Bring on the clowns, my first thought. This big fat guy with a silly moustache radiated self belief in the kind of way that made me want to take a hammer to his head. At the very least it would knock some sense into him. Daft bugger, was shacked up with three girls young enough to be his daughters, all crammed into a tiny bedsit. The BSA was slung in the front garden of the house. One of the girls muttered something about a dead battery, was silenced by a hard glare from the guy - something out of a pantomime, so obviously a set-up. Did I look that stupid? Probably!
The bike wouldn't start but clunked over on the kickstart with a bit of violence. He wanted a 1000 notes - can you believe these guys? I assumed the engine was beyond easy revival and rated the chassis in good nick, so was maybe worth 400 sovs if I was feeling generous. I wasn't, offered 300 quid. Jesus, the pained look on the guy's face was worth framing. After much haggling he'd come down to 700 notes, but wouldn't budge down to my maximum, highly optimistic, price of 500 quid.
I left my phone number, took him 24 hours to come on line, whining about being willing to accept 600 sovs but I wouldn't budge. Take it or leave it. He took it. I made damn sure that the frame and engine numbers matched those in the logbook before handing over the money. After removing the rusted up chain, I managed to push the bike the three-quarters of a mile home. Worth the effort? Yep, running, these BSA's are worth anything from two to four grand and the chassis was mostly stock if somewhat faded.
Predictably, the engine was the usual disaster area. Cracked valves and cylinder head, the gudgeon pins (circlips missing) so loose they had scored the bores, the main bearings far gone and the primary chain so elastic it could be taken off the sprockets. The gearbox seemed to work okay. A late A65 mill, of somewhat mixed parentage, with a singular carb was available from this guy I know for 600 sovs but the old mill taken in part-ex - at least it would stop my garage getting all cluttered up with useless bits of British engines. A bit of work on the engine mounting holes had the motor fixed in the frame.
BSA A65 engines come in a great variety of forms - everything from the mildest imaginable 35hp slogger up to a rip-snorting 55hp sportster, all dependent on the state of the top end. Mine was at the lower end of the scale, with soft camshafts and the aforementioned single Amal. All its business was done by 6000 revs, there wasn't really much need to go above five grand. The good side of the motor was excellent torque from 1500rpm up and a relative lack of vibration that went with its mild nature. This, all immediately apparent on the first ride, the bike more of an old friend than a challenge to the senses... you won't find any Jap bikes that churn out the torque like these old Brits.
Okay, before we all get carried away and start burning Japanese flags, if not their motorcycles, it ought to be noted that the first ride was accompanied by the carb coming loose and the motor conking out! Right in the middle of the usual crowd of Sunday afternoon tourists who began to look worried when the strong smell of petrol wafted their way. The dead motor also locked into third gear, the heavy clutch and crunchy lever fighting back against my manic efforts, making it almost impossible to roll out of the way. I'd always yearned after a double hernia!
The carb reattached, neutral found, a few manly kicks had her chuff-chuffing away and it was back to hurtling down the country roads. Suspension was stiff and lacking in travel, but the handling was dependably neutral with a little effort needed on the bars. Thumped up to 85mph before going a bit dead, the vibes beginning to shake the whole chassis. 70-75mph coincided with a usefully smooth point in the engine's output, with that little bit of punch left to get me out of trouble.
The conical hub TLS front drum was a bit of a heart stopper, though, combining both fade and judder - didn't have much idea if it was going to work or not. The rear SLS would lock up the back wheel at the merest hint of pressure. The best way to slow down was to shut the throttle shut, but the engine braking was so heavy that it made the somewhat ancient chain - the kind of straggly item the Jap's would use on a C90 - try to jump off the sprockets, clattering and rattling its way to an early death.
It was much easier to fit a new chain than sort out the front brake, a notoriously difficult item that Triumph should've kept all to themselves. The cost of having it relined, buying new shoes and cable, added up to more than a used wheel with a proper BSA TLS drum, so I went that route, knowing it would also cut down on future hassle. And jolly good it was, too. Nowhere near as strong as even a mediocre disc in terms of outright stopping power but loads of feedback and feel that made it a delight to use on less than perfect roads or in rainy conditions; especially when those obstacles turned up together.
Thudding around on the BSA had its ups and downs. Those of a kind disposition would call the clutch manly but I usually ended up swearing at it in town. The gearing was such that first needed too many revs, second had the motor fluffing at low speeds, and it seemed happiest just off the throttle in third, which meant it was going a touch too fast. Clutch slip was just a quick way to warp the plates The bike was happiest in top gear with more than 50mph on the clock, though it would slog down to tickover and ever so gently canter off.
