£2500 for a 1959 BSA B33 seemed an awful lot of money but then the prices of British classics have always been on another planet. I was fifty years old, on the lookout for an interesting classic. The dealer had a shop full but the B33 was one of the few that was under £3000 and looked like it could be ridden out of the showroom. No chance of a test ride, the dealer seemed reluctant to even let me hear the engine running. He half-heartedly pushed the bike out into the street where he nearly collapsed with the effort of starting the 500cc single.
What a glorious noise she made, memories came flooding back. I was sold, just like that! He wouldn't budge on the price, wouldn't take a cheque and wouldn't offer a guarantee. The only time he smiled was when I turned up with a bundle of fifties. He didn't offer to help push the bike into the street and left me to work out the starting procedure. Flood the carb, get the piston just past compression and lunge. Repeat until the motor starts or I expired from exhaustion.
I was exhilarated when she finally growled into life. Even after I'd got the starting down to five kicks the procedure was vicious enough to ruin a pair of motorcycle boots every month! Riding home that first time everything felt new and fresh, as if it was my first motorcycle ride. The big single was extremely slow revving, due to a heavy flywheel and a flat torque curve. The B33 develops all of 24hp at 5500rpm. The gearbox of the type where the maximum use of this torque and power had to be made - get into fourth as soon as possible, slowly open the throttle and count the explosions as the BSA gained speed. In its own way, it was immensely enjoyable.
The machine was quite compact, with a 53 inch wheelbase and a mass of about 360lbs but you wouldn't know that from sitting at the controls. The steering felt really heavy, more like a Jap 750 than anything else. It was quite stable on smooth roads but would wallow like a worn out CD175 on bumpy country lanes. It never became really wicked and within the limits of its performance was adequate.
Perhaps it was the passing of time, the dimming of my memories, but I seem to recall the old BSA's I'd owned in the distant past were much more fleet of foot. Perhaps I'd been spoilt by modern bikes. Changing over from my Revere to the BSA made the British machine seem all the more basic with a very rough running motor that didn't like to be taken much above 3500 revs.
In theory these old singles had a top speed of about 85mph but in reality cruising at more than 60mph was a waste of time as the vibration churned out made more than five minutes a very painful experience. Even on the first ride, when I wasn't pushing things, a mudguard stay had come loose, ground along the tarmac until the front wheel tore it off, leaving a mangled bit of metal. At the time I assumed the dealer hadn't done a good job of checking the bike over but I soon learnt that the BSA would try to throw off everything not welded to the frame; at times it seemed even the welds were going to crack.
I hadn't gone to any great lengths to find this bike, just went into the dealers and fell in love with it. After a month, though, the restoration work claimed for it turned out to be rather superficial. Paint fell off the frame and oil tank, revealing rust beneath it. The fuel tank started leaking petrol from its underside, turning out to have been patched up with GRP. Both mudguards were rather moth-eaten on their undersides, not far off breaking up.
The primary chaincase had no oil, when I added some, the lubricant dripped out rapidly. The mating surfaces of the chaincase were pitted and warped. Instead of 0.03 inch valve clearances they were about ten times too large. The camshaft drive gears were missing teeth and there was a large crack in the carb bowl which had been filled.
I ended up getting a BSA expert to go over the engine for me. He tut-tutted at its state but after giving him £200 for parts and labour it was back together; the crank and bore were okay. I sorted out the chassis myself, being quite able to fit alloy mudguards, a restored tank and do some cleaning and painting.
The engine ran discernibly better, able to thud along at 65 to 70mph without too much vibration. Going any faster brought in the gut churning vibes again. There seemed no way around dealing with the lack of primary balance from the long stroke engine.
We loped along for a couple of months like this, quite happy to enjoy its contented burble. Then the clutch started playing up with a lot of slip and grinding noises. I took the chaincase off expecting the worst but it was only a couple of retaining screws that were loose; a trick they repeated every 2000 miles. The clutch action was very heavy but I usually tried to ride everywhere in fourth gear so it wasn't that bad.
One of the joys of riding old Brits is having people come up to you, exchange reminiscences and wonder where the hell the industry went so wrong. On the Revere everyone thinks I'm an idiot; on the BSA I was a human being. One guy insisted I come around to his house where he had an immaculate Rocket Gold Star, along with elaborate security arrangements that included a couple of snarling Dobberman dogs that strained on their chains when I arrived. He was completely paranoid about thieves raiding his garage and wouldn't even think about riding the bike on the open road.
After visiting him I was infected with his concerns, watching out for cars and vans that suddenly seemed to be following me. Took about a week to shake off the idea that I was being tracked. On one trek when I arrived home the numberplate had disappeared. I felt sure someone had pinched it, although in reality it was probably the vibes that'd loosened it off.
The oil tank cap also jumped off, the bared filler hole was perfectly placed to throw the oil out over my leg. The first I knew of it was lubricant seeping through my trousers. By the time I was able to pull over one trouser leg was completely soaked in oil. After ramming an old rag in the hole I had to spend a very uncomfortable half hour before I reached home. I stunk of oil for days afterwards.
After about 4500 miles, the SLS drum brakes began to be plagued with fade, the front end shuddering every time I tried to stop. I bought some shoes but the drums had gone slightly oval. I had to have them machined and relined. When I went to pick up the wheels, I was in for a shock. All that was left of them was the drums. The engineer showed me the rims, which were so rusted on the inside that it was amazing they hadn't collapsed. A new set of alloy rims fitted, I was £160 poorer but they did a lot for the appearance of the bike.
Nothing much seemed to wear on the consumable front. Tyres and chain lasted for ages. The lights were only 6 volts, glowed in a minimal way, and, once, the guts of the coil fell out. That stranded me half a mile from home with the result that I did my back in pushing the wretched thing all the way there. It didn't seem worth the hassle of getting someone to collect me.
When I decided to sell the bike I was astonished at the kind of prices they were selling for. The original dealer spent ten minutes trying to convince me the market had collapsed and he was doing me a favour by taking it off my hands for £475. I put it in the paper for £1500, then £1250, then £975, which had a few people coming for a look. I finally got £925. I can afford to take that kind of loss once in a while. If you can't, beware!
K.L.T.