This is a cautionary tale of the pitfalls of acting with your heart rather than your head. In early 1981 a family bereavement meant I had £400 burning a hole in my pocket. It'd been some years since I'd owned a motorcycle and the prospect of wind in my hair, and fly in my teeth, seemed good. The local press, along with Classic Bike, were scanned for bargains.
The safe option of the ultra reliable offerings from Japan rejected after swooning over the polished alloy and chrome of British iron. With no knowledge about any of the things to look for in the various models/makes on offer, I did the sensible thing and plunged in regardless. If it looked good it must be good...wrong, wrong, wrong.
Friday night, advertised in the local rag was a 1959 BSA A7, part restored, easy winter project for £400ono. I raced around to the guy's house to find a dismantled bike carefully laid out in his dining room. It seemed all there, which was more than could be said for me...without haggling, I forced the asking price on the bemused vendor. After unloading the many boxes of bits into the garage at home, I surveyed my purchase - frame freshly stoved, shiny bits rechromed, new tyres, wiring harness, etc. What a bargain!
The vendor told me that the partially rebuilt engine had new parts liberally spread inside. I didn't bother to check, as vendors don't lie about this sort of thing, do they? To be honest, it wouldn't have made any difference if I had, as at the time I assumed if it was shiny and looked nice, that was okay.
After 12 months of easy winter project work, I was £250 poorer, and just beginning to suspect that all that glistens was not gold. Various parts were found to be missing, and although the BSA is one of the better models for parts availability, the bit you want is always like rocking horse pooh when searching for it. Finally, the beast was all together and ready to roll.
Only she didn't start first gentle prod of the lever, or comply to any of the other fairy stories you might like to imagine. She took forever to come to life, and unless kept at a steady 3000rpm died at the earliest opportunity. The most disappointing thing was the pool of oil underneath the bike, and the stones being rattled in a tin can noise which came from within the engine. Having no experience of A7 engines, did I seek expert guidance and assistance? Did I b.........ks. I thought I could fix it with a bit of fiddling...wrong, wrong, wrong.
There then followed six years of mutual acquaintance. Nothing fundamentally wrong but never going or sounding really well. The bike was used as a Sunday afternoon tool during the summer and put away for the winter months. It would potter along A and B roads at 45-50mph for a couple of hours a week, averaging 1500 to 2000 miles a year. Nothing really broke and I spent more time polishing than riding and fettling it. All this was to change.
A friend had a 750 Commando which he had bought complete and running for £600, just before I bought the BSA. In contrast to my concours looking, rat bike internal machine, his was a tidy and well looked after road burner. He cruised at speeds which, whilst the numbers appeared on the BSA speedo, were a complete foreign language to the bike.
Anyway this guy regularly took his bike to various rallies in Europe, why didn't I come along and find out what real biking was all about. So in August 1988, lulled into a feeling of false security by the bike's recent performance, and the prospect of Belgium beer, off we set. The outward trip was fairly uneventful, daytime riding meant the loss of all lighting wasn't that much of a problem; the separate magneto providing the sparks.
With just the two us, we cruised at 50mph and enjoyed the scenic A1 route to Felixstowe. After a weekend of Belgian beer and duty-free whiskey, we pointed our wheels homewards. This time there were lots of new found friends with us, all mounted on very tasty British bikes which seemed to go very quickly.
The various reports on the A7 say that it's a reliable workhorse capable of 90mph - now was the time to find out. After 20 miles of this unheard of speed, the A7 retorted by snapping its con-rod. Big repair time.
After examining the wreckage of the shattered bottom end and barrels, I had to decide what to do. Buy a bigger/better bike to keep up with my new found friends? Have the engine rebuilt by someone who knows what they are doing? Do it myself again?
No contest. Within weeks I had the parts to begin the rebuild, there was obviously no point in buying expensive new parts to put inside the engine. Well, you can't see them to polish, can you? A mis-mash of parts were fitted into the motor, the crankcases polished and away she went. To be honest, the engine sounded no better nor worse than it had before, so thrilled with my new found mechanical ability I put the spanners away.
They were taken out the following spring when once again on my way to Europe, after 40 miles, one of the con-rods broke again. I had only joined the AA the day before and so began a relationship with that organisation which was to continue for years. Eventually, they asked me to warn them if I was going on a trip, as they would put their breakdown team on overtime.
The continual application of my tender paws was even beginning to seem silly to me, so the start of the 1990's saw me finally recognising I either needed psychiatric or expert mechanical help. The engine was sent away to have the bottom end modified to allow oil to be pumped directly to the big-ends, removing the Achilles heel of the A series - of oil pressure being determined by the plain bush which the crank runs on at the timing side. This, if frequent oil changes are not carried out, wears and the oil pressure drops with disastrous consequences. In my case I never got the chance to run the bike for vast mileages as the engine self-destructed every 5000 miles, so I can only put the poor reliability down to my own spannering.
After a six month wait, I received the engine back from the experts, hoping the long wait was going to be justified. I couldn't wait to get the engine into the frame. My hopes were entirely borne out as the mill was like a turbine in comparison to my previous efforts. It rustled rather than clanked, purred instead of whined. Was this the happy ending all of you are waiting for? Was it b........ks! Either because of the bottom end mods or because of poor quality pattern parts, the bike developed an appetite for camshafts. 2500 to 3000 miles were all I was managing, despite 1000 mile oil changes and never allowing the oil level to fall.
As this latest quirk from the bike involved complete bottom end rebuilds on such a regular basis, the crankcases came apart much faster than the wife's knees (in both cases, poor quality parts were being inserted). All of this sounds as though I never really enjoyed the bike from day one. That's only partly true, there were days that compensated for everything, and after 15 years together you can't believe that all the love, attention and money that's been poured in to the bike would not eventually be repaid.
The three lessons I learned from the whole experience are as follows. Never buy a basketcase unless you know the make/model concerned very well. If it's your first restoration chose a popular model with good spares and owners club backup. Be aware of your own limitations, everyones wants to say this is all my own work but get expert guidance and help for the difficult jobs.
All of this is now in the past, as someone, obviously blinded by the shiny paint work, and handsome good looks, decided to nick it. I now scan the faces at BSA auto-jumbles, trying to spot the anguish on the new guy's face as he ponders which bits to replace next.
Ian Truslover