Handling, like the clutch and the front brake, needed a bit of manly input, mainly down to the large front wheel, but stability couldn't be faulted despite, what by modern standards, was a minimal amount of suspension travel. The seat was plush and comfy, the bars and pegs worked well together regardless of the velocities that the engine could manage. The BSA was the epitome of practicality - or would've been had the motor not needed frequent attention.
Old British twins vary enormously, from near disaster areas to a brilliant concoction of torque and frugality. One sample of any model can be brilliant, another a rolling disaster area. My engine soon showed signs of the latter. After 1300 miles, starting became very difficult. New spark plugs every week helped - for a while. Then it needed about 20 kicks, huffing and puffing up the road in a most reluctant manner whilst unleashing a huge amount of vibration. The guy who sold me the mill reckoned that it was dead valve rockers and maybe the main bearings were beginning to knock. Adding that it was about time that I did the decent thing and upgraded via those nice chaps at SRM.
Sounded expensive to me, for a machine that was slower than my friend's 400 Superdream, itself rebuilt and beginning to smoke again. I took the head off but it all looked okay to me - until I turned the crank over and noticed some heavy score marks in the right-hand cylinder bore. Taking the barrels off revealed a broken up ring and the suspected loose main bearings.
The bike was sold like that for 600 quid. Not a total disaster but in terms of kicks per quid a bit of a dead loss. I could see that a decent motor allied to the agile chassis would produce some good times but the chances of finding one at a reasonable price are not high.
Al Crowther
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There was a time when I hitched up a big double adult sidecar to the BSA A65. We all go through these periods of being brain-washed out of our minds, when the family rules and being a good citizen really matters. It's all bullshit, of course, but back then it didn't stop me trying. God knows, I tried but all I ended up with was a knife in the back and a divorce which left me with the BSA as my sole possession.
Attaching a huge chair to a '67 BSA 650 Thunderbolt was easy enough but controlling it was a whole different game. I'd previously changed the sprockets to give much taller gearing which had the clutch smouldering on take-off. The whole thing wobbled, weaved and veered with a mind of its own. I could only take it for a month, narrowly avoiding turning into a nervous wreck.
The wife protested at my proposal (or begging plea if you want to be literal) but the high point of the combo venture was reached shortly after that argument. The single carb Thunderbolt didn't normally vibrate intensely, but the added weight of the combo and passengers had upset the old bugger. Resulting from the constant vibes the sidecar brackets loosened, which put a huge stress on them.
The first I knew of this was the whole device shuddering as we approached a bend at about 40mph. I lined up for the corner, opened up the throttle (the alternative was driving straight off the road with a sidecar attached) and almost killed myself when the sidecar shot off on its own. Accelerating into a corner was not recommended on a solo BSA, which freed of the extra mass appeared suddenly turbo-charged. Somehow we scrambled around the blasted bend.
The sidecar, with wife and kids screaming, went for an off-road outing, eventually landing on its side. The wife's head had punched out the plastic side-window, allowing me to pull her and then the kids out. To the day of the divorce she maintained that it was a deliberate act of attempted murder and refused ever again to enter any vehicle that I was controlling. The sidecar was left where it lay, not worth the hassle of reviving.
I bought the A65 new and have kept it in reasonable though not immaculate shape over the past 28 years. Mileage is over a quarter of a million, with full rebuilds every 75000 miles and an extra top end rebuild in between. Maintenance's a 500 mile chore - points, valves and going over all the bolts. I haven't fitted electronic ignition because I know people who have who ended up stranded in the middle of nowhere when the vibes blew up the electronics.
The Thunderbolt, with its single carb and mild cams, isn't highly tuned, only giving 40 horses and 100mph. Forget using more than 6000 revs, not only do the vibes start churning in but the power's run out by then. As large OHV vertical twins go, this one's a big softy. Had there not been a bit of endemic primary drive slop from the triplex chain, then it'd have pulled from the 800rpm tickover in fourth gear.
80mph cruising is well within the bounds of the motor, the sensible riding position not causing any pains and the engine settling into a smooth niche that would surely shock those mounted on Japanese machines. I quite often astound youths by passing them, they viewing the vintage appearance of the BSA with a mixture of awe and outrage.
The chassis is well up to these games, but only after the standard eight inch SLS drum's replaced with the TLS unit. Whatever the traffic conditions of the day, the old unit gave the impression that it would've had trouble halting a Bantam, let alone the 425lbs of the BSA. I like to think that the excess of mass equalled sturdiness and helped absorb the vibration. The guards, tank and panels are still original, hefty items all!
