After a slow, painful, recovery from a particularly nasty liason with the business end of a Mini van, I once more ventured forth upon the Queen's Highway. After successfully conning the authorities into awarding me with a full licence, aboard an Ariel Arrow this time, I continued for a short time astride a 1951 BSA B31.
This was a cooking version of the 350 DB32 Gold Star, the 500cc versions being the B33 and DB34 respectively. The much slower but less fussy B's had the same bottom ends, basically, but had heavier iron barrel and head with a separate, alloy pushrod tunnel. They also had a softer cam and much lower compression at 6.5:1, a smaller carb (a Monobloc instead of a temperamental GP) and valves. They also had a wider ratio gearbox and smaller, less efficient brakes without cooling fins.
The riding position was also much less sporting and, needless to say, more comfortable! Most of these differences apply to the later swinging arm models, whereas my trusty BSA had the, er, wonderful plunger rear suspension. It took a spectacular concave or convex abnormality in a Cornish road to make it work. The suspension had no oil dampers but two springs of different rates pushing against each other, which when they condescend to allow wheel movement are guided by a substantial tube. I soon learnt to stand on the footrests at the sight of any serious deviations in the road surface. A metallic clang signalled that the suspension was actually working, even if I did not believe it.
Fast this machine was most certainly not. It's handling and brakes matched its performance, but only just, not in the least helped by those bloody awful, square section Avon SM tyres. The standard single cylinder starting technique was best adhered to, least the kickstart performed an impromptu modification of the leg, commencing at the ankle and terminating at the back of the knee. This involved gently turning the engine over until compression was found, retarding the ignition, lifting the decompression lever and nudging the piston past top dead centre, releasing the decompression lever, returning the kickstart to the top of its travel and with a practised flourish, leap into the air and deliver a long, full swing on the kickstart...
If all was well the beasty would thud into life. If the ignition was not sufficiently retarded and/or the engine was kicked over wimpishly, then it would try to run backwards, lifting a still engaged kickstart back with it. You were either launched skywards spectacularly or the kickstart smashed its way up the inside of your lower leg. Men only need apply!
This was less severe on the 350 machines than on the larger 500s. The Goldies were particularly nasty, if one's technique was lacking. I took delight in getting the timing and carburation set up to perfection, so as to enable the tickover to be as slow as possible. You could count the four strokes between each ignition of the fuel, each Pom, Pom, Pom was a beautiful sound, which today's short stroke, oversquare singles can never match. The long stroke and heavy flywheels on the crankshaft combined with a manually adjusted advance/retard ignition meant the Beesa could pull strongly uphill at very low revs. The ignition was, of course, well retarded to do this, a technique exploited to good effect in trials events of the day.
The primary chaincase was of the good old pressed steel variety, held together around its periphery with numerous screws which, combined with a cork gasket, laughingly attempted to seal the lubricant within. Actually, to be fair, the gasket in question was well knackered and split and, as funds were restricted to components which had been involved in terminal copulation, was held together with an excess of Red Hermatite. With today's wonderful silicone sealants I would have been deprived of many a happy hour.
The engine shock absorber was an all steel ratchet like affair which only moved appreciably when the engine sprocket nut, holding it all together, came loose. The terrifying row, once heard, was not easily forgotten. Chaincase apart, the motor was comparatively oil tight and very reliable. It could not be easily thrashed by pubescent youths, such as myself, as it would never rev beyond a certain point, even when I was trying to keep up with my friend's Dominator.
I was given the B31 by my father, who being a lifelong motorcyclist to this day, had owned it for almost as long as I was old. He had bought it from a bloke who had smashed it up whilst on holiday. The frame was bent when I was riding it but in those days the bikes, in my price range, came twisted at no extra charge. I rebuilt the rolling chassis and repainted the frame with bronze Hamerite, the wheel rims (no chrome, just rust) silver Hamerite and the tanks and tool box with white Valspar gloss paint, with royal blue detailing.
It sounds, I know, an appalling mess, but bearing in mind cash was noticeable by its absence, I was painstaking in my efforts and the bike looked very smart. The Concours brigade will, by now, be in tears, but in 1970 British iron was two a penny and only the certifiably insane would spend a fortune on the bread and butter models.
My first bike had met with a particularly nasty end and the B31 was to be no exception! One afternoon, returning to Taunton where I was employed, I was overtaking a car and caravan when, without warning, the car swung hard right to enter a filling station. I opened up the side of the caravan like a tin opener and smashed into the side of the car. Conflicting accounts claimed that I ended up in the garage forecourt, the other that I was underneath the car.
Injuries sustained, only 18 months after recovery from multiple injuries in a previous mauling, were fractured upper arms, fratures in both hands, fractured ribs, dislocated and fractured left hip and my lower jaw was smashed in three places complete with the loss of four front teeth. I was badly concussed again and, because I was choking on blood and teeth, I was given an emergency tracheaostromy, which involves cutting open the throat to insert a tube into the windpipe. To say I was in deep shit again was no exaggeration!
With many thousands of miles behind me it was folly to overtake a car and caravan travelling slowly in the proximity of any right-hand turning. He was in the wrong in performing a sudden manoeuvre without rearward observation or signals, but that doesn't stop it hurting. The old maxim, treat everyone as an idiot and expect them to do the most ridiculous things, is a real life saver. I had to learn the hard way, don't you do the same.
Kevin Udy