Garelli 50

As my girlfriend often says, size is not important. The same can be said about having a lark on a motorcycle. The size of your engine is not really related to the amount of fun you can have with it. I have proved this to myself by the amount of frolicking I reaped out of riding a 50cc moped. At this point, do not for one moment think the moped in this story was one of those awful, restricted, ditch creeping, scum sucking, spineless pieces of shit that are sold today. This is far from the truth. This 'ped was a fire breathing Italian beast. Revving to about 12000rpm and delivering a tarmac scorching 7hp (before you laugh, remember I was only a tender 16 year old).

The moped was made by an almost unheard of (in England) manufacturer, Garelli, and it was a Record model. I've heard of another model they produced that was known as a Tiger, which was the same bike dressed as a street scrambler. The model I ran was a fairly classic (read basic) shape. It was quite primitive in design but then it was a P reg. A simple two stroke single cylinder was cooled by huge aluminium fins stuck out into the airstream. It was made in the days before reed or rotary valves were very common and so didn't bother with any.

When I bought it, the poor little animal was lumbered with ridiculous pedals that were welded in a flimsy way to the frame. These gave the impression that the pedals were added on afterwards in a typical Italian manner to comply with the equally flimsy regulation that was enforced in British law. These were left on for the MOT but afterwards were discarded forever.

Despite the engine's primitive design, once running it gave an unbreakable frenzy of adrenaline producing kicks. This was when it actually ran. For a long time the starting remained poor. As the 'ped had no kickstart (the pedals had doubled as this) I had to bump it all the time. But as there was so little weight and so little cc this was a fairly easy job even if the 'ped didn't feel like starting.

The only time I ever really wished for an electric start was when I was caught outside a house trying to start the reluctant sod as a pack of rabid dogs swarmed around the corner. Had I been able to rapidly fire the bike into life I wouldn't have been bitten. As it was, the reluctant starting allowed the savage man-killers to maul my leg.

The problem showed up months later when I was indulging in a spot of off-road work on a frosty night. I fell off and whacked my knee. As a result of the spine tingling pain I was unable to hop fast enough to fire the engine, so I had to dodder the 'ped up the hill then sit on the beast as it rolled back down to get the engine chiming.

The suspension was very reticent in its action. About one inch of movement was apparent both at the front and back. This led to a very direct ride. Had the moped been capable of illegal speeds then this would've been a problem. Because it only ever reached 65mph (on a good day) and it was so light that even as a sweet sixteen year old, I could just about pick it up in my arms, this was not really too traumatic.

The only really bad point as far as the engine was concerned was the electrics. The only good thing that can be said about them is they ran the ignition circuit. The rest was simply pathetic - a dim orange/yellow front light and an intermittent back one plus a killswitch that electrocuted you when employed. No indicator, no horn, no battery, no hope of any reliability or sophistication at all. So much has changed with Italian electrics (heavy sarcasm).

Bear in mind that this was my first powered vehicle. Before that all my travelling had been accomplished by hitch-hiking or push-biking. A powered vehicle opened up whole new frontiers for me. Being able to zoom up a hill without becoming all sweaty and out of breath was a strange but welcome new concept.

My first impression was of massive size and weight combined with enormous amounts of power that never became tired. The steering seemed to be almost solid after the rickety, wobbly ride of a push-bike. It took some getting used to - the combined mass and awesomely powerful centrifugal forces generated at speeds.

An excess of very dangerous riding was indulged before I got the hang of it. For example, on my maiden voyage on a wet back road, I whizzed happily along for three miles before coming upon a tight corner. Well, I knew how to go around corners, you just lean off the side, the faster you went the further you leant. In my blissful ignorance, the idea of leaning a bike until the pegs scratched on a wet road did not even stand out as an erroneous idea.

The corner flashed up, I began to regret the speed I was doing. I leant the bike down. Completely beyond my anticipation the Garelli carried on dropping further as its tyres let go and I hit the road. This was sudden and utterly unexpected. I was still stuck in the 'I can get round this corner' mode of thought.

As always happens at these critical moments, a car came from nowhere, which bike and I bounced off. Everything stopped. I stood up bruised and muddied but unhurt. The driver leapt out of the car, I felt utter embarrassment as only an adolescent feels. ''They don't make these roads like they used to,'' I said in a last ditch attempt not to look like an idiot. After being called a silly bugger and told to slow down we went out separate ways.

The performance was fantastic for a moped. It was easily the fastest moped around where I lived. During my time riding the bike, its top speed went from 45mph to 65mph, as a result of careful fiddling with the carb (a good clean and reset according to the manual) and ditching the airfilter to prevent the engine choking up at low revs. Also a thorough decoke as these old-fashioned bikes need one occasionally and the exhaust heated red hot in the fire to burn off the carbon.

Lastly, perhaps most importantly, a new sports piston. This had a strange hole just under the rings, presumably an early attempt at radical porting. Whatever the reasons behind this vaguely Mad Max type of design it certainly worked. The bike assumed a personality of willing ferocity. Before this work on the engine the 'ped had been about the same as the Yam Fizzies it was raced against. After the work, it left the Jap pretenders smoking in its wake. This is quite a literal description as they seized up when they attempted to keep up with the rocketing Italian beast.

One quirk that was always evident was the lack of bottom end power. This is not really surprising in view of the relatively huge increase of power above about eight grand, and in reality it generated the same pleasure and addictive attraction to me as smack does to a junkie. The 'ped would drone along below the power band like a wet bumble bee. At the magic point the exhaust note changed from NORRRRRRR to HONNNNNNN. When the power came in the bike would wheelie in first just on the throttle. To a 16 year old the sudden rush of power was more intoxicating than three pints of illegal scrumpy. Once on the power the engine felt very happy.

The over-heating problems that were apparent at low revs on a hot day vanished. The power the engine produced was somewhere between 6 and 7hp - about 120 to 140hp per litre. Much the same sort of power output per litre as a modern race replica 1000cc machine. Once the engine was improved I invested in some new points, these took months to arrive but when they came they improved the starting to the point that it would fire on the first turn of the mill.

I soon found that the front brake was rapidly losing its ability to slow the bike. On looking at the shoes, they appeared down to the rivets. As the front tyre was in the same state and the wheel rusty, I opted for a smaller front wheel off a 125 Honda. All that was needed was an anchor point for the front brake. A little intelligence would have suggested welding one to the fork arm but because I'm often stupid I glued the anchor point on.

Then I took the 'ped out for a test blast. I thought that the best way of testing the brake was to do some 'endo's (have I ever been a BMX boy?). Lucky I was going slow when I tried this manoeuvre. As you have probably guessed the glue failed on the first attempt. The brake cable wrapped around the spindle, jamming the brake on and I was thrown over the bars.