Handling's steady and slow, ground clearance problems on bumpy roads spoils stability especially when the stands dig in. Modified stand prongs help but then the fixed footrests start grinding away, but at least that doesn't shake the whole machine. The Avon SM's don't allow wild angles of lean even on dry roads, but wear, of over 15000 miles, more than compensates.
New suspension starts out nicely taut but every 20,000 miles the forks need rebuilding and I replaced the shocks with Koni's ages ago. Suspension travel's only a few inches so it's just as well that the riding position's so natural, letting my body soak up the shocks from the deeper pot-holes. I have done 500 miles in one day without becoming a physical wreck so even on modern roads it's not that far out of the game.
Long distance running's aided by good fuel economy, 50 to 65mpg. With a four gallon tank 200 miles between fill-ups is common, which is just about all my backside can take in one go. An eye has to be kept on the oil tank because hard running will burn off about a pint every 250 miles and there are a couple of bolts that invariably loosen off in that kind of distance. Familiarity breeds confidence.
In the early days I had any number of hassles with the venerable twin. A lot were down to the electrics, which must've been a Friday afternoon special. Connectors were so loose they fell out as I was riding along. Annoying, as sometimes the engine ground to a halt, others the lights would go out. The dealer wasn't amused when I demanded a new loom, eventually agreed that I could have one if I fitted it myself. I did, replacing the connectors with soldered joints.
After that bit of fun I only had to worry about the Lucas rectifier and zener diode, both notorious for burning out but cheap enough to carry a couple of spares. At least the electrics were 12V which meant a decent car reflector could be forced into the headlamp. At one point I fitted a high power Lucas alternator, which allowed a brilliant front light but melted the zener diode. A higher capacity replacement saved the day. Overall, once sorted, the electrics proved quite reliable.
Because I came to know the way the engine ran rather intimately, ever aware when some component was on the way out, on the road breakdowns have been quite rare. The odd problem with the points, electrics and primary chain being most likely to intrude into the great pleasure I derived from riding the old twin. High mileage has not fazed its abilities because during each rebuild I improve on the engine internals. Roller bearing conversion for the crankshaft which was also dynamically balanced, lightened, polished valve gear, ported cylinder head, uprated pistons, etc., etc.
It's dead easy to buy tuning gear for these models as the same basic engine served as the basis for several different models, many bits just needing to be bolted on. But the charm of a big vertical twin's the surge of low and mid range torque rather than trying to get them to rev to eight grand when if the mechanical stress doesn't blow the motor the vibes will atomize the poor old rider. No, softly, softly's the name of the game.
The chassis, with bearings that won't last much past 20,000 miles (including the wheels), is more or less as BSA made it. All the cables are made up by myself, have nylon inners, which make an amazing difference to the smoothness and lightness of the controls. And the clutch needs as much help as it can get, because the lever's heavy in town, although it will slog along in third gear if I'm gentle on the throttle. There's a large gap between second and third that'll have the back wheel hopping and skipping all over the place on poorly co-ordinated downchanges. Alloy rims and stainless spokes were added when the old wheels threatened to rust through.
Obviously, I like the BSA the way it is, and it's been a good companion all these years. The lure of a new Triumph 750 Trident's very heavy at the moment but as the BSA will only fetch £2500 in today's market I'm not really in a position to do the dastardly deal. I think if BSA had developed the Thunderbolt's virtues rather than just tried to make the twins go faster they might still be in business today.
Dick Wilson
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Spring Madness. A totally re-engineered 1968 BSA A65. As tough and reliable as any Japanese twin. A large redundancy payment and no ties. Freedom and the open road beckoned. Wild winds blew in off the North Sea as I headed for Hull. In Zeebruge it was even worse. The ferry had rocked and rolled but my dinner had stayed in my stomach. I was worried that the BSA might come loose from its single rope lashing. I was lucky, a wimpy GPz305 was thrown into a cage. I left the owners slugging it out with each other. The sailors found it hilarious.
Riding on the wrong side of the road was amusing. Had to keep telling myself to keep the throttle in the gutter. I slouched around the ferry terminal, completely lost. I only realised there weren't any apparent customs when I hit the car park. What a change from the UK. They assume you're a drug dealer, terrorist or just plain undesirable.
Zeebruge didn't look very nice at all. With the howling North Sea gale freezing me in my boots, I hit the main route into Brussels. I'd read that the Belgians were all lunatics behind the wheel but they seemed no worse than the UK cagers. The BSA bopped along in the slow lane. Quite happy at 75mph and 4000rpm. The exhaust, a home-made stainless steel 2-1, growled reassuringly. The bike would go faster but the cruiser riding position became uncomfortable. The flat countryside reminded me of the Lincolnshire Fens.
