It looked quite good for a five year old with 22000 miles under its spoked wheels, as far as I could see under the illumination provided by the street-lamp and the reflected glory of its own headlight. The engine went phut-phut without any nasty rattles and I couldn't find any obvious crash damage. A brief blast on the pillion confirmed that it might be the bike for me. The vendor wanted £1500 but accepted £1200 with indecent acquiescence, and a rather shifty look from his deep-set eyes in a face so pudgy I was tempted to burst into laughter. Surely this clown couldn't be putting one over on me? Perhaps I should've offered £750.
The twenty mile ride home wasn't mind blowing or highly stimulating but neither was it dangerous or in the least bit disturbing. I rather hoped the G80 would turn out to be a sensible motorcycle just about up to modern road speeds, which was exactly my first impression. Performance was never arm stretching but it wasn't so slow, with a bit of gear shifting, that I felt likely to be run down by cages. A brief blast up to the ton confirmed that the engine was working fine, if with a fair bit of thumper vibration.
By the time home was attained I was in a fairly good mood. Parked up outside just as a few spots of rain began to fall. God must love me after all. Or not! The next morning I came out of the house, had trouble finding the Matchless. It appeared that someone had dumped a rat bike in my street and made off with my new motorcycle, which wasn't even insured yet!
Before the tears came, a close inspection of the rust heap revealed that it was actually the Matchless! As the realisation dawned, wifey popped up out of nowhere, demanding to know what the hell was going on - this surely wasn't the bike I'd spent an hour praising and justifying spending 1200 notes on when there was a long list of domestic stuff that had priority? Now, the wife's a big gal and not one to be trifled with, so I sort of mumbled something, feigned astonishment at her observation and got off with a bit of name calling. True love and all that!
I got out the cleaning tackle and set to removing all the rust on the cycle parts, nuts and bolts, spokes, headlamp, shocks, etc. It was all surface stuff and cleaned up quite nicely. Or nicely enough to placate the wife and persuade her that a trip down to the shops with her on the pillion was in order, after sorting the insurance.
I'm no lightweight either, so it was suspension down on the stops and wifey half off the back of the seat, staying on by grabbing me in a rather intimate bear-hug...the neighbours came out to watch and gave us a round of applause when we tottered off. Nice people.
Even in first gear the 500cc OHC thumper engine had taken on a deep, strained note and the transmission whirled away, making groaning noises. Hmmm! Up into second, the power flattened off and the poor old thing had trouble gasping up to 30mph. Third gear got us up to 40mph whereupon a junction reared up ahead. The Matchless weighs a mere 350lbs but we totalled over 30 stone, an excess that had the front disc fading away to nothing.
My terrified scream alerted the wife that something terminal was about to go down. We wobbled across a main road, the cagers blaring away at the sheer effrontery with which we crossed their path. Luck was on our side and a major pile-up avoided, but only just. Now, the wife was once rejected by the VAT people as being too pugnacious as a potential employee so I knew I was in for a verbal bashing for endangering her frail body, so I didn't pull over. Not even the rotted through exhaust of the Rotax was able to dim out her barrage of abuse.
We finally wobbled to a halt in the shopping centre, she who must be obeyed falling off the back of the bike. I kept my facial expression neutral. She then complained that all the vibration had left her legs feeling all funny and that her piles were playing up and that I was riding far too fast and that I should stay on the right side of the road and that she supposed the bike wasn't that bad really and that maybe I wasn't such an idiot after all - despite the obvious pains the vibes had also got to a place that nothing else dare venture!
So with these mixed blessings life with the Matchless continued. Every time it rained the bike sprouted corrosion until I took it all apart, stripped everything down to bare metal, coated with red-oxide paint and finished off in several layers of black. Rebuilt wheels with stainless steel spokes and new shocks solved most of the other problems, which all means I really should only have paid about £500 for the bike. Never buy a bike without examining it first in daylight!
The 35hp single never really held any great surprises, it was one of those mild, bland motors that you couldn't really criticise for doing anything wrong but was never going to provide massive stimulation, other than in the form of excessive vibration at the extreme end of the throttle play.
That limited it to 75 to 80mph cruising, with a little bit of go left in hand for taking cagers who were tottering along at a similar speed. Fuel was a reasonable 55 to 65mpg, though it did burn through the oil quite heavily when used on the open road. Certainly, after a 100 miles a very keen eye had to be kept on the level.
Handling was basically similar to a seventies Brit, which meant hard suspension, steady turning and few nasty surprises. The only thing it didn't really like was hitting a hole with the front end when banked over in corners. Then it would shake its head and rumble away angrily for a few yards until the chassis sorted itself out. I suspected the steering head bearings, as I could never set them perfectly for any length of time, becoming either too tight or too loose. It was mildly annoying rather than dangerous.
The riding position was fine for short trips but long distance stuff sent my buttocks to sleep and provoked pains in my shoulders and neck. Two-up riding was impossible for anything other than short trips, due to our mass and sheer bulk; emaciated youths might well fare better.
I kept the bike for all of six months and about 3000 miles, in which time none of the consumables showed much sign of wear - the drive chain was a bit stringy to begin with but didn't do anything nasty as long as it was adjusted every 250 miles. I did no engine maintenance other than change the oil once.
The bike sold for £975 and I felt pretty happy to see the back of it, despite losing a few hundred quid on the deal. There's nothing really wrong with it, other than the propensity towards rusting overnight which can be cured with a strip and paint, but there's also nothing much about the bike that excels. Save for its name and classic appearance, it's a pretty dull thing, especially compared to its replacement - a 500 Indian Enfield. A real man's bike that lets you know all the effort involved in extracting power from the combustion process, and one that happily shrugs off the excessive mass of its rider and pillion.
H. Lee