What I didn't like was the way the owner went all nasty after I handed over £1000 for the '58 BSA C12. What he basically said was piss off, don't come back if there are any problems and don't expect any advice or help from him any time down the line.
It was all my own fault that he was in a foul temper. The bike had been advertised as immaculate and original (surely a contradiction in terms for a machine nearly 40 years and 50,000 miles old?), priced to sell at £1950. After the usual test ride and examination I'd offered £900 and left my telephone number if he was interested.
A month later he'd accepted a grand with an amazing amount of bad grace. He lived in Bristol, myself in Southampton, so I'd have plenty of time to test out the 250cc, OHV thumper on the way home. At least it was June, hot enough to melt tarmac.
The engine was warm, she thumped into life on the first kick. I immediately thought that there was too little pressure on the lever but, what the hell, maybe I didn't know my own strength, these days. Clutch in, dab the gear lever. Nothing happened. A heavy boot, graunching noise, the whole bike jerking against the front brake, held on in case of clutch drag (sign of an old hand).
I felt like some spotty kid on his first ride when I let the clutch lever out with a bit of throttle. A series of small hops, enough driveline lash to make me think of disintegrating bearings. Finally the clutch was home, the bike growling up the road.
Approaching about four thousand revs acceleration - if that's the right word for our stately progress - diminished and vibration poured in through the bars, pegs, tank and saddle. Bloody hell, couldn't remember it being that bad on the test run. A massive fight with the gearbox to get her into second and then third. Didn't want to know about more than 50mph...all the excuse the cagers needed to sound their horns in frustration. I told myself it was all part of the bike's vintage charm.
Coming up behind some slow moving caravan, I looked behind (mirrors would've been shaken to pieces), saw it was clearish and stuck out my right hand to indicate what I was about to do (indicators would've gone the same way as the mirrors...). Up until then the handling hadn't appeared that bad, just needed a firm grip on the bars and a bit of muscle to get it to follow directions.
As the previous owner had said, it had suspension at both ends, not something enjoyed by all bikes from the fifties. As soon as I took my hand off the bars, the throttle slammed shut and the bars wobbled from side to side.
It was hard work grabbing hold of the wildly moving bars with my right hand. By the time I was back in control, speed was down to 30mph, the caravan was a speck in the distance and some cretin in a Sierra was trying to steal my numberplate with his front bumper. I opened the throttle in top, hoping to enjoy that famous thumper torque. Instead I had a head full of death rattles and the kind of acceleration that took me back to my moped days.
The car driver blasted past with about a millimetre to spare, his dear children giving me the finger. It was at this point in the saga that I found the gearbox had locked into top. It was open road for the next few miles, giving me time to chew over the dilemma. The only clue I had was the blast furnace heat coming off the engine!
I pulled into the next garage to look things over. Pulled off the inspection cap on the gearbox, couldn't see any oil in there. Bought some 20/50, let it trickle in until I thought there was enough (there's a level screw but I didn't know that then). The garage sold magazines so I bought Performance Bike for a laugh, flicked through it in less than fifteen minutes.
By then the gearbox had cooled down enough for the gear lever to work! Unfortunately, the cooler engine didn't want to start. The C12 weighs about 325lbs but felt twice that to me as I hurled it down the garage ramp, running alongside at about 10mph, throwing myself on to the saddle, bumping it and letting out the clutch. A great graunching sound that almost induced heart failure then she went burp-burp.
Funnily enough, I wasn't that pissed off, felt a sense of achievement at having fixed the machine! If it had been a modern Jap I would have been cursing and swearing. Having said that, once back in the comfortable saddle, ensconced in the laid back riding position, there was nothing to disguise the fact that this was one slow and vibratory old sow!
More progress was made. Just getting used to its gruff nature, when the sonorous beat bleated a couple of times and then went dead. We coasted a little way until somewhere to park off the main road was found.
Sounded like fuel starvation to my well trained mind. Sort of, the carb had detached itself from the cylinder head, only stopped going walkies by its cable! The carb was held on by two pieces of non-standard (metric thread it later turned out!) studding; the nuts nowhere in sight. Being resourceful, I cannibalized two nuts from the bike and forced them on, chewing up both sets of threads in the process. It was better than walking!
At this point I was becoming nervous. Progress was much slower than anticipated and I had another 40 miles to go, which might well mean riding in the night on desperately inadequate lighting. If indeed, there were any bulbs left after all the vibration the old girl was churning out. Just to be on the safe side, I added some more oil to both the gearbox and the oil tank.
The next little item of annoyance was the front mudguard starting to bounce around on its stays. The bit where the paint had rubbed off against the forks revealed that the guard was, in fact, not the heavyduty steel item as specified by BSA but one of those flimsy alloy jobs.
Where it had been riveted to its stays, the steel rivets had worn oval holes in the aluminium guard. Once a little bit of movement was gained it went into self-destruct mode. I cursed the previous owner and took the whole thing off, nailed it down on the pillion with a couple of bungee cords.
For some reason, at this point, I formed the idea that I was riding along on an old dog that was falling apart under me. 25 miles left to do, according to my reckoning; not inspired by the disappearing sun and darkening sky. I wasn't going to tempt fate by turning on the lights just yet.
I upped the ante to all of 55mph, hung on for dear life and hoped my shot nerves wouldn't leave me scarred for life. Apart from the useless guard falling off without me knowing about it until I got home, the old slugger actually made it to my house with seconds to spare before I would've been forced to tempt electrical self-immolation by turning the lights on (they actually work fine as the whole system had been overhauled and upgraded to 12V).
Another sad tale of a crap old Brit single? No, more of a bodging previous owner out to make a financial killing. Once I fitted the correct carb, proper engine bolts (the originals were too small), done the gearbox oil properly and put in new steering head bearings, I had a rather splendid old plodder, that handled fine, topped out at 75mph and regularly did 75mpg.
I really enjoy my C12, these days. If I'd judged it solely on that first ride I would've bunged it into the nearest canal or sold on quicky. It's a great alternative to modern motorcycles but, please, tread very carefully when hunting for British bikes.
Adam Griffiths