The signs are a bit confusing. That's how I ended up in the centre of Brussles. I thought I was on the road to Luxembourg! Loads of old buildings plus the odd office block. Piles of cars that tried to ignore the traffic lights. I think they would've been better off switching them on to green permanently. The BSA in second, riding on the throttle. Twisting, braking, swearing. I finally got into the swing of things. Ride like a manic despatch rider. Ignore the lights and the gesticulations of the cops.
On to a fast flowing ring road, then, finally, the road for Luxembourg. I think I went around Brussles three times before I found it. Two hours of cold and rain. Just like England. I had a friend working in Luxembourg, a free bed for the night. The big, five gallon, alloy tank still had some fuel left. Thanks to the single carb and about 65mpg.
My friend in Luxembourg didn't have a good word for the place. We hung out in a couple of jazz clubs but they lacked soul. Too antiseptic and predictable. There was little of the nightlife of other major European cities. I felt, again, I could've been back in England. I blame TV, it seems to have robbed us of a feeling of newness.
That was one of the reasons I preferred the BSA. What it lacked in speed it made up for in character. Why buy a UJM when after six months it'll become so boring that it'll have to be traded in for something bigger and faster? I was in that cycle for a few years. I became fed up working like a dog to make dealers rich. Ended up trying an old Brit and was charmed by its sheer eccentricity. Maybe I was just getting old.
My friend couldn't believe how light I was travelling. Tent, sleeping bag, tools and a few clothes. He was tempted to give up his job and come pillion. I gently dissuaded him, I was hoping to pick up a young lady. With this in mind I headed for France. No border controls and much more interesting scenery. I liked the Moselle region, nice people, cheap wine and food (ask for a worker's meal in the cheaper restaurants). Lots of nice looking women but they didn't want anything to do with me. My rusty French probably didn't help.
Switzerland was next on the list, a bit too early in the year for serious motorcycling but I convinced myself it was character building. Stayed in Berne for the night. A bit of a character called Wolfy insisted on showing me the low dives. It took me a while to realise that the mosquito bites on his arms were actually needle marks. He was desperate to borrow money, I claimed poverty. A lot of Swiss kids seemed in a similar state of heroin addiction.
The Swiss Alps were next, taking a route that avoided the notorious tunnels and would deposit me back into France. The gearing on the BSA was taller than stock, leaving me wishing for a ratio between first and second on the steeper passes. In second, the torque thumped through the machine. In first there were too many revs and hence vibration. Hairpin bends wound back on themselves, with sheer drops. The cagers were all insane, almost getting up on two wheels in some bends. Threatening to play dodgems with the barriers and me! My dreams that night, under canvas, were a mixture of shivering fits and death scenarios. Pulped by out of control cars or thrown off the side of cliffs.
As we ascended, the BSA had as much difficulty breathing as myself. The fine, pure Swiss air was amazing, as were the views. Until the fog closed everything down. It was that kind of damp coldness that gets right into your bones. I spent two days shivering, stranded. A hole in the mist encouraged me to get moving. The BSA only fired after being run down one of the steepest hills in the world. One final high pass when I thought I'd have to get off to push the old girl and we'd done a big circle back into France.
It was like entering another world. The sun was shining and the snow landscape was left behind. Warmth seeped back into my bones and the BSA picked up speed, seemed never to have run so well before. I stayed in France for a couple of hours then took a detour into Italy as I knew someone who lived in Turin. A warm bed for the night would be brilliant.
It's easy to tell when you're in Italy, the roads are poor and all the drivers are mad. Macho mad. They'd rather die than give way. The BSA had lost half its tank of oil over the Alps, leaving me with a flickering oil light whilst on their autostrada. I pulled into the first services I came to, had to mix some strange 20/50 rubbish with my normal SAE 30.
Turin was completely insane. After two hours I gave up trying to find the address. Ended up in a back street hotel but at least they let me park the BSA in the concourse. It proved a talking point, with various reprobates insisting that they should show me around the town. Pretty hot nightlife but some very dubious looking women.
The BSA didn't like Turin traffic, running all hot and bothered. The clutch went rock solid, dragged something rotten. I took the hint, decided to head for the Riviera. Sat on the expressway for three hours, thankful for the large petrol tank. The drivers would glance over amazed that the vintage looking BSA wasn't falling apart under me. A hard following wind had encouraged me into an 80mph gallop. My body wasn't really suited to the crouch thus required, but I wanted to hit the coast as soon as possible.