I rode miles and miles on the Garelli. The South Coast, Wales, up North. During one my trips, my friend's Fizzie broke down and I towed him for miles. After about 50 miles the gearbox sprocket shattered. As it took abut a month to buy a new one, I salvaged an old one of much the same mounting. The only problem was that because it was larger it geared the bike up to a silly degree. Pulling off became slow and top speed dropped by about 10mph, only achievable in third as top was simply too tall to use on the flat. There was an unexpected benefit, down steep hills top gear gave in excess of 70mph.

The Garelli moped was a fantastic vehicle on which to enter the wacky world of motorcycling and as far as fun per cc goes it outweighs other much larger motorcycles. In light of this it shouldn't be scorned for being so small, but saying that I would not like to go back to it.

Kieran Toner

Bridgestone 350

The Bridgestone 350GTR is an extremely rare motorcycle in the UK. It's probably a very rare motorcycle everywhere in the world, come to that. I have not seen any others on the road. I bought my 1967 model from an old gent who had owned it from new, put only 12,400 miles on the clock and had a couple of boxes full of spare engine parts - just as well as they are otherwise unavailable. He claimed to have something to do with the importers, hence the spares.

The owner seemed genuine, the price was low when compared to what you'd have to pay for a British classic of the same era and the brief test ride showed the bike as basically sound. A few engine noises could be put down to the bike's age rather than any impending mechanical doom. Well, you know how it is with motorcycles, after your first glance you usually know if you are going to buy or not and I liked the style of this most rare machine.

The bike was manufactured by the same people who make the tyres in good old Japan, they eventually selling off their motorcycle interests in favour of concentrating on the rubber business. A two stroke twin that developed 40 horses, which for 1967 was very good going. The usual problems with large ports being opened and closed by the pistons were overcome by using rotary valves on the intake side, which necessitated the 26mm carbs sticking out of the sides of the engine.

A hefty four bearing crankshaft combined with forced lubrication from a separate oil tank under the seat takes care of the bottom end. Primary drive was by a set of helical gears which whined but showed no other sign of wear (any Triumph owner will revel in such sophistication). A still slick six speed gearbox was made interesting by the dry clutch which grabbed, shuddered and made expensive sounding noises. I consoled myself with the thought that there were a pile of spare clutch plates and drums available.

Despite its age I was most impressed with its smoothness and hard edged acceleration, a light drizzle of blue smoke accompanying the bike. The gear driven oil pump was controlled by a cable from the throttle, thus ensuring more oil was delivered when the revs were high. The yowl from the exhaust was the stuff from which dreams are wrought.

I was less impressed with the chassis, carrying as far as I could tell original suspension. Equipped with 19" wheels, shod with Venoms, stability was not too bad on a smooth road. But surface roughness completely messed up the machine's poise. At both ends the suspension was down on its stops and exhibited no signs of damping. The high, wide bars didn't help any, with only 370lbs to chuck around I soon found flat Vinnie type bars were much better suited to the chassis.

They helped take a bit of weight off the torso as well, the seat needing all the help it could find as it turned to a plank after much less than a 100 miles, which was a shame as the three and half gallon tank allowed a range of almost 200 miles. Wheelbase was almost identical to a Triumph 500 twin, weight similar, but distribution of that mass was distinctly different with the front end feeling very light. Not that I am of an age to indulge in wheelies. The seat height was low and the petrol tank very narrow, giving this 5'9" rider a feeling of security, both feet able to be planted firmly on the tarmac.

As a fan of British bikes I found one feature of the Bridgestone brilliant. The brake brackets were duplicated on both sides and the gearchange shaft stuck out each side of the engine. It was possible to have the back brake and gearchange set up as an old British bike or in the now more conventional mode. I suppose if you wanted to be really strange you could have two gear levers! I opted for brake on the left and gearchange on the right, luckily the kit for swapping the brake lever over was amongst the cache of spares.

The bike would scream up the ton in fifth, wallowing all over the road, then usually refuse to go any faster in sixth. Down very steep hills it was possible to put 110mph on the speedo. Vibration was conspicuous by its absence, although that might just be down to myself being used to old British bikes.

The gearbox had neutral at the bottom, which was quite a clever feature in that you could just keep stomping on the lever until it was found. On the other hand, if you lost count of which gear you were in, you could suddenly find yourself free-wheeling along in neutral when the extra bit of engine braking was desperately needed. To be fair to the bike, there was an idiot light that came on when the bike was in fifth, although until I was used to the nature of the beast the close ratio set-up of the gearbox caught me out a few times.

One thing the boxes of spares did not contain was a spare set of brake shoes. The Bridgestone comes with seven inch drums, the front TLS being on the edge of being down to its rivets. The result of such wear was that the brake never really had any great power and often faded away altogether. After frightening myself half to death for a year I finally conceded defeat by fitting a wheel and disc off an old Kawasaki KH250. This doesn't work any better in the wet but has transformed the safety factor in the dry.

Similarly, I hunted around the breakers for some better shocks....don't know what they came off but they stiffened up the rear end. Some variation in springing and damping was possible by relocating the shocks in an alternative position at the upper end - rather in the style of Velo's but without the range of adjustment. I had some springs that went into the forks with no trouble except that they were half an inch too short; fixed with a pile of washers. Doubtless Bimotas owners will be rolling around on the floor either in hysterics or horror.

The result on the road was rather more pleasant than I'd any right to expect. It still bounced around a bit over bumps but kept to the requisite line as well as the Tiger 100 I had in the garage. That was an interesting bike with which to compare the Bridgestone as they were of a similar era and price when new (now the Tiger was worth about five times as much). The Triumph could not accelerate any where near as well, vibrated horribly once past 5000 revs, was 5mph short on top speed and could not match the 350's 85-90mph cruising gaite. Most surprisingly, both machines averaged 60 to 65mpg.

The Bridgestone had several annoying faults. The spark plugs would only do 500 miles before refusing to start the machine until replaced. At least one carb a week would suddenly allow the petrol to flow out. The chain needed daily attention, refusing to last more than 4000 miles, although the sprockets looked like they were still original. Every other week the baffles had to be removed from the silencers to allow all the accumulated gunge to be cleaned out. The swinging arm pivot lacked support from the frame, consequently the bearings displayed a mind warping tendency to either wear rapidly or break up altogether. I had a dozen spare sets and went through four in a year!

