After a series of meetings in dark and dank pubs right out of Dickens, this old guy agreed to let me see his Royal Enfield 250 Crusader Sports, circa 1960, and rarely used since the seventies. A degree of paranoia was involved because old Brits stashed in garages were prime targets for North London crooks. Basically, he had to suss me out, which included many exaggerated tales of my youth on Bantams and Tiger Cubs in the seventies.
On arrival, I could quite understand his reluctance, the Crusader shared garage space with a couple of Vinnies, a Gold Star and numerous other venerable Brits as well as a couple of vicious looking dogs! I touched the Crusader and they both sprang across the room, fangs glistening in the neon. A word from the owner halted them seemingly in mid flight, though not before I'd been reduced to a nervous wreck.
I didn't argue with the two and half grand price, reflected in the 7000 miles on the clock and gleaming, original chassis. The past owner looked a bit shocked when I admitted that I was going to ride it home - through the mild drizzle! Typical September night. He added, that if he knew I was a piss artist he wouldn't have sold it to me. Knowing that a word from him would send the dogs into killer mode, I immediately added that it would be the one and only time!
The bike thumped into life after a few well placed kicks (no more angst than a rattly Tiger Cub), the controls were on the heavy side but precise and she gave a little hop when first was engaged; no problem, I expected a dragging clutch and had the front brake on in readiness. I winked at the owner, gave her some throttle and left the dogs barking insanely!
Took me a while to work out that the mild glimmer from the front headlamp was main beam - about what you'd expect from a C50. The horn was similarly minimal, pushbike status. Judging by the amount of vibes put out by the 248cc OHV thumper, despite its short stroke nature, the electrics would have a typically minimal life but I didn't expect them to blow so rapidly.
Before that happened, I wound the bike up to 60mph, where it smoothed out a touch, and I had the time of my life when I had to suddenly pull up due to the usual inconsiderate cager charging out from a side turning. Old Brits do not have adequate brakes. I don't care how patriotic you want to be, there's very little that's good that can be said about SLS drum brakes. Not when you need to stop on a dime.
The back drum locked up long before the front deigned to work strongly, causing a wild skid. The jerk in the cage finally eyeing the approaching bike, did the decent thing at last - put his foot down, allowing me to miss his back end by about half an inch. At this point the front drum suddenly locked on! We would have gone down the road, had I not got a boot down. A series of jerks and twitches followed but she eventually pulled out of it.
A few miles later the front light exploded! It didn't make much difference to my forward vision, the street lights giving plenty of illumination. I suffered the vibes in second and third, producing a thunderous roar to warn the cagers of my approach. Luckily, on the wife's insistence, I was wearing one of those fluorescent bibs that stood out from about half a mile away. As the rest of my clothing was black it must've confused the cagers no end, seeing a bright orange bib floating through the air accompanied by a military blast of noise!
Home was finally reached. The toolkit contained several spare bulbs, so it was an inbuilt fault, like those old Kawasaki triples coming with spare spark plugs! Several chassis bolts were hanging off the ends of their threads. The infamous oil leakage was mostly a dribble from the engine breather and some smears around the engine gaskets. The motor ticked over with the mildest of rattles and the gearbox was very slick - both signs that it was a genuine low miler.
My main machine's an old but immaculate Suzuki GS550, the Crusader making for an interesting contrast, though both machines can be considered classics of their eras. Where the GS's totally civilised if a bit hefty the Royal Enfield's a back to basics bit of machinery that only gives its best after battering the rider into submission. It's a brave man who ventures beyond 70mph, though I did once see 77mph on the clock - not just the vibes thrumming through the whole machine but the way the engine sounds like it's about to explode.
At lower speeds, it runs best in the 35 to 65mph range in top gear, using any of the other gears means too much vibration. The ace-bars don't look as if they will be much fun at such speeds but surprisingly I found the bike quite comfortable, especially the seat which was actually deep and shaped to accommodate the human body.
The bars helped the ease with which it could be slung around. If the frame was a very minimal affair, the engine was a stressed member and the mass under 300lbs, added up to a pretty precise device. At least on smooth roads, bumpy surfaces showed up the age of the suspension, which was minimal in travel and damping. I was often shaken around as much by the road as I was by the vibes.