Savona was my first taste of the sea. It encouraged me to head along the coast to Nice. Heavy traffic all the way. Real crazy stuff with cages swerving all over the place. Didn't seem to be any camping sites and Riviera prices were generally out of sight. Ended up in a motel in Finale. Not cheap but I couldn't go any further, the primary vibes had begun to get to me. The Italian men were ridiculous but the women looked okay to me but I didn't get anywhere.
The next day I did the valves, they were way out. The ignition was electronic and only a single carb. It was a nice and easy saunter into Nice, a hundred or so miles away. Stopped a few times for wine and to clock the beaches. The sun was shining but it wasn't too hot to breathe. Just right for an Englishman abroad. Stayed in a cheap campsite a few miles outside Nice.
Then the urge took me to ride down to Spain. A long loop along the coast. About 300 miles in all until we hit the Spanish border. Really pushed the BSA to do it in a day. Or rather it pushed my muscles to the limit as I hadn't set the bike up as a long distance tourer. I only stopped for fuel and a bite to eat. The bike looked hard used when I finally came to a halt in Gerona. A name that conjured up all kinds of jokes in my mind, but I'll spare you! The engine was dribbling oil out of most of its gaskets. It was only the bolts slackening off slightly, easily sorted.
The roads in Spain were even worse than in Italy but the petrol was cheap. The next day was an easy motor down to Barcelona, where I had about half a dozen mates who were living there, with no apparent means of support. They weren't too happy to see me when they realised I was as broke as them. There was one biker amongst them and he suggested that if I rode the BSA like a lunatic I'd be able to see Le Mans.
Looking at the map, this seemed a cinch. Just point the beast north for a few hundreds miles. I had three days to do about 550 miles. That seemed reasonable. I was slowed to a ridiculous speed by a BMW mounted Spanish cop following me to the border! Spanish cops don’t piss about and reach for their guns if you give them any lip.
I was going to give him the finger at the border but just as we were leaving Spain a terrible vision shot through my head. Of my passport sitting on the chest of drawers back at my friends' house. I pulled over, checked my pocket and turned back the 100 miles I'd already done. The cop followed me back to the house and was last seen busily scribbling in his notebook when I'd picked up my passport. My mates had found it all hilarious.
There was still half a day left so I headed for the border again. I'd pulled into Granollers for some fuel. Stopping at a junction some wretch reversed right into the BSA. It happened so fast that I was thrown off the bike and the front wheel ended up wedged under the back of the car. If I'd been in England I'd have hit the cager but they put you in prison on the slightest pretext in Spain, let alone breaking every bone in the body of one of the natives.
Amazingly, the gathered crowd leant a hand lifting the car off the BSA. Damage was only cosmetic and I got out of there before the plod turned up. Twenty miles later there was an awful rattling noise from the transmission. The bloody drive sprocket had come loose, needing half the transmission taken apart to reach it. By the time I'd finished I was happy to bed down for the night.
I now had 500 miles to do in two days! Hard work! Travelling north temperatures began to drop again, the cold and rain getting to me after a couple of hours in the saddle. I made it to the border, decided to leave the tax exiles in Andorra to their own devices and make it to Toulouse. Or bust. It was a hell of a road on which to maintain a decent speed. Too many hills, curves and cages. The BSA was caned at times, 90 to 95mph on the clock. I knew from past experience that it'd refuse to do more than the ton. At other times, we were down to a pathetic 25mph crawl. The road surface was good, the Roadrunners held firm however damp the tarmac. It was the kind of journey I'd like to take days over.
I treated myself to a decent hotel in Toulouse, slept the sleep of the dead. After Toulouse it was easier going, which was just as well as I had over 300 miles to do. The temperature had stabilized and with the sun breaking out it was pretty nice riding weather. The BSA seemed to agree, happy at 70 to 75mph. The road rolled by, hour after hour of riding. The deeper I went into the heart of France the more deserted the roads became. By midday I'd been on the road for fives hours and nearly 200 miles.
It was after a quick lunch and bottle of wine that I began to find lots of motorcycles on the road. I didn't have to look at the signposts, just follow the hordes of replicas (both race and Paris Dakar). They never tired of waving as they howled past. I just nodded my head; an old hand I was reluctant to let loose of the bars with 70mph on the clock. Amazingly, the cars would move out of the way and blow their horns in salutation.
