of blacksmith's shops. My Comet was the poor relation to the vee twin, the rear cylinder was missing, leaving an expensive 500cc single which was not even that quick.
The attraction of the bike was that the chassis was built to the same strength and quality as the mighty vee twin. It meant you could ride this slightly overgeared single to the very limit of your ability and it would never tire or show the least sign of stress. Any time lost in acceleration was quickly made up on the bends. Bumpy exits across reverse camber were meat and drink to the lighter Comet.
Wherever you aimed it, it went! And if you ever got less than 75mpg there was a leak in the fuel system. At least that's how I remembered mine. Twenty years and some abuse later it's a different story - even after careful restoration. By the time my Comet looked and went something like its old self, my twelve yearold son was nearly twenty and riding his first real bike - a cafe raced 500cc BSA. It was a stunning looker with brisk performance matched only by its lack of reliability.
It was time to give the Comet its final test. A 100 miles or so to the north lay a network of roads in the Pennines where I had once been king. I knew every bump and the fastest entry and exit line in and out of every bend, quick or slow. The only way to tell if the restored Comet was up to scratch was to ride it over those self same roads, so a weekend trip was planned with my son on his BSA for company. You've guessed it. I hurtled into a fast bumpy bend on the right line at exactly the right speed. The Vincent showed no inclination to go where I'd aimed it, twisting and squirming like a sixties Triumph on a bad day. Worse was to come As we approached a favourite bit of swervery, my son slipped by and left me for dead. Even my wife thought that was unkind when he told her about it.
A bit more objective testing on a down hill straight showed the rebuilt engine nearly 10mph down on maximum speed, and winding it up through the gears produced a lot of noise but not much else. Okay, maybe I couldn't ride like I used to and maybe my son is much better than I thought. And some of those poor quality spares didn't help.....was the frame just too tired....perhaps I hadn't put things together properly. Whatever it was I decided to sell.
Times had changed. The phone started ringing at 7.30am the day my ad appeared in MCN. By noon my original outlay of £65 plus about £50 a year spent on restoration had returned over a grand's worth of notes. I was glad the Comet went to a rider and not a collector......he rang about a month later to tell me about this big carb, polished ports, a mod using Goldie valve springs - a ton just there for the taking and much better acceleration.
What a tragedy that collectors and investors have priced these fabulous machines out of the reach of those who would really appreciate them. But if you're in the right place at the right time, the odd, affordable if rough Comet still comes up...
Stan Barrett
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Vincents have a very special place in motorcycle history. Their vee-twins were well advanced in 1946, although their subsequent evolution was never radical and they eventually went bankrupt. Along the way, the vee-twin had a sibling, in the form of a 500cc single - first the Meteor, then the Comet, with the Grey Flash as the racing model. The single developed in parallel to the vee-twins, benefiting from their chassis and engineering upgrades.
I had the chance of a blast on a 1953 Comet, the model range running from 1948 to 1954. The single cylinder's more or less identical to that on the front of the vee-twin, sharing its bore and stroke of 84 x 90mm. This gave 499cc and 28 horses in a fairly hefty 400lb chassis.
The Comet was fitted with a Burman gearbox, which whilst it might conjure up visions of sexy Burmese women had done over 45000 miles without a rebuild. Basically, the kickstart mechanism was knackered. Not a good idea on a 500cc single, but twenty kicks later the bike finally thundered into life and I slumped over the large petrol tank.
It should be noted that the Comet had to share many of the vee-twin's cycle parts and chassis components. Where the 1000cc Vincent looked and felt small for a vee-twin, had the kind of art and balance in its appearance that inspired many, the single looked odd rather than exciting. In fact, the Comet looks like someone has bunged together many disparate parts without much thought or enthusiasm. Perhaps the designer's heart wasn't in it!
From the noise the single made it was like some thunderous, nitrous aided, monster was beneath my knees. Vincent engines have been likened to a bag of nails spinning in a washing machine, but the single only having half the top end racket wasn't that intrusive. Or maybe it was just the megaphone barking fiercely, blocking out every other noise, not to mention thought.
Heavy clutch, almost up to Commando standards. Loose gearchange action, jerky transmission when I finally engaged the first of four gears. A bit of vibration when I blipped the throttle but not that bad, smoother than a 350 Ariel or Ajay. Clutch gently out but it didn't make any difference as it was an on/off switch. The bike jerked forwards and we were in business.
I wound the Vin up to 30mph when the power went flat and the vibes went wild. Crunched up to second, then third. Acceleration was stately by modern standards but once under way the engine was acceptably smooth and shifted with a little violence. Top gear clicked home. More impressive was the smoothness than the thumping torque. Between 50 and 70mph the bike felt well settled, surprisingly integrated given its appearance.
That was all in a straight line. The Vincent had rather odd suspension, even for the time - though in an era when some factories were trying to sell bikes with plunger rear ends it must have been quite revolutionary.
Girdraulic front forks contributed to the vee-twin's famed penchant for high speed wobbles and turned the steering of the 500 rather heavy, probably because of the forward mounted engine weight bias. With brand new bearings in the multitude of linkages it might possess unlikely precision, on the somewhat worn forks on this sample it needed a firm grip on the bars and a brave heart to ignore the fluttering front end.
The rear featured a well triangulated swinging arm, the suspension units under the seat. Movement was restricted, the seat itself felt less than firm. The back wheel hopped over bumps, reacted to each minor imperfection in the tarmac, giving a rather irritating ride and the general feel that the swinging arm and steering head were rather tremulously connected; the massive bulk of the vee-twin engine missing in forming a strong stressed member.
Oddly, the bike felt better the faster we went. By the time 80mph was on the clock, the Comet had settled into a loping gait, a fearsome grunt bellowing out of the exhaust and only a gentle thrum from the engine. So well had it settled into its forward momentum that it was reluctant to change direction. Only with an ungainly and manly tug did it dive through the bends.
The square section Avons didn't take well to hard cornering, feeling more like they wanted to fall off the edge of their tread than track graciously through the bends. The bike was too slowly turning to adequately react to cut and thrust riding, requiring a set line but at the same time reluctant to veer from the straight and narrow.
Or so it seemed initially. 80 miles into my trundle through the English landscape I suddenly realised that I had got a handle on the Vincent. It was never easy going but as my confidence in its abilities grew I was able to up the pace and remove from my mind the thought that the damn thing had a strong inclination to run right off the road!
A long Fen straight hove into view. Could see for miles, knew that the cops weren't around - a 500 Comet ain't the kind of bike capable of running off the plod mobiles. The Comet much prefers to be wound on in top, not played through the gearbox (even if it wasn't worn out and rather horrible). Down on the tank, throttle to the stop...
The Comet bounded up to 80mph, missed a momentary beat, gathered its skirts and ever so slowly wound itself up to 90mph. By then the power was beginning to dissipate, the engine clacked away furiously and the vibration became omnipresent. I increased the firmness of my grip on the machine, almost a loving caress, and held out for a little more speed. 95mph finally achieved. If I wasn't worried about returning the machine in a couple of boxes, it would probably have done a ton.
Beyond 80mph the bike was out of its element. The poor weight distribution overcame whatever little integrity the chassis possessed. A grave wallow resulted that was but moments off going into an almighty wobble by the time I decided to back off, and as the bike slowed the bars fluttered violently once in my hands as if telling me I was lucky to escape without a dose of gravel rash.
The drum brakes, riding position and general comfort never intruded, so couldn't have been that bad! The Comet's a weird old thing and I'm still not sure if I liked it or not. Perhaps I need more miles on one.
Johnny Malone