There was a slight but definite weave at 70mph, but then the swinging arm had period piece swinging arm mounts that Honda's engineers, for instance, would've balked at on their CG125 and given its old style Avons it was quite impressive in the way it handled most roads. Those brakes were quite a limitation, though, often leaving me going into the bends too fast when the bike would run a little wide, threatening to hit some oncoming cage. At least it made sure I didn't nod off!
The engine was unit construction, quite advanced for its day, but feeling very rough and ready compared to any modern machine. Not a great problem, eventually it all merges into the background, brain getting used to its brutal ways. The valves needed doing every 250 miles, the points every 400 miles and I always seemed to be fiddling with the carb, trying to achieve a reliable tickover.
Took about 2300 miles before it started really gushing out the oil through the breather and gaskets, despite using a torque wrench on the head bolts. This turned out to be a shot oil ring. Enfield parts are available mail order but quite pricey despite the fact that many bits are common to the singles and twins. Easy enough to work on, had it fixed up in an afternoon. It still dribbled out of the engine breather, just enough to annoy people by leaving a puddle on their driveways!
The other irritant, in the next few thousand miles, was the drive chain that needed a fiddle every other day. The sprockets looked okay so a new length of chain was acquired and knocked on. Still needed loads of attention, all those thumper pulses. They also mucked up the primary chain which needed replacement at around 10,000 miles - the answer to both problems is surely an O-ring chain conversion, which would also get rid of the need for an oil-bath primary case!
So far I've done 12,700 miles. As a second bike, full of character and amusement, it's a fine little thumper in the true tradition of British engineering - warts and all! As a main machine, it's hopelessly lost on modern roads but could be upgraded in its brakes, suspension and lighting. I'm keeping mine as original as possible, will sell or trade-in for a bigger classic.
Doug Williams
****************************************************
Being the proud owner of a fairly big van has its drawbacks, mainly on a wet freezing night when one of my mates rings me to ask if I will pick up him and what's left of his bike from some part of the country, or in one case the local police station. On such occasions many offers are made, from money, to filling the tank with fuel, needless to say most promises given are soon forgotten. However, one bloke I helped lived up to his rhetoric and came to my house a few days later with several boxes containing the disinterred remains of what he called a classic just waiting to be put together. Nearly two years later I was the proud (sic) owner of a 1959 Royal Enfield Crusader Sport; two years of locating parts, an oil strewn garage and an empty bank account.
I ended up with a motorcycle that wouldn't look out of place in a classic show except for one problem, I couldn't start the bastard. After nearly breaking every bone in my leg I enlisted some help. This bloke was a pain in the arse except for one redeeming feature, he started the heap after ten minutes of fiddling with the timing (I never did master the art...).
The Crusader Sport was a single cylinder machine of 250cc and it shared the same major components as its many brothers. Its main claim to fame was that it was the fastest 250 road bike when first introduced - don't forget we are talking learner legal back then. On an interesting note, one the Sport's brothers was called the Continental, styled and built after the factory asked some apprentices what they wanted to ride - not a bad idea!
After some form filling and a visit from a DVLC inspector, an age related numberplate was granted and duly fixed in place. There followed the quickest MOT that I've ever seen with the tester just giving the bike a look, and writing out the ticket.
On the road, the RE went round corners like it was stuck to the tarmac, feeling stable and secure, inspiring me to greater heroics than I ever thought possible. It was not long, however, that all the problems of British bikes of this era became evident. Bolts coming undone, oil leaks and just to add insult to injury, my hard won numberplate complete with rear light was ripped off by some spotty git and is probably still hanging on his wall as a trophy.
Someone also tried to lever off the tank badges but failed. I smacked the sod around the head with my crash helmet and left him in a heap on the pavement. Then one fine spring day, as I was hurtling round a tight left-hander, I was thrown off, and watched in horror as the machine slid with a vengeance towards the ditch by the side of the road. Stopping just short of the edge where my battered body met up with it. Apparently, people in the know saw the prongs off the main stand. As mine was new it was intact and dug a furrow out of the tarmac before digging in and sending me ballistic.