After a couple of hours, which my arse thought was days, we finally rolled up to Le Mans. A huge but packed out campsite that made me feel lucky I only had to find a small space for my tiny tent. The town centre was packed full of mad bikers. There was a fairground right in the centre of all the insanity. Brilliant racing, loads of beer and wine plus a fantastic atmosphere. I'd never seen anything like it before (and I've been to the Isle of Man). The only downer was the knocking mains. It hadn't taken kindly to its thrashing.......
D.P.
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Riding in the rain can be pleasant on a motorcycle. Modern waterproofs stop the ingress of water, so no sitting in wet underwear for hours. Of course, choice of machinery is very important. Believe it or not, my 1972 BSA 650 Lightning is an ideal mount.What's needed is a very secure chassis, decent tyres and a power delivery that lacks viciousness. Although the Lightning was the twin carb version of the A65, I'd fitted some milder compression ratio pistons which had the twin benefits of reducing vibes and making the machine much more pleasant at low revs.
The engine would pick up on just a hint of throttle and roar up to 6000 revs when power did a rapid disappearing act. It might seem strange to go to great lengths to reduce the stock machine's 50hp at 7000rpm but beyond 6000 revs the vibes blitzed so fiercely through the chassis that in practice such extra power was not easily employed. Another major modification was to the electrical system which used to send the bike into a coughing fit at the merest hint of wet weather. Electronic ignition, a complete rewire and lots of silicone sealant on things like coils, completely transformed the electrical reliability.
Admittedly, the Zener Diodes don't last for much more than 5000 miles a throw and the headlamp bulb's power was constricted by the meagre output of the Lucas alternator and, also, by the vibes which would cause its failure every few thousand miles. A most pleasant side effect of the electronic ignition and lower compression pistons was much easier starting.
When I'd first bought the bike it had required a dozen or so manic plunges on the starter to bring it into reluctant life from cold. It took about fifteen minutes to warm up, often stalling and requiring a repeat performance. For someone over forty this was more than knackering, my only other form of exercise, leaping up and down on the wife once a week. Once modified, though, a much milder kick started the bike after two or three attempts, taking only a few minutes to warm up.
Another worrying aspect in the wet was the unique TLS conical hub. Once set-up correctly (about half an hours work every week) this was pretty good in the dry, able to put enough braking forces on the forks to have them bouncing on their stops. Something quite impressive as the suspension is as stiff as an early Ducati. However, the cooling vent was perfectly sighted to pick up water, with the predictable consequence of making the front brake very unpredictable. This was largely cured by blocking off the vent with some very dense mesh and a change of shoe materials.
Fortunately, the 654cc OHV engine had bags of engine braking and a rear SLS drum that was as sensitive and predictable as could be. The art of riding fast in the rain is to go as smoothly as possible, looking far ahead to work out what actions are needed before they become necessary.
I particularly liked the 19" front wheel, shod with an Avon tyre, which always felt immensely secure on damp roads and didn't do anything really nasty even when I had to suffer the sudden locking up of the wheel before I'd sorted out the brake. Perhaps the only major horror was the way the centrestand prong dug into the tarmac when leant over at quite moderate angles.
Having the back wheel pivot off the road, sending a massive lurch through the chassis, did wonders for constipation. That was easily fixed by sawing off the prong, although use of the centrestand is now a two man job. It's not unknown for the sidestand to let the machine fall over, the chassis is basically tough and can withstand most abuse.
With its small petrol tank and relatively tall seat, the Lightning takes a bit of time to adapt to. It never feels like you're sitting in the machine, rather that you're perched way atop the beast. The seat becomes as hard as iron and the bars leave you perched perfectly to pick up the maximum amount of turbulence. It's bloody hard work to hold on to the bars at anything above 70mph for any length of time.
With the aerodynamics of a brick shit-house, it's hardly surprising that fuel is run through the engine in the 45 to 55mpg range. It didn't improve any, as I'd hoped, after I'd fitted a pair of almost straight through megas. There's nothing like the glorious snarl of a big twin on open pipes, though.
As the engine has always been a rattly bugger, I took the increased exhaust blare as a sign that I could ignore the engine noises, but was never brave enough to push engine services beyond every 500 miles. If that sounds extreme, all I can say is that the valves always needed adjustment, the spark plugs replacement and oil had turned a murky cream colour, no doubt not aided by being run through the frame to the oil tank cum upper frame tube. It wasn't particularly easy to drain off the oil or fill up the tube with Duckhams finest. Oil coolers are available and worth fitting.
