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 Most of the springs had been replaced by rubber bands and the whole bike bristled with non-standard bits trying to solve problems even Vincent had never anticipated.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