I'd seen this weird looking Ariel parked up in Soho for a long time. I'd even caught it howling into life a few times. Smog and rattles. An ugly old thing without doubt and I began to wonder about the owner, some old dude in a dirty mac. My day job was selling hardcore pornography to such types. Sure enough he turned up in the shop, demanding my most perverted stuff.
We got talking about motorcycles. He'd owned the Ariel Arrow from new and had a couple of spare bikes. Up close he had a disconcerting resemblance to one of the journo's on the glossies. He was probably wearing woman's clothes under his mac. Did I want to exchange my C90 for his Ariel, plus cash. How much would he give me? Er, no, he wanted the C90 plus £600.
One thing led to another. I ended up at his house, poking through the spare bikes after having a brief blast on the Ariel. Well, it was definitely faster than the C90. As I'm six foot two (my night job's as a bouncer at a famous London club), I looked a lot less ridiculous on the Arrow than I did on the Honda! I flexed my muscles at the guy, got the price down to the C90 plus £450.
It was a 1961 model. A 249cc two stroke twin with a bore and stroke of 54x54mm. 20hp was developed but in a mild way that was in no way redolent of devices like the RD250. The main sign of its age, apart from the appearance, was the need to mix petrol and oil at a ratio of 25:1. Hence the omnipresent smog, especially when starting up the motor.
Actually, so little force was needed on the kickstart that I could start her up using hand pressure. Came alive first kick but needed a minute or two to settle down and clear out the worst of the pollutants. It was always amusing to tweak the throttle whilst in the gutter at traffic lights and see the ped's cringe away from the blue clouds.
As far as I could see it was as it came out of the factory. Not immaculate, looked like it had last been cleaned in 1970 (a thought which went for the owner as well; definitely a case of standing down wind). Faded and corroded. I got the T-Cut, Gunk and Autosol out, had a real work-out cleaning the mess off. It took a couple of weeks even though I'd pull the bike into the shop to work on it during lulls in business. A lot of the old codgers who came in looking for inspiration reckoned they'd owned one just like it in their youth!
Amazingly, once all the gunge was removed she polished up very nicely. Not quite immaculate but gave the passing impression of being well looked after. The appearance in no way reflected the riding experience which was weird. Very weird! Even in comparison to the C90.
They shared Noddy-like front suspension. The pressed steel trailing-link forks and pigeon catcher massive front guard looked like someone had gone out of their way to make the front seem ugly. I really couldn't suss the front suspension. Braking made it patter, pot-holes made it bounce up and down like a yo-yo and smooth roads just made the bars twitch unless I put in a lot of muscle. Something worn, twisted or out of line? Probably. It's surprising how quickly you can become use to naffness.
The rear shocks were flimsy looking Armstrong units which had long ago lost their damping and were best described as softly sprung pogo-sticks. The units from the spare bikes were too rusted to contemplate. The frame was a massive pressed steel construction that held the steering head and swinging arm rigidly in line.
Mass was under 300lbs, the wheelbase a mere 51 inches and the wheels were 16 inchers. That all added up to a bike that, at best, felt a bit flighty and one that on rough roads would turn wobbly. Underneath all this was a cycle that could be flipped around with some elan and occasionally surprised me with the ferocity with which it would attack the bends... compared to a C90 it was close to sublime, compared to anything modern it was a pile of shit! I could, though, see that when new it was probably a lovely little thing. There, that should stop the Ariel Owners' Club from descending on Soho with rope in hand!
As to the engine, that was a mixed bag as well. The clock read 79000 miles, a bit silly to expect perfection. The owner reckoned he did a rebuild every 17-18,000 miles and I had about 8000 miles left before it'd require serious attention. He was most adamant that the spark plugs were changed every 500 miles. Otherwise the engine coked up, refused to start and generally performed like a Raleigh Runabout.
The top end and silencers needed a decoke every 1500 miles, easy enough to do as the alloy head and cast iron cylinders were quickly removed...their studs could strip their threads if too much force was applied. I had plenty of spare pistons and rings and one extra crankshaft. Quite an impressive assembly with three main ball bearings and roller bearing big-ends.
The only area where the engine showed its age was the primary chain, though the relatively smooth power pulses of the stroker twin gave it an easy time. The unit construction four speed gearbox had a reasonably slick change but a need to engage a false neutral between second and third gears.
The bike would scoot around London without any problems, easily able to keep ahead of the cages and quite willing to give most Jap bikes a run for their money. Being both narrow and short it could be twisted between the ensnared cages with a similar ease to a step-thru without having to worry about being pushed into the gutter by the odd, fast moving taxi. In fact, the vintage appearance made cagers gawp, not look where they were going and end up ramming other vehicles. Brilliant!
I quite often saw 65 to 70mph down those narrow strips of tarmac left between the stalled cars. Quite dangerous as the six inch SLS drum brakes would have disgraced the Honda. It wasn't just their lack of power, also the way the suspension turned the bike into some large kind of nodding horse.
