Digger had a way with women that was entirely lacking in his relationships with various motorcycles. His sweet nothings amounted to little more than a threat with the biggest hammer available. Before he could do it any permanent damage, I rescued the elderly but two owner SR500. There was still more shine than rust but it was an awkward bugger to start, even compared to a BSA 500 I'd had the pleasure of owning in my youth!
They still make them new in Japan (about three grand on the shadow import circuit) which tells you all you need to know about these old OHC thumpers. About as basic as Japanese engineering gets without any real payback in terms of performance (90mph), frugality (50mpg) or handling (all soft and soggy) - all mine had going for it was a cost of less than 500 notes and a mean, classic line in style.
That isn't to say it was more style than substance. After actually getting the mill to fire up, there was plenty of blood and guts in the form of excessive exhaust noise and sufficient vibration to have the handlebars shaking in my hands whilst the bike tried to hop across the road. Anyone who's ever owned a big Norton twin will feel right at home. But not with the gearbox, which engaged first gear like a gun going off (how to make the neighbour drop his keys down the drain!) and tried to break the clutch up. Violent power pulses attempted to shred the ancient rear chain and made the bike hop up the road like a drugged kangaroo.
Sex, drugs and rock'n' roll, thought I, out of nowhere but then the SR's the kind of bike that soon blasts any coherent thought right out of you! After steadying the handling, working the box up to third and saying a few prayers, the plot settled down a bit. A series of deep pot-holes soon removed any impression of togetherness, both ends of the bike trying to unfurl whilst I had the marital tackle beaten to a pulp against the seat base which was poking through the dead foam. By the time I did the five miles to home I was shaking like a mugging victim and walking like a bum-boy.
Some foam, a bit of bolt tightening and some more prayers got the old heap running about ten times smoother. I could do 50 miles without any threat to my health, though doing twice that gave me white-fingers and blurred vision if I wanted to do more than 70mph. Top speed was 90mph but the bike was a lot happier at 80mph but I usually ignored that, let the old thing thrum along mightily flat out! Amazingly, nothing actually fell off or failed!
This apparent toughness soon encouraged a reign of neglect and thrashing. Even the important oil changes were neglected. Why did I start behaving like Digger, from whom I'd rescued the poor old thing? Probably because the bike was so slow that it earned no respect. I had the vague idea that I would be able to rumble along at a steady 60mph, revelling in the thumper beat and torque. At those kind of velocities all the SR offered was an excess of vibration and vague if not dangerous handling.
The bike would actually wheelie if it was revved out and the clutch dropped. There wasn't any actual control, the front wheel waving around as it came back to smack me in the gob. Had to jerk my head quickly, peer around the bars to see who I was terrorizing! The bike reacted to any backing off by slamming down on the front wheel. First time it happened, the bars sprang out of my hands and bike fell over on my leg. Ouch! The second wheelie the chain broke, which caused the front end to nose-dive again. This time I held on and rolled to a halt.
The chain had battered the back of the crankcase but hadn't broken through. Close examination revealed that the output shaft's bearing was a bit loose and the final drive sprocket was missing a couple of teeth. I went wild by buying a cheap chain and sprocket set, and silly by ignoring the bearing. The gearchange didn't improve, it would suddenly disengage, causing the valves to float at impossible revs.
I soon gave up on the idea of wheelies and felt lucky that the bike didn't fall apart under me during the commuting chores. It kept going for the next couple of months but I didn't fall in love with it. Finally refused to start, turned out the oil ring had become gummed up in the piston. A bit of work freed it up, cleaned everything and bolted it all back together with plenty of gasket goo. Started after about twenty kicks and ran like some old diesel engine, a top speed of 65mph and 45mpg!
It was still rideable so I kept going for the next month until the exhaust smoke became too heavy. A decent piston and barrel had, by then, been secured and went on without much hassle. I also replaced the gearbox bearing as an expensive amount of oil was being spewed out. The selectors looked shot but I didn't have any replacements so smoothed them out with the file and hoped for the best.
That turned out to be a three speed gearbox, a top speed of 78mph and about 50mpg. Engine and exhaust noise drowned out every howling dog in my street and had the usual parade of cops trying to pull me over. I ignored them, ducked and dived down alleyway, across building sites and rode straight over roundabouts. They soon got the message and left me well alone, probably happy in the knowledge that the bike looked like it would fall apart under me.
Actually, I was quite impressed with the chassis paint, which stayed on despite the sporadic cleaning sessions and all the road gunge thrown up via the rotted mudguards. That quality did not extend to the exhaust system - I was waiting for the internal rot to meet the external rust!
It took another month for that to happen. The downpipe blared out enough noise to drown out a battalion of tanks and on the overrun, in the dark, flames used to light up the night as well as sounding like a cannon going off! Real cool when motoring through quaint English villages at one o'clock in the morning!
The breaker threw an end-can at me for a tenner, which was persuaded on with a hammer, giving my hearing a chance to recover but doing nothing for general performance, 70mph and 40mpg. Smoking like a stroker, sounding like a cement mixer and handling like a camel, the SR was a bike with true character. So much so that Digger bought it back off me for 300 quid - three months later he rode it off a cliff, sailing down about a 100 feet into the sea. He stayed on until the last moment.
We got this on video, as well as his crazed grin when he emerged from the sea half an hour later, mumbling something about strong currents almost sending him off to France. That was probably an unfair end to the SR but it was a dangerous old heap by then that was likely to cause a massive accident. For sure, he could've sold it for restoration for a couple of hundred quid but that would've been almost as great a waste. I'd have another one, albeit an example with less mileage and more life left in it. They are still out there at around the grand mark.
Hugh Silver