As the engine is fitted with SRM main bearings, the major BSA engine problem, weak crankshaft support, is neatly sidestepped. The valvegear lasts better than most Triumphs,with no need for major attention until after about 8000 miles of abuse. Pistons and bores last about three times that distance, and the engine's barrels are now on plus sixty pistons. I don't know if I can say that the mill is easy to work on, but I'm used to it now and get it out of the frame and down to the crank in a couple of hours.
Apart from a very slight leak from the head gasket, the unit is commendably oil tight. It wasn't when I first got it, pouring out the stuff as fast as I could put it in. Much work flattening engine surfaces and careful application of liquid gasket has got the engine in its present splendid state. The four speed gearbox is still precise but needs a firm foot. The clutch is heavy enough to build up hand muscles and failure to use it when changing gears caused the box to throw the machine into a false neutral. I haven't actually had to touch the gearbox's internals, so I ain't about to complain.
Clutch cables fail to last for much more than 6000 miles despite being religiously lubricated and routed in the best possible way. The Lightning is not the kind of bike that takes kindly to less than involved owners. It would be dead easy to run the machine into the ground in just a few thousand miles. The vibes are its biggest problem, I've had things break off from time to time, I even had one exhaust pipe crack so badly it fell off, making the engine sound like a Sherman tank running through a pile of dustbins.
Even with meticulous maintenance and good engine internals there is still enough uncertainly to make each trip a bit of an adventure. But having owned the bike for the past four years, I've sorted out most problems and have no reluctance in stating that my A65 is in a much better state than when it came out of the factory! It's still fast enough to see off most cars on all but motorways, where the need to maintain a constant speed on a dead straight road leads to as massive a dose of boredom as it does vibration. The latter ensured by the need to keep 80 to 85mph on the clock to avoid being run right off the road!
The riding position ensures that the my back aches for days afterwards, even if the pillion pegs are used in conjunction with a nose in the clocks posture. I'm really rather too ancient for that kind of thing. No, where the BSA shines is on more minor roads where its bend swinging abilities come to the fore. Where the growl from the exhaust causes a wide grin to spread across my face. Where the way it accelerates on an excess of torque rather than power hits me in the gut with a lovely sensation of overcoming the laws of motion against all the odds. And yes, even when its pouring cats and dogs, and you can hardly see where you're going, the A65 still delivers the goods, more smiles per mile than most other bikes!
Tiny
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Sat with a large quantity of BSA A65 engine parts surrounding me I was wondering what I had let myself in for. The problem being that the plain main bearing had finally worn out. The resultant crank whip had done strange things to the ball bearing on the opposite side of the crank, but I'd ground to a halt quickly enough to save the pistons and bores going the same self-destructive route. Well, the 1964 machine had done 67000 miles on a basically stock engine, so some malfeasance had to be tolerated.
The breakdown occurred about 50 miles outside Paris. The only good thing was that I was within pushing distance of a camping site. France still has lots of small workshops who would be able to bodge on the new bearings but BSA spares were non-existent. A mate was persuaded, after over-coming the strange French telephone system, to buy some and post them out. Whilst I waited, I tore most of the bits off the BSA and cleaned them up to a mirror shine. The A65 had never looked so clean.
At that point in the saga I had owned the Star for all of five years. There had only been one previous owner who had only ridden the A65 when nostalgia took a grip of him, so in 20 years he had done less than 10,000 miles! He had become so separated from the mainstream of motorcycling that he had no idea how much his machine was worth. I got there first, slapped down a deposit and by the time I returned with the cash he'd had over 30 calls!
BSA didn't make much of a job of styling their A50/65 range in the early days. It looked like a giant CD175! The dumpy looks hid some quite reasonable statistics. The square stroke 654cc OHV vertical twin made about 40 horses in mild, low compression ratio (7.5:1), single carb Star form. Mass was a reasonable 410lbs, with most of the heavy stuff concentrated low down.
The relaxed, almost heady outburst of torque below 5000 revs could rather snappily propel the BSA along; even now many a car driver's proud look of contempt is turned to dismay as the Star powers off up the street. Vibration was, of course, the bane of these old vertical twins, but in good condition these twins are not the usual horror story below 5000 revs. Gearing is so relaxed on the BSA that 70mph equates to a mere 4000rpm!
BSA went on to radically tune these motors - twin carbs, lumpy cams and high compression ratio pistons could knock out more than 50 horses in something like a Spitfire. But, this power was in practice absolutely useless, the fearsome vibes that were its corollary made revving over 5000 revs such a distressing and destructive experience that only the most mechanically insensitive moron would be able to use the Spitfire's extra speed. And, anyone so stupid would soon find nirvana on some Japanese rice burner.