Emergency braking often coincided with the bike going sideways, scraping off the side of some cage. Luckily, the bike never twitched to the extent that I was thrown out of the saddle and we could scream off between the cars rather than get into a shouting match with the enraged cager. After a while I took a particular delight in deliberately taking off the paint on the more expensive cages.
Out of town, the little Ariel would buzz along at 70mph but seemed reluctant to go any faster. Once, with a howling gale to my rear and an open road to my front, I pushed the bike up to a record 83mph. The Arrow felt like a big blancmange but reacted well to a desperate grip on the bars. I always had the impression that a sportier bike was trying to escape from the grasp of its dull looks and outlandish suspension. It certainly ran better after a bit of hard riding, needing maximum revs to clean out some of the accumulated crud in the combustion chambers.
I did 4500 miles in seven months. Then another customer turned out to be an Ariel fanatic. A big bearded chappie who had a taste for bondage. You get the weirdest kind of impressions where I work. He offered me £1500 for the Arrow plus spares and I let him have it for £1600, threw in a box of porno mags.
I was quietly impressed with the Arrow, though there's obviously loads that can go wrong with such an aged bike. The replacement was an AJS 350 thumper. That's another story.
Alan Byratt
****************************************************
One born every minute, I thought, as the Arrow clattered in front of the big guy on the Harley ElectraGlide. He had the choice of radically altering his line or hitting my back wheel. The little 250cc twin yowled in protest as the integrity of its main bearings were tested at maximum revs in third gear. The heavy smokescreen at least indicated that the primitive oiling system was still working, though what the eco-conscious Californians thought of the mess was anyone's guess!
The Harley rider did the decent thing, twitching his bike's unlikely mass on to a new line that didn't reflect the curvature of the road. A few minutes previously, he'd scared the shit out of me by thumping alongside and screaming, 'Get that piece of shit off the road, ya faggot!' So his dose of tarmac rash, observed through the haze and buzzing mirror, was only natural justice. When those big Harleys go, they do so in a big, big way, man.
Having got the Arrow all wound up, in its hot and hellish stroker infamy, I changed up to top keeping the throttle wound all the way open. The whole bike seemed to leap forwards eagerly, speed increasing until by 85mph it was all beginning to blur into unreality. The engine's passable imitation of a chainsaw about to bite back didn't dissuade me from backing off; encouraged by the surprising rigidity of its pressed steel frame and unconventional front end. 90mph came and went, the final reading 94mph - it may even have gone a bit faster but such unlikely velocities, and the usual excess vibration, meant the speedo exploded!
The curving hills outside of LA anyway presaged a need to back off pronto, whatever hidden abilities the chassis might've possessed certainly didn't extend to the pair of SLS drums. Lack of power and diabolical fade combined to make tight curves and speed only a quick way to the nearest cemetery. The Arrow reached an equilibrium of sorts at 65-75mph, when you could be mistaken for thinking you were aboard a seventies stroker rather than a hastily lashed together version of a sixties commuter.
It could tackle some hellish bends with more competence than modern Jap commuters, even though the tyres were ancient square section Avons - put that down to the very low centre of gravity and fairly minimal amount of mass that had to be countenanced. By any modern standard, the Arrow looked plain awful but that hid a certain degree of sporting potential that, at the very least, would surprise and annoy wannabe outlaws on big Harleys.
I actually bought this bike, commendable in its cheapness as I don't think they officially made it to the USA and no-one knows what the hell they are! Some ex-army type had bought one in the UK and shipped it out when he returned home after doing his duty in England - making sure none of the natives got at the Yank's nuclear missiles, or something. Anyway, he died and I came across it through a friend of a friend, his wife just wanting shot of the heap. Ride it around LA for a couple of weeks and ship it back to Blighty. I got lots of curious looks!
I generally refrain from destruction testing my own machinery but the Arrow was so cheap that when the boredom got to me I couldn't resist... oh, the bike came with a box full of spares that included a whole crankshaft assembly, brand new and still in its heavily greased wrapping, so even if I got the main bearings to go knock-knock I would have the means to get the bike back on the road for next to nothing!
Perhaps surprisingly, the Arrow seemed to thrive on throttle abuse, singing along serenely if I ignored the smoke and vibration - the latter absolutely nothing compared with proper British twins of past and present acquaintance. More worrying was oil leakage developed by the gearbox, needing frequent topping up to avoid the box seizing! This turned out to be a crack in the casing! Turning the bike upside down, letting the oil drain away from the crack, and careful application of Plastic Metal did the trick.
At least it meant I was never completely bored - always aware that the repair could fail, the gearbox lose all its oil and seize up, throwing the back wheel into a death skid! Revving the Arrow like you would an RD, led to plenty of kicks, especially in the mad LA traffic where any nonconformity stands out and acts like a beacon for various law enforcement agencies to pounce. An English accent usually went a long way to getting me off with a warning, that and some ramblings about being on my way to a vintage meeting. Not that I would ever turn up at such an event, they would probably string me up for past misdeeds.