As my finances improved I bought a new GPZ500S, and the same thing happened, only this was the bellypan that had the back wheel off the ground and me in the hedge. Anyway I fixed up the Crusader and rode it all over the place. Then it blew up in a big, final way and I was the one on the phone to a mate with a van to come and pick me up.
After a large number of new parts were fitted I had become very wary of riding to the end of the street on the thing and concentrated on the Kawasaki (much more civilised). Only had the odd run on the Brit. All in all, the experience taught me a lot, like leaving the Enfield parked in town and coming back to find several old boys huddled around it, talking about past heroics. I once went to a well known beauty spot and had a coach load of ancients out on a day trip huddled round for a good hour whilst their other halves were taking in the scenery and casting pitying looks at their partners. Then there's the dickheads who try to tear it apart or nick it.
On the technical side the engine had a bore of 70mm and stroke of 64.5mm, sported a compression ratio of 8.75:1. It sipped petrol from a single Amal Monobloc carb at about 75mpg, vibrated like buggery and pissed out oil as if I had shares in BP (just like a true classic). The petrol tank held about five gallons of leaded and leaked through the cap when full. The seat was comfortable for at least twice the distance between fill-ups. The gearbox was solid and reliable, with its four speeds well placed. The top speed was between 75 and 85mph depending on where the speedo cared to point, and the bike went round corners as if on rails.
Being self-employed my fortunes go up and down alarmingly and on an enforced lay-off something had to go. The Crusader had long been admired by a guy who buys and sells all manner of goods, and after some hard bargaining I rode round to his lock-up and left the bike there, walked several miles home in a very dark mood.
After a few months, out of curiosity, I contacted the bloke to find that he'd exported the bike to Japan where's there a booming market for old British Iron. I nearly pissed myself laughing at a mental image of that one - talk about getting your own back.
My overall experience with this machine wasn't all bad and apart from minor irritations the bike did perform quite well. It was never going to rip arms off with the acceleration or cruise at high speeds, but on the plus side, when it blew up and I removed the engine I took it to a friend of my dad's who is well know throughout the area as a Vincent fanatic. Together, we took the little engine apart. He was well impressed by the engineering within. I think with a bit of careful rebuilding and good quality parts you could make a very usable bike.
There is a big market in spares in these old bikes and all I had to do was pick up the phone to get the bits to me the next day. A word of warning, though, it's always best to appear in person at these stores to check the selected bits very carefully, there are a lot of crap ill-fitting spares. Fit them at your peril. It seems that I fell into this trap when I first rebuilt the Enfield.
But then I've always been impatient, which is why I'm able to tell you this sorry tale because I've come off the GPZ again and now have a few weeks before the various lumps of plaster are removed. Christ, those OE tyres are crap (you should've read the Used Guide - Ed). The Kawa's also very bent but repairable. You would never believe me if I related here how it happened just suffice to say that it involved a bend in the road, a pothole, a large horse and the side of a Toyota. Nuff said...
PJD
****************************************************
Being the proud owner of a fairly big van has its drawbacks, mainly on a wet freezing night when one of my mates rings me to ask if I will pick up him and what's left of his bike from some part of the country, or in one case the local police station. On such occasions many offers are made, from money, to filling the tank with fuel, needless to say most promises given are soon forgotten. However, one bloke I helped lived up to his rhetoric and came to my house a few days later with several boxes containing the disinterred remains of what he called a classic just waiting to be put together. Nearly two years later I was the proud (sic) owner of a 1959 Royal Enfield Crusader Sport; two years of locating parts, an oil strewn garage and an empty bank account.
I ended up with a motorcycle that wouldn't look out of place in a classic show except for one problem, I couldn't start the bastard. After nearly breaking every bone in my leg I enlisted some help. This bloke was a pain in the arse except for one redeeming feature, he started the heap after ten minutes of fiddling with the timing (I never did master the art...).
The Crusader Sport was a single cylinder machine of 250cc and it shared the same major components as its many brothers. Its main claim to fame was that it was the fastest 250 road bike when first introduced - don't forget we are talking learner legal back then. On an interesting note, one the Sport's brothers was called the Continental, styled and built after the factory asked some apprentices what they wanted to ride - not a bad idea!