BSA had always made better handling bikes than Triumph. They excelled themselves on the A65, with a strong tubular affair that had more than adequate swinging arm support and steering geometry that managed to combine stability with a feel light enough to get away with flat, narrow handlebars (non-stock) in town. Sitting on the bike it feels more like a 250 than a 650, helped by a 54 inch wheelbase and the aforementioned low centre of gravity.
It wasn't perfect. The 31 inch seat height could usefully have been a couple of inches lower. Modern neglected road surfaces showed up the short travel of the suspension. The shocks were easily upgraded with a more modern set of Girlings but there was little I could do for the forks, other than a complete refurbishment.
The bike came with a set of full width SLS drums which initially gave the impression of being able to cope with the Star's speed and mass but soon turned to mush after a hard work out. They overheated then faded away to next to nothing. I followed the usual practice of fitting the later TLS drum out front. I could still do with some more power but already the forks twist and dive under hard braking. A whole new front end off something recent is really needed.
Tyres are modern Avons, and very good they are, too. They last over 15000 miles a set (as does the chain). Both wheels are 18 inchers, the main fault being the rims and spokes afflicted with rust. They are now matt black. I'm waiting until I hit a car before getting them rebuilt!
The mild nature of the engine and sturdy, responsive chassis means that the bike is safe to ride on wet roads, even on icy ones as long as speed is kept strictly under control. Unlike most Jap stuff the mudguards actually stop the bike being covered in muck whilst, unusually for an old Brit, the electrics are not susceptible to rain.
Starting, general running and economy are aided by the electronic ignition I fitted. The old points used to wander about a bit, only the soft state of the engine tune stopping the altered ignition timing from burning holes in the pistons. With a single carb that hardly ever needed the attention of my screwdriver (though, it was worn out and replaced before 45000 miles were done), I soon realised that replacing the points would make my life about ten times easier.
That really just left setting the valves (every 750 miles), checking the oil levels and keeping an eye on the triplex primary chain. The latter lasted for between 15 to 20,000 miles, which would have been quite reasonable had not its wear rate increased exponentially after a certain point. I got caught out one time. It had seemed fine when I started out on a run but by the time I'd done a 100 miles it was dragging along the bottom of the chaincase! The solution was to replace it every 15000 miles - it's impossible to buy them now but I bought half a dozen when the dealer was selling off old stock.
So for the first five years I made minor improvements, didn't thrash the bike and gave it a reasonable amount of attention. My reward was a lot of cheap fun until the French debacle. The bits eventually turned up and the engine reassembled. It wasn't a good job, though, the mill ran very rough and power seemed poor. Still, I rather gently tore through the French countryside and did 750 miles until back in the UK.
The unaccustomed level of vibes kept blowing bulbs and causing bits to come loose. I felt thankful for having false teeth and no fear of losing fillings in the middle of nowhere. Back home, there was nothing for it but to have a proper rebuild done. SRM were the obvious people to give the job to as they upgraded the main bearings and had a good reputation. Not cheap, but it did include a rebore, top end rebuild and new bearings. The gearbox, despite its age and mileage, was still fine!
It was quite an experience to have to run in such an old bike, but I did it very carefully for 2500 miles, flushing out the oil several times to make sure any metal debris that might be lurking was cleaned out. The oil filtering system on the A65 is pretty basic and needs all the help it can get from frequent changes.
That was three and a half years ago, the clock now having gone over 100,000 miles! Once run in the new engine was really sweet, with a willingness to rev to 6000 that the previous motor had lacked. It actually felt smooth enough at 90mph to cruise all day. This was helped by a four gallon petrol tank and economy of better than 60mpg, letting the A65 do over 200 miles on a full tank.
The Star is really a very relaxing bike to ride long distances. Top gear can be used as low as 20mph without the chain snatching, able to charge forward without dropping a gear, albeit with a bit of huffing and puffing until 40mph is attained. I've been riding the bike for so long that handling it is just second nature and, I suppose, my body has toughened up so that it can take the bumps that get through the minimal suspension.
Don't get me wrong, owning one of these old bikes is no bed of roses, there's always some little problem to rectify. If you look at any long used British bike you can find all kind of minor mods that either make it more robust or better suited to the purposes of the owner. You can gradually meld them to your personal needs.
If any of this has whetted your appetite then now's not a bad time to buy as the recession has ruined the prices of old Brits. Don't buy anything in a high state of tune, they are more trouble than they're worth. Something like the Star, a big, chuffing twin with loads of guts which combines mildness with a touch of brutality and a nice secure feel, is what British biking is all about.
W. Colt