If I never managed to blow the Ariel up I at least got the fuel down to below 40mpg and finally got the old back Avon to bite down deep to its carcass - not that it made any difference to the handling. I was probably lucky that it never rained! The fully enclosed rear chain and proper mudguards meant that I could hustle the Ariel of an evening wearing an expensive suit without worrying about dry-cleaner's bills! And its curious starting technique meant I could leave it unlocked with no fear of some villain half-inching it!
God, I sound like I actually like the wee bastard. I deny that utterly and completely. Nope, they are ugly little sods with a chainsaw engine and a penchant for self-destruction when ridden fast and furiously.
Johnny Malone
****************************************************
One born every minute, I thought, as the Arrow clattered in front of the big guy on the Harley ElectraGlide. He had the choice of radically altering his line or hitting my back wheel. The little 250cc twin yowled in protest as the integrity of its main bearings were tested at maximum revs in third gear. The heavy smokescreen at least indicated that the primitive oiling system was still working, though what the eco-conscious Californians thought of the mess was anyone's guess!
The Harley rider did the decent thing, twitching his bike's unlikely mass on to a new line that didn't reflect the curvature of the road. A few minutes previously, he'd scared the shit out of me by thumping alongside and screaming, 'Get that piece of shit off the road, ya faggot!' So his dose of tarmac rash, observed through the haze and buzzing mirror, was only natural justice. When those big Harleys go, they do so in a big, big way, man.
Having got the Arrow all wound up, in its hot and hellish stroker infamy, I changed up to top keeping the throttle wound all the way open. The whole bike seemed to leap forwards eagerly, speed increasing until by 85mph it was all beginning to blur into unreality. The engine's passable imitation of a chainsaw about to bite back didn't dissuade me from backing off; encouraged by the surprising rigidity of its pressed steel frame and unconventional front end. 90mph came and went, the final reading 94mph - it may even have gone a bit faster but such unlikely velocities, and the usual excess vibration, meant the speedo exploded!
The curving hills outside of LA anyway presaged a need to back off pronto, whatever hidden abilities the chassis might've possessed certainly didn't extend to the pair of SLS drums. Lack of power and diabolical fade combined to make tight curves and speed only a quick way to the nearest cemetery. The Arrow reached an equilibrium of sorts at 65-75mph, when you could be mistaken for thinking you were aboard a seventies stroker rather than a hastily lashed together version of a sixties commuter.
It could tackle some hellish bends with more competence than modern Jap commuters, even though the tyres were ancient square section Avons - put that down to the very low centre of gravity and fairly minimal amount of mass that had to be countenanced. By any modern standard, the Arrow looked plain awful but that hid a certain degree of sporting potential that, at the very least, would surprise and annoy wannabe outlaws on big Harleys.
I actually bought this bike, commendable in its cheapness as I don't think they officially made it to the USA and no-one knows what the hell they are! Some ex-army type had bought one in the UK and shipped it out when he returned home after doing his duty in England - making sure none of the natives got at the Yank's nuclear missiles, or something. Anyway, he died and I came across it through a friend of a friend, his wife just wanting shot of the heap. Ride it around LA for a couple of weeks and ship it back to Blighty. I got lots of curious looks!
I generally refrain from destruction testing my own machinery but the Arrow was so cheap that when the boredom got to me I couldn't resist... oh, the bike came with a box full of spares that included a whole crankshaft assembly, brand new and still in its heavily greased wrapping, so even if I got the main bearings to go knock-knock I would have the means to get the bike back on the road for next to nothing!
Perhaps surprisingly, the Arrow seemed to thrive on throttle abuse, singing along serenely if I ignored the smoke and vibration - the latter absolutely nothing compared with proper British twins of past and present acquaintance. More worrying was oil leakage developed by the gearbox, needing frequent topping up to avoid the box seizing! This turned out to be a crack in the casing! Turning the bike upside down, letting the oil drain away from the crack, and careful application of Plastic Metal did the trick.
At least it meant I was never completely bored - always aware that the repair could fail, the gearbox lose all its oil and seize up, throwing the back wheel into a death skid! Revving the Arrow like you would an RD, led to plenty of kicks, especially in the mad LA traffic where any nonconformity stands out and acts like a beacon for various law enforcement agencies to pounce. An English accent usually went a long way to getting me off with a warning, that and some ramblings about being on my way to a vintage meeting. Not that I would ever turn up at such an event, they would probably string me up for past misdeeds.
If I never managed to blow the Ariel up I at least got the fuel down to below 40mpg and finally got the old back Avon to bite down deep to its carcass - not that it made any difference to the handling. I was probably lucky that it never rained! The fully enclosed rear chain and proper mudguards meant that I could hustle the Ariel of an evening wearing an expensive suit without worrying about dry-cleaner's bills! And its curious starting technique meant I could leave it unlocked with no fear of some villain half-inching it!
God, I sound like I actually like the wee bastard. I deny that utterly and completely. Nope, they are ugly little sods with a chainsaw engine and a penchant for self-destruction when ridden fast and furiously.
Johnny Malone