After some form filling and a visit from a DVLC inspector, an age related numberplate was granted and duly fixed in place. There followed the quickest MOT that I've ever seen with the tester just giving the bike a look, and writing out the ticket.
On the road, the RE went round corners like it was stuck to the tarmac, feeling stable and secure, inspiring me to greater heroics than I ever thought possible. It was not long, however, that all the problems of British bikes of this era became evident. Bolts coming undone, oil leaks and just to add insult to injury, my hard won numberplate complete with rear light was ripped off by some spotty git and is probably still hanging on his wall as a trophy.
Someone also tried to lever off the tank badges but failed. I smacked the sod around the head with my crash helmet and left him in a heap on the pavement. Then one fine spring day, as I was hurtling round a tight left-hander, I was thrown off, and watched in horror as the machine slid with a vengeance towards the ditch by the side of the road. Stopping just short of the edge where my battered body met up with it. Apparently, people in the know saw the prongs off the main stand. As mine was new it was intact and dug a furrow out of the tarmac before digging in and sending me ballistic.
As my finances improved I bought a new GPZ500S, and the same thing happened, only this was the bellypan that had the back wheel off the ground and me in the hedge. Anyway I fixed up the Crusader and rode it all over the place. Then it blew up in a big, final way and I was the one on the phone to a mate with a van to come and pick me up.
After a large number of new parts were fitted I had become very wary of riding to the end of the street on the thing and concentrated on the Kawasaki (much more civilised). Only had the odd run on the Brit. All in all, the experience taught me a lot, like leaving the Enfield parked in town and coming back to find several old boys huddled around it, talking about past heroics. I once went to a well known beauty spot and had a coach load of ancients out on a day trip huddled round for a good hour whilst their other halves were taking in the scenery and casting pitying looks at their partners. Then there's the dickheads who try to tear it apart or nick it.
On the technical side the engine had a bore of 70mm and stroke of 64.5mm, sported a compression ratio of 8.75:1. It sipped petrol from a single Amal Monobloc carb at about 75mpg, vibrated like buggery and pissed out oil as if I had shares in BP (just like a true classic). The petrol tank held about five gallons of leaded and leaked through the cap when full. The seat was comfortable for at least twice the distance between fill-ups. The gearbox was solid and reliable, with its four speeds well placed. The top speed was between 75 and 85mph depending on where the speedo cared to point, and the bike went round corners as if on rails.
Being self-employed my fortunes go up and down alarmingly and on an enforced lay-off something had to go. The Crusader had long been admired by a guy who buys and sells all manner of goods, and after some hard bargaining I rode round to his lock-up and left the bike there, walked several miles home in a very dark mood.
After a few months, out of curiosity, I contacted the bloke to find that he'd exported the bike to Japan where's there a booming market for old British Iron. I nearly pissed myself laughing at a mental image of that one - talk about getting your own back.
My overall experience with this machine wasn't all bad and apart from minor irritations the bike did perform quite well. It was never going to rip arms off with the acceleration or cruise at high speeds, but on the plus side, when it blew up and I removed the engine I took it to a friend of my dad's who is well know throughout the area as a Vincent fanatic. Together, we took the little engine apart. He was well impressed by the engineering within. I think with a bit of careful rebuilding and good quality parts you could make a very usable bike.
There is a big market in spares in these old bikes and all I had to do was pick up the phone to get the bits to me the next day. A word of warning, though, it's always best to appear in person at these stores to check the selected bits very carefully, there are a lot of crap ill-fitting spares. Fit them at your peril. It seems that I fell into this trap when I first rebuilt the Enfield.
But then I've always been impatient, which is why I'm able to tell you this sorry tale because I've come off the GPZ again and now have a few weeks before the various lumps of plaster are removed. Christ, those OE tyres are crap (you should've read the Used Guide - Ed). The Kawa's also very bent but repairable. You would never believe me if I related here how it happened just suffice to say that it involved a bend in the road, a pothole, a large horse and the side of a Toyota. Nuff said...
PJD