The electrical system was twelve volts but idiosyncratic in nature, the lights flickering at a dangerously low illumination level at tickover, often blowing if you dared to encroach on the point of maximum power production at 7500rpm. They were not capable of illuminating unlit country roads. The ignition switch often needed a thump to make it work, although it never failed once the motor was started up. The kickstart was on the wrong side but even with a 9:1 compression ratio not much effort was required, usually starting on the second or third prod.

I've done 9000 miles on the machine with nothing major going wrong. Which is typical, I have enough engine spares to do about six rebuilds and the bits are just taking up space. Looking at the engine screws, the bottom half doesn't look like it's been touched. I've had the cylinder head and barrels off twice to clean off the carbon deposits, but the only sign of wear was a few marks on the bottom of the pistons.

For its time, the Bridgestone must have been a remarkable motorcycle. I think it must have been Kawasaki who bought the rights to the engine as it's very similar to their Avenger twin. It doesn't quite possess the wildness of their later triples, but if it was their inspiration I would not have been at all surprised. I find the 350 to have as much character as any British bike I've owned....it's my first serious Japanese bike and won't be my last!

Walter Blair

Sanglas Singles

Sanglas of Barcelona first produced a 350 single way back in '42 and remained with this design, updating and developing as they went along until '81 when Yamaha bought out and closed their factory. They did make a 300 for a while in the early sixties and in the same period built some machines using Spanish made Villiers two stroke engines, but their main sellers were the 350 and later 400cc singles for police and military use.

The culmination of their production run of forty years was the 500S2 V5 which is probably the least rare of the Sanglas models in the UK. Various stories surround the appearance and subsequent disappearance of the Sanglas marque over here. A few 400 singles were sold but superseded by the 500 S1 and S2. There was also a 400 Yamaha twin motor carrying the Sanglas logo on the engine casings. This was the machine that spelled the end for the company, sales in Britain were not successful and financial problems did nothing to aid the Spaniards drive to exploit new markets.

Consequently, these machines are few and far between and can't be regarded as a practical proposition for someone looking for a used bike to get around on, however the odd one crops up in the classified ads from time to time and seems to sell, so there must be some people willing to have a bash at them.

Most were imported into England in '79 when several of the bike mags tested and reported on them. Probably being spoilt by big Japanese muscle bikes of the time, the Sanglas was treated as a tarted up old dinosaur with chronic vibration. At that time I was looking to buy a larger machine than my thrashed old CD175 and was quite keen on this Spanish bike but at around £1250 it was out of my price range so I bought an Honda RS250 and forgot about the Sanglas for a few years.

The next time it cropped up was on a journey through northern Spain on an XS650. It was a newly surfaced sweeping downhill and we rode helmetless at between 60 and 90mph when two soldiers passed in the other direction waving at us. I waved back and accelerated away. Around a mile of two further these two bikes swept pass and pulled me over. They were the feared Guarda and wanted to know in Spanish why my helmet was strapped to the rear of the bike. Pleading ignorance and being English got me off the charge but I didn't like the way they had kept their hands on their pistols.

What did impress me was the way in which these Sanglas 400 singles had managed to catch me up when I wasn't hanging around. When I later saw one for sale, it was worth a long journey to see it. The machine turned out to be a 500 S2 with a Squire child/adult sidecar attached, loads of accessories and a recorded mileage of only 12600. When the owner tried to start it the motor would not turn over, no amount of pushing or shoving helped. I made a low offer and it was mine.

Back home I removed the barrel and spent a long time honing this before replacing the rings, which were in the spares kit, and decoking the top end. The machine was on the road in a few weeks and I took up combo riding in earnest. The engine is a pushrod OHV design, slightly oversquare at 90x80mm it'll rev to around 7000rpm, breathing through a Spanish made Mk.2 Concentric carb which seems well matched to the softly tuned motor.

Compression, though, is quite high at 9.3:1, helping to produce 30hp and 5kgm of torque (as much pulling power as an XS650). It's reminiscent of the Panther, it just keeps on pulling whatever you do. There's an electric starter on one end of the crankcase, which operated a gear bolted to the crank flywheel, the other end of the crank operating the oil pump - the engine a sort of wet sump design using the crankcase and gearbox to store oil and pumping it up to the head via an external oilway. The oil pump also operates the points. On the other side primary drive is by duplex chain with a spring loaded cam type shock absorber, driving a nice alloy multiplate clutch.

A separate chain operated the large 260W alternator which lives in its own compartment behind the cylinder barrel. The gearbox is a five speeder and has a removable cover. Everything can be got at without removing the engine bar the big-end, so maintenance and work can be completed easily excepting the problem of acquiring parts. In around 28000 miles it has needed new 5th gear pinion dogs and some valves, the latter I had made by a mate.

The engine may appear to be roughly made as the alloy castings are sand cast but thick and well machined. The internals show a reasonable standard of engineering, although the gearbox parts would seem a bit small for this size of engine. Certainly, the change is slow, similar to an MZ 250 but with only the one neutral. There is no idiot light to indicate neutral but with practice who needs one?

The cycle parts also show the same quality of build, nice welds, allen bolts, lovely alloy castings and strange looking GRP panels and tail with its chromed rack. The electrical system works off a 12V car battery (same as in a Marina), the switches are crude but efficient, a 65W halogen lamp lights up the night across the motorway and the electrics always work whatever the weather.

Front and rear suspension is from Telesco and very good - large 40mm fork tubes work really well and have gaiters. The wheels are five or seven spoke alloys and brakes are cast iron discs all round with twin piston Brembo pattern calipers (same bits as a V50 Guzzi). Braking is of the hitting a brick wall type.

Well almost, braking on a left-handed humpback bridge resulted in hitting the brick wall at its side, mashing the wheel, crumpling the fork tubes and bending the steering stem. An XS650 front end went straight on with a spacer and kept us going until we were able to obtain new parts. The flyscreen was cracked as well, but as this only keeps rain off the clock faces it didn't matter.

The strong and rigid frame is excellent for hauling a sidecar around although I have been caught out by the sidecar a few times. I've bounced the sidecar mudguard off a few vehicles in my time. The sidecar wheel bearing went after one crash, but no great problem as a Mini item went straight in. It copes with two up travelling and loads of luggage, although acceleration is on the poor side. Once it gets up to 70mph it will stick there all day. Top speed is around 85mph but takes ages to get there.

Still, it's far nicer just to trundle along taking in the scenery lulled by the lovely thump of the engine and numbed by the constant vibration. It's the sort of outfit you could ride for a long way if there was time and the roads weren't so clogged up with other vehicles.

The engine seems to settle down after about 10 miles and gives the impression that it will last forever provided it is not thrashed. A pointless exercise since the vibes at 7000rpm, like on the XS650, aren't worth sustaining. The tank holds four gallons and at around 60mpg there's no need for frequent stops. A down turn in my finances meant that something had to go so I decided on the bike and sold the chair. Afterall, it kept bumping into other vehicles and hasty getaways were a bit awkward unless there was enough room to slam on the brakes, do an abrupt about turn and disappear in the direction from which I had come.

The loss of the sidecar unleashed the solo's wonderful handling. On my favourite trip down to Kent I had to stop several times to await the 850 Yam which was following....all this on tyres best suited to sidecar use. Performance was improved by a new set of tyres and an almost straight through Goldie silencer. Coming down that famous hill on the A20 I held the throttle wide open until the speedo needle hovered around 120mph. It couldn't have been that fast, but with the noise and vibes it certainly seemed like it. The Yamaha was nowhere to be seen. It was great fun flying past all the chops and Harleys like a crazed maniac, keeping it up around 90mph for the length of the A20 until we turned off to the show site.

I took up despatching again, from Birmingham using a 400 four at first but when that needed work I used the Sanglas. This showed up its shortcomings. It's just too tiring to use around the city centres and for hours in the saddle at high speeds. One day I picked up a job in Liverpool and dropped it in London, returned to Liverpool only to have to ride back to Birmingham. Stupidly, I rode past a service station as it went on to reserve and six miles further was out of petrol. The RAC man found me fast asleep on the embankment reluctant to travel any further.

The despatching treatment wasn't doing the bike much good, so I took it off the road and bought an XS850. This seemed ideal for distance work but proved a costly mistake, just about everything was worn out or almost worn out; averaging 35mpg meant I was working for very little.

The Sanglas was taken apart. I had most of it cleaned to bare metal and repainted the cycle parts with Smoothrite. The tank and GRP work was still good so I just polished that. The engine casings and all other alloy I had polished. The bike went back together very easily, now looks lovely and goes just as well. The original paint had peeled off the frame, allowing it to go rusty, the calipers seize if the machine is not regularly used but are easy to overhaul.

Other problems are usually to do with the lubrication system. At low revs, and it will tickover at 350rpm, the oil light flickers and at high revs the oil leaks from the rocker feed pipe banjo but this could be due to overfilling as its dipstick is a little inaccurate. The oil filter is a small round canister in a separate chamber fed by rubber hoses. This will probably have to be changed for another unit as I deplete my stock of filters. The master cylinder was replaced with a Suzuki one and the kickstart return spring broke. Not too many problems in 28000 miles. It's still on the original sprockets!

I like the unusual, it's still a good handler with a strong but lazy engine, easy maintenance and almost classic looks. I'm going to keep the bike and ride it when I retire.

Kev Petford

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Given the choice of spending the winter freezing to death or lounging around in the sun on the Costa Blanca, it only took a few moments of thought. Ideally, I should've ridden the XT500 down there, but its piston was rattling and some nutcase kept pestering me about selling the Yam to him, so he could go harassing sheep in the Welsh hills. I gladly accepted £750 off him and gave the travel agent £400 for the flight and four months rent on a studio apartment.

The Costa Blanca is rather like Brighton in the sun and didn't require much adaptation on my part. Days quickly became a ritual of drunken excesses with other expats, the women coming and going at an extraordinary rate, at least for me, the heat turning them hot in more ways than one. After about two weeks of this rampant self-indulgence, I decided the only way to redeem my liver was to buy a bike.

I could quite easily have hired some small trail bike, which would've been more than adequate for screaming around the coast but I don't really like strokers. I wanted something a little more serious and a slightly rat Sanglas 500 appeared ideal. A long stroke thumper that was heftily built and often used by the plod.

A car sized electric starter reluctantly churned the motor over, after some backfiring it throbbed into life, making a noise that would cause an EEC bureaucrat to run around like a headless chicken. Sounded good to me, anyway. The gearbox was as reluctant to work as the engine was to rev but that was expected as the engine has the same kind of agricultural feel as a BMW boxer.

Torque was the name of the game, get it into top as quickly as possible and just let the throttle do all the work. The test ride went okay, it was certainly just as good as the XT500. For 300 notes I couldn't go wrong and figured I might even ride it home in the spring. There seemed a lot of paperwork involved but I just ignored it all, gathered it up and dumped it in the flat. If I was stopped by the pigs, dumb incomprehension would have to suffice.

Spanish drivers are, of course, all mad. A lot of dilapidated cars driven by men who obviously hadn't passed their test. On a motorcycle I was an immediate target for their insanity. After being driven off the road half a dozen times I managed to work out that the cagers were suddenly swerving across the road not just because they were homicidal maniacs but because they were saving their clapped out cars from the punishment of the foot deep pot-holes.

I was a bit shaken up by the time I got back to the apartment but bright blue skies the next day persuaded me to head for Madrid. The traffic was heavy and mad all the way, but the Sanglas rumbled along at 70mph most of the way. I kept to the side of the road most of the time, that way I only had to worry about traffic on the one side. The Sanglas had a most powerful horn that nearly blew my brain away the first time I touched the button. This helped, as did the Spanish numberplate. Police in shades looked doubtfully at my white skin and pot-belly splayed over my shorts but I practised a bit of Zen by ignoring them!

Madrid took about six hours, with a few stops for fuel and food. The bike was doing 65mpg and I was down to a bottle of San Miguel every stop. It wasn’t boiling hot, just the right side of being too cold to ride without proper gear during the day. The nights were cool enough to make love for a couple of hours without raising a sweat. I have been on the Costa in high summer when it becomes a kind of hell populated by an excess of lager louts and grumbling grannies. No thanks!

Madrid was so chaotic that the only sensible reaction was to lock the bike away at the back of the hotel and explore the city on foot. Thieves abound in Spain, as likely to steal any old hack as they are to screw anything with a hole. Madrid's nightlife had emerged into the nineties with some dubious clubs with back rooms where anything went. The rate of AIDS infection was rising rapidly...

I took a long meandering ride back to the coast, using country roads from where I could see peasants toiling away and small villages full of old biddies in black, and white stone houses. It was a major hassle just fuelling up. I'd leap up and down, pointing at the gaping petrol tank, screaming petrol, fuel, gas, at a totally unimpressed old man. The only thing to send him into a frenzy of action was when I picked up the nozzle myself. He reacted like I'd made a rude suggestion. Food, except for junk from small grocery stores and the odd dose of fruit, was out of bounds - the one time I sat down in a restaurant I was completely ignored. It was just like someone's front room and the rest of the customers were part of some big family.

One other incident stays in my mind. Bopping along a road that was really nothing more than a track, quite happy at 35mph, I swung out of a bend to find the whole road blocked by a tractor and trailer, driven by a bovine youth who shook his fist at me as we came to a halt inches apart.

He indicated that I should turn around, but it was a four point turn job as the track was so narrow. I was halfway through the manoeuvre when he started inching forward. I hurried to complete the turn, but in the rush I overdid it, ended up falling off. The front of the tractor scraped the Sanglas forward as I rolled away. I leapt up screaming abuse but backed off when he waved a pitchfork at me. Somehow, I pulled the still chugging Sanglas up and did a runner, pursued by a flat out tractor and trailer. I quickly concluded that some people were not yet good EEC citizens.

I was relieved to return to the relative civilization of the Costa. Quite a few bolts had rattled loose and the battery was half dead, with the electrics playing up due to loose connectors. It just needed a good going over, oil change and full service. The manager of the apartment block eyed my grease covered hands with something approaching horror, clocking the perfect imprints of my hands on the door and lift. He was ex-army and marched around the block with a clipboard and hard eyes. The lift doors banged shut before he could go into a tirade.

One of the joys of motorcycling was riding along the coast, helmetless, with a near naked sixteen year old frail on the back. What a lovely combination of sensations. The primary vibes produced by the big thumper had her all wired up in no time at all. Spaniards in unlikely cars would blow their horns in salutation and cops would raise their shades to grab a proper eyeful. There is a very weird ambience on the Costa and I was getting off with girls who wouldn't even look at me back in the UK.

Despite its strange appearance the Sanglas didn't turn them off and I soon grew to love the old brute. Top speed was only 90mph, but the handling was stable and assured even on dodgy tyres. There were twin discs out front that were a bit antiquated but worked when a full bloodied grip was applied. Suspension was stiff, big bumps thumping through from the road.

The engine proved rugged in four months and 3000 miles of abuse. However, another expat offered me £600 (I'd cleaned, patched and polished up the bike) to take over the Spanish single and as I'd already paid for the return flight it seemed like a good scam. I don't know if I miss the sun or the Sanglas the most!

Dean Cohen

 

Gilera RC600

Hey ho, here we go! The One wheel blues. A function of a pseudo trailie pose and great stonking torque from a 558cc thumper. An ideal make up for despatching in Central London? Too true. The Gilera even came with a rack just large enough to take a massive combined top box and panniers. A one piece unit I'd knocked up myself in GRP. The surface was rough enough to take the skin off pedestrians who bounced against it.

The panniers didn't work with the upswept exhaust, so the twin down-pipes were cut and rewelded and a Bonnie silencer attached where you'd expect it to be. What a beautiful racket. The engine goes dead at 8500rpm but for a big thumper that was killing time so no great loss. Gilera claim 53hp at 7500rpm, which judging by the way the 310lb bike shifts is about right.

I also lost the naff sidepanels, dumped the front guard and disc covers for a proper mudguard and fitted a mud-flap on to the back guard. Boring, I know, but the major advantage was a bike and rider who weren't covered in shit every time it threatened to rain. If I could have done it I would've protected the high quality O-ring chain with a full enclosure. London's poor weather, DR abuse and intense thumper power pulses ain't kind to chains.

The seat height was bollock threatening for this short arsed git so I got my mate, who knows about these things being into racing frames and stuff, to take three inches out of the suspension and stiffen them up a touch. Unlike the mechanically similar NordWest, with its upside-down forks, the RC has conventional front forks with gaiters, praise be to the Lord. Even the rear shock is protected by a full bit of flexible plastic between swinging arm and bottom of the mudguard.

That mod put both my feet on the ground, got the mass down nearer the tarmac and looked a lot more sensible for road use. My marital tackle felt a lot more secure, although the seat covering extends up towards the bars atop the tank cowl. The lowered centre of gravity gave faster steering and better stability, whilst the lowered rider aided aerodynamic efficiency out in the badlands, or the rest of the UK to you.

The tiny screen inspired an excess of laughter from fellow DR's desperate to find some fault with a machine that kept leaving them standing in town. The Gilera's a rare old bus now the company's stopped production and I was lucky enough to buy a brand new (put that cross and stake away, boy) example for a mere £3500 in 1994. I've seen restricted 125s that cost more.

Even with the reduced travel, the suspension was well up to coping with deep pot-holes and the odd bit of pavement hopping. There's one narrow, blocked off, side street in Soho where DR's take a perverted delight in roaring up on to the paving stones and going hell for leather for the exit. The whores who loiter there scream abuse and one poor clod had a bucket of water thrown over him. By the way he stank it was probably piss, or worse! There are much better areas of London for whores, but it's fun to play with the old hags in Soho.

London's a brilliant place for motorcycling. In fact, it's the only way to get around fast and with a degree of style. The last time I went down into the underground (on feet, of course) I emerged 40 minutes later a paranoid psychopath. The buses are a wash out given the heavy traffic jams. Bicycles are a quick way of ending up in hospital (I've knocked off two idiots who strayed out of the gutter into my path). Walking's an invitation to a mugging or even arrest if you dress the way I do. That leaves the good old motorcycle as the sole means of good times in London.

Getting paid for riding around the city all day's a great recreation for someone like myself born and bred in London. I know my way around blindfold having spent half my youth skipping off school to explore the great city on foot and bicycle. You have to get into the right frame of mind for outrageous speeding, looking on drops and collections as rest stops between the serious, frantic experience of enjoying yourself.

It never ceases to amaze me just what the cagers think they are doing. They sit like enraged children without even the wit to realise that a small car would aid their progress. Bloody great pieces of automobile sculpture clog up the roads, all these mindless jerks thinking they are going to get somewhere fast when what takes me five minutes takes the poor old chumps thirty minutes or even an hour.

All these cars make for quite a fine obstacle course. You have to look on the stalled or slow moving ironware as a challenge to your reflexes and the abilities of your motorcycle. The Gilera isn't quite perfect, overheating (despite the watercooling) causes the engine to conk out at tickover speeds. It can then take a couple of minutes to start on the electric boot.

Oh, the car drivers love it! They go berserk on their horns to try to get their half yard of foiled progress back. The odd maniac noses right up to the bike and tries to nudge us forward or out of the way. Hand on horn to negate the laws of physics. The first couple of times I felt a real plonker and waved an apology. Rather than placating them this sign of obvious weakness really got their blood up. Heads stuck out of windows screaming abuse. After a white I cottoned on, did a Happy Henry to them - brandishing the biggest tyre iron in town usually quietened them down. One time, after the engine fired, I smashed the bonnet of one particularly persistent Ford loaded salesman. Just scream and make like you've just been let out of a psychiatric ward. It works!

It's quite sad to see burnt out DR's who end up on bicycles or in, er, psychiatric wards. They take the job and the controller's screaming fits far too seriously. When the latter goes mad with my performance I just do a passable impersonation of the late Kenneth Williams, which given the confused sexuality of most controllers usually has them looking worried.

Lost parcels are another inescapable routine which has got me the sack from two DR companies and such a bollicking from another one that I resigned by giving the controller a smack in the mouth. I'm not exactly a socialist, but I can't take these advertising agencies and other parasites very seriously. The fact that the sexy receptionists looked at me as if I was nothing more than an earthworm, had nothing whatsoever to do with my disaffection. Honest. Can't they comprehend that DR's can't go hopping around London in a three piece suit.

Luckily, there's still plenty of action in the London clubs. It's a fast paced life, alright. A nice wedge of cash for shooting around London, come wet, cold or sun. A fantastic bike to ride, with a strong feeling of being totally in control of things. Different streets and challenges each and every day, a kind of warfare where a moment's loss of concentration could equal a pair of shot kneecaps or a body run down by some pathetic four wheel vehicle. Taxi drivers go out of their way for such kicks. All this and I'm only nineteen!

F.G.D.

Gilera Nordwest

 

I knew I'd got things a little wrong when the local urchins started throwing eggs at me as I wobbled past on the Gilera. Okay, okay, I was on the back wheel, screaming along in first gear with an insane grin popping out of my helmet. Machines like the Nordwest do that kind of thing to sane and sensible riders. My first impression was that it was dead easy to ride up the pavement and pop into the front hall; an essential requirement in my kind of neighbourhood. The next day I was splattered in eggs, which given the mental retards around here was a mild retribution - they normally like to throw bricks and bits of masonry. Still, it's so bad that the police never seem to bother us.

The Gilera does look a little odd at the front end, with a great swathe of largely useless plastic and a stupid little fairing that only just manages to protect the instruments from the elements. This is a big thumper - right? - and therefore narrow but the cycle parts make little use of this and my knees are still stuck out in the rain and cold. The plastic does hide most of the plumbing for the watercooled motor, a short stroke unit that displaces some 558cc and puts out a far from sensational 50 horses.

However, the thing's a lot lighter than it looks at just over 300lbs and for once it's a big thumper that combines low speed urge with a surprising rush for the red line in the last 3000 revs. It took me about five seconds to realise I was aboard a machine that was both a snap to ride and a bundle of fun!

The Italians are style mad lunatics, who else would equip such a hairy brute with triple discs and upside-down forks? Clocking the front mudguard and massive road tyres revealed that it only had a passing resemblance to the Paris Dakar Replicas, and much like the overweight TDM850 was intended for pure highway excess.

It's brilliant in town, perfect for work as a reluctant despatch rider, such as myself. Riding above 6000 revs, using the gearbox, throttle and brakes with the kind of gusto reserved for a crack addict getting it off at a rap party, I broke records for cross London sorties, taking huge risks that would've thrown lesser machines down the road or left them embedded in some poor twerp's cage.

I stopped for nothing, rushing up pavements with the mildest twitch on the bars, charging through pedestrian precincts on the horn and doing wild back wheel slides with a foot down to get through unlikely gaps that left poor Joe Cager either clutching his heart or reaching for his shotgun.

The fierce brakes took a little getting used to, insofar as I didn't expect the back wheel to leap up so far and fast, and real abuse would twitch the whole bike in a way reminiscent of some ancient rigid framed machine. Strange that, more amusing than frightening, for the suspension was as compliant as any I've come across, soaking up some massive pot-holes and even coping with abandoned ditches left by bloody minded council contractors.

When my ageing body tired of keeping up with youthful lunatics, I could always relax for a while, revel in the bottom end torque, dumping the box in third and just bopping through town with nary a worry in the world. After a hard day's graft, the light steering was much appreciated and the easy going nature always gave me a chance to grab a breather from the derangement of despatching.

Of course, only an idiot pays thousands for a big thumper just to ride it in town, however much fun it happens to be. On the motorway and A-roads the engine was more impressive than the chassis. What let the bike down was front forks, that though splendidly resistant to twisting, had springing that left me thoroughly confused. At times it seemed too hard, at others too soft. There was no adjustment, either, which whilst normal for a lot of bikes was very annoying in this instance. In the end, I became used to the lack of smoothness, just ignored its machinations and got on with enjoying the power surge from 6000 revs onwards.

The Nordwest was quite happy to cruise at 90 to 100mph for as long as I could hold on, which wasn't long if the truth be told, and could even put 120mph on the clock without too much frantic effort. Vibration was never nasty, more than anything else it gave the motor a live feel and added to the quality of the experience. Overall impression was of a well sorted motor than could be caned from London to Lisbon and back again.

Service intervals are at an impressive 5000 miles, though the cam belt drive is worth noting on high mileage machines. The twin choke carb hasn't been touched with 11000 miles on the clock and the four valves have needed attention once. Oil filters are reasonable at £7.50, though the air- filter at £25 is less reassuring. I wanted to hit someone when I had to pay £90 for a full set of pads after they all wore out at 6750 miles.

That was because I caned the bike everywhere, which did nasty things to the fuel. 45mpg ain't impressive for a middleweight, although I did achieve 55mpg on a couple of laid back rides. Despite the huge amount of plastic, insult is added to injury by the fact that it takes less than three gallons, meaning some desperate action is needed after a 100 miles in the more remote areas.

It wasn't that much of a horror story, though, as by then the oddly shaped seat was beginning to cut holes in my bum and I'd guess that 200 miles in one sitting would have left me wielding an axe on the machine in retribution. The riding position doesn't help at all for out of town work, far too upright for sustained cruising but it's tolerable for a day's despatching. There's not much room for a pillion if you like big women, and 15 stones out back put the thing into permanent wheelie mode. All that mass seemed to crack up the plastic and make the marginal front light illuminate low flying aircraft, but the rear shock shrugged off such abuse and I still had a lot of fun chucking it through country lanes.

I've got big hands, find the switches and choke far too fiddly but I've just about got to grips with them by now. The engine purrs into life even when covered with a layer of snow and quickly settles down to a regular tickover. Italian engineering has often seemed dubious but the Gilera (now defunct, by the way) is a strong package without any of the old horrors.

This was brought home to me in the company of a friend, whose GSXR750 ground to a halt with dead electrics. It was decided that I should tow him the 25 miles home. It wasn't exactly my idea of fun, but the thumper coped with the excessive mass of the plastic reptile and rider, though he wasn't too happy about being pulled through country lanes at 60mph - he found it rather difficult to copy my wild angles of lean, resultant from a narrow and light single. He was a nervous wreck by the time we rolled up at his house and got rid of the Suzuki shortly afterwards.

I've never experienced the excesses of the litre plus monster bikes, they say that once encountered they are impossible to forget. Compared with my usual fare, middleweight fours like the GT750 and GS650GT, the Gilera has a similar cruising speed and loads more fun filled biking in every other imaginable circumstance, from city to A-road madness. Buy one!

James Longman

Gilera 150 v Honda 125

Both bikes came to me by chance. The Honda CB125 single was in an old barn painted a crap shade of yellow and had been ridden off road for quite a while. The farmer told me that he had an old bike that would not run. I was hoping for a Vincent or something, but it was a bloody old Honda with an MX tyre which looked like something sharp had ripped off chunks of rubber.

The Gilera 150, an OHV single, had been left outside in the garden, after it had developed electrical problems. I offered him a hundred quid, but he said no, he would swap it for my Simpson 70 because he didn't like the thought of buying a Japanese bike with the money and he didn't mind commuting on a small bike. I still see him now and again; he claims the bike is still going well.

I offered a fiver for the Honda and it was mine. It wouldn't start, of course, not until after I'd torn the motor out and replaced a slack camchain. £7 poorer, she fired up and did not run too badly. The engine strip was straightforward enough, if nothing else these are simple pieces of engineering before the days of balance shafts and four valves per cylinder.

Did some work to the electrics, cleaned all the shit off.....first ride to get the MOT. It seemed to have an extremely high first gear, top end was around 65mph but it didn't feel very happy with loads of noise and vibes. It took me to work for two weeks until the coil burned out - I had wired it wrong. A secondhand one cost four notes. Part are usually quite easy to get hold of from breakers, a long model run helps there and many bits from the ubiquitous CG125 will fit.

The bike had more weaves and wobbles than a Kawa H1 with the swinging arm spindle loosened off. The swinging arm leapt about and it cost £37 to get a backstreet merchant to whack in some new bushes, the old swinging arm having seized in too solidly for me to extract it.

The lights were crap and the flashing orange thingies were long gone. The seat was so rock hard that I splashed out twenty notes for a replacement - the crude, worn out suspension didn't help, it probably wasn't much cop brand new. Even with the swinging arm fixed it didn't exactly glide gracefully around corners as if on rails but it was so light that it rarely came close to gravel rash time.

Consumables were reasonable, although a rear tyre only lasted 8000 miles. Fuel was around 80mpg and I couldn't afford to change the oil more frequently than every 2000 miles. Chain adjustment was the wrong side of frequent.

The engine was generally reliable but I recall one night when it was raining heavily and the motor cut out on a hill. I kicked hard many times and nothing, so I turned the bike round and tried to bump it down the hill, but no joy. I left it to stand for a while, then I tried again. It started but was misfiring badly with the odd back-fire thrown in to wake up the peds. So, I thought better get back quick before it stops. On the last corner a bloody stepthru overtook me. Back in the shed, Meatloaf turned up high, I put in new points, which I'd been meaning to replace for months, and a new plug.

A week later a poxy twat in an FSO pulled out of a side road. Bike a write off. The insurance coughed up £180 and let me buy the bike back for thirty notes. For a while, I hustled it around the local coal tip, I loved doing wheelspins in that dust. I rode it like a speedway bike. A bunch of kids in an old Fiat 128 were racing around like lunatics. I beat them around the track but in the middle, where there is a mile long straight, the effect of a bent fork and buckled wheel on rough slag let things get out of control, and they were able to get past.

I had the last laugh, though, one of their tyres ended up in shreds. The last I saw of the Honda was when some bloke came along with a tenner for the engine and decided to take the whole bike for £35.

Unlike the CB, the Gilera is a very rare machine and a rather attractive one at that. It looks like a grown up version of their racy 50cc moped which was fast when the learner laws first came in and mopeds weren't restricted to 30mph. The engine is all fins with no external pushrod tubes to give the game away. It turned out to be the ideal runabout, simple, fairly cheap, reliable and economical.

It's the most reliable bike I've ever owned and did 21000 miles with nothing more than an oil change ever six months and the odd set of points and plug. It does an indicated 90mph flat out and blows GP125s TS125Xs into the weeds on both straight and twisty roads. It made the CB feel like exactly what it was, a clapped out heap. If Triumph had installed a similar engine in the Tiger Cub they would have sold millions.

All I did to get it running was rip out all the electrics and bung in some old Jap components. The points were not too bad, it was just everything else that was crap. It most immediate Wop rival was the Ducati 160 Monza, another rare bike in the UK, and one with even worse electrics not to mention a comparative lack of reliability.

The handling was better than the Honda, thanks to stiff forks and a frame that had a much better build quality....the tubular construction was as near to a work of art as you'd get on a commuter. The bike would happily cruise at around 65mph and returned 85 to 100mpg depending on how much throttle abuse was employed.

If I had a few grand, I would go out to Italy and collect together 20-25 150s, some in good nick, some for spares, bring them back here after paying the 25% in car tax and VAT (26.5% actually, you pay VAT on the car tax as well - Ed), and make a fortune. Sell good ones for say 500 notes and people would jump at the chance - I have had offers of 600 notes for mine but it's too good to sell. Buy one before the classic mobs gets hold of the idea.

The only problem I've had has been the battery which sometimes drains overnight. Finish is okay, better than some Jap bikes, although I did have the frame powder coated. Starting is easy, three of four kicks, chains last about 10,000 miles - I am on my third set, tyres seem to last forever - the back say 14000 miles and front 18 grand.

The choice between the two machines is very easy to make. Apart from purchase price and rarity, the Honda just doesn't get a look in. You can actually believe that Gilera used to win races whereas the Honda is more a testament to that company's ability to churn out thousands of stepthrus. It's possible to have fun on the Honda but it goes against the nature of the bike. The Gilera is much more fun and more practical!

Such is the versatility of this machine, that it was quite at home on Pembrey race track. After the meeting was over, they opened the gate to let bikes and vans into the pits which are in the middle. I went past a Vincent with Dell'orto carbs and a mean exhaust note which soon pulled away sharply.

Then came a GP125 with an Allspeed pipe. He gunned it down to the right-hander where I pulled past him on the outside and was really motoring it down the straight. Through some more curves whereupon I missed a gear and he pulled out quite a lead. Down the last straight where the old bus reached 90mph and passed him on the line.....the marshalls were waving black flags wildly and threw some harsh words at us when we came to a halt. Now, when's the next meeting?

Paul Thomas

Norton 750 Commando

I didn't even like British bikes but I thought I was going to make a killing rather than nearly be killed! I was offered a 750 Interstate for 500 sovs. Mangled front end, wrecked exhaust, been standing for a couple of years, no idea what the engine was like but it still turned over. A quick flick through the classic comics revealed prices in the £2500 to £4000 range. I rubbed my hands in glee, raided the wife's building society account and got it delivered for free as part of the deal. Clever boy, I told myself, and the wife, who looked like she'd eaten an Alsatian curry when she saw the mess that was deposited on our doorstep.

With the vague promise of redecorating it after I'd finished, the Commando was shoved in the front room and I got to work. Prior to this I'd only been involved with Jap bikes, so it came as a nasty surprise so find that my metric spanners slid off the British bolts. Worse still, there are apparently several different kinds of Brit standards - Whitworth, UNF, etc. Stupid pricks! Just to confuse things, there were bolts with metric threads and Brit heads! Aaargh! Get the mole-grips and hammer out.

Several stripped threads, rounded off nuts and bloodied fingers later, I had the front end and exhaust off. The forks were so bent that they snapped when the local frame straightener had a go. So much for British quality. The spoked wheel was rebuilt and used forks found, plus guard, light and clocks! £250! A rather rusty but intact set of exhausts was found for £40. More hammering and spannering had the blighter back together.

Meanwhile, I'd bunged in fresh points, plugs and oil. Hammered away on the kickstart for a couple of days until the thing finally fired up. It took about two seconds for the neighbours to start hammering on the door and five minutes for the police, ambulance and fire services to turn up. No, the thing hadn't exploded into a huge fireball, it made so much noise and vibration that the whole terrace of houses rocked on their foundations. Some poor old dear dialing 999, reckoning there had been a gas explosion or terrorist incident. After getting a severe ear bashing from all concerned I conceded that I would confine my mechanical wizardry to the back yard.

Some time later, after replacing all the shot Isolastic mounts, fitting a used petrol tank (that wasn't rusted out inside), bunging on a newish set of Avons and polishing the old bastard to a mirror shine, I had my first ride on the much venerated twin. This wasn't how I'd describe the thing, though, after the first the few minutes. Finger numbing vibes, a tank that shook between my legs like it was out to castrate me and handlebars that flapped in the wind.

Obviously needed a bit more fettling, didn't it. Several days were spent shimming the Isolastics. Too loose meant the swinging arm wobbled as it wasn't attached directly to the frame - I mean, can you believe that? Too tight and the thing went walkies with the vibes even at tickover. The best I could do was handling like a worn XS650 and vibration like a Harley 1200 (another pile of overrated crap if my short blast was any indication). Norton experts will probably scoff at this ineptitude and fix it to run like silk and handle like a dream in a mere matter of minutes. I don't think!

By the time I was ready for a serious blast total cost was up to a grand but I thought the bike looked good enough to go for three times that so I wasn't totally unhappy. The spec on the machine was 65 horses and 420lbs, which wasn't bad for the early seventies, and the big twin gives out loads of stomp. Apart from the odd handling I quite enjoyed a fifteen minute blast, getting the rev counter up to eight grand in second gear on one memorable occasion! God did it jive to that, judging by the vibration.

Back home, it was pissing out oil of almost every joint and blasted off enough heat to make me think it was going to melt before my eyes! The back yard was awash with the black stuff, coming out of the engine at about a pint a minute! The tank was soon empty!

Much later, I'd told a Norton enthusiast what I'd done. It was like telling a religious fanatic that you'd like to crucify Jesus. The poor old guy was spluttering, red faced with rage. In case you ever have the misfortune to buy a Norton, note that the factory recommended maximum revs of seven grand and that most owners balk at the idea of taking them over 5000rpm! Apparently, it's a quick way to blow the crankshaft apart! Oh well!

The next day I filled the tank up with oil and she started up fine. A bit noisy and vibratory but I expected that. I thumped around town for a few days, basking in the admiration of the general populace - they insisted on waving and screaming at me. It might not have been sheer enthusiasm on their part but the rusted through exhaust system, or even the way the thudding brute caused gaps to open up in the pavement! I found it strangely impressive.

Then I had to do a fifty mile run in a hurry, the Commando the only available set of wheels. Motorway most of the way, half an hour, easy, thought I. Ten miles into the trip I had to pull over to put my eyeballs back in their sockets. During this hazy trip to the hard shoulder, I failed to notice a Fiat Uno coming up the inside. He hammered into the back of the bike, sending us into a massive spin.

When I woke up, mere moments later apparently, I found myself flat on my back in a field, being investigated by several cows who stank to high heaven and had a disconcerting inclination to try to chomp on my crotch! I got out of there fast, only to find the Norton impaled in a hedge, with another written off front end and battered cycle parts. The pigs, when they turned up, were not amused. Neither was I, as I didn't have tax, insurance, MOT, etc.

The only good thing about the whole incident was that I walked away from it without any serious damage, though the bastards made me spend hours in the hospital for check-ups - I always seem to end up with the 200 pound nurse who moves with total Teutonic subtlety.

By the time I'd paid for the Norton to be returned to my house, fixed up the front end and cycle parts, we were looking at a grand total of 1500 sovs gone west. I'd had enough of the sod, that was for sure, so it was advertised for £3500. Zero phone calls. £3000, same trip. £2500 got quite a few phone calls but not many people turning up. Those that did weren't impressed with my paint job or the general condition of the machine. The best offer I got was £1250.

Put it in for £2000, then. The phone never stopped ringing for a week! Loads of punters on my doorstep but they weren't ecstatic. It wouldn't exactly grace the pages of Classic Bike, I was told. In the end it went for £1500! All that effort and pain for zero profit. It was worse than that, the Norton had left so much oil sprayed over the front room that I had to spend a hundred notes redecorating it. Stick with what you know, is all I can say.

Colin Leigh

****************************************************

Do you recall the shock of the new? Seeing for the first time a particular motorcycle that strikes deep into your heart. Lust, craving and desire follow. Then it's dejection and depression because there's no way in the world, at the age of seventeen, that the money can be found. The bike that really made my blood flow was the original 750 Norton Commando. I never forgot that heady feeling.

Some five years ago I had the chance to buy a refurbished and upgraded example. The original 750 had some diverting bugbears, from silly things like points that fell apart to the more serious like crankshaft bearings that disintegrated. Most of the 750's problems were solved over time, the example on offer had, for instance, electronic ignition and Superblend main bearings allied with a dynamically balanced crankshaft.

A wad of bills testified to the great expense and tender loving care devoted to what had once been MCN's machine of the year. It looked, sounded and felt so nice that before I knew what I'd done I had written out the cheque for £3250! Riding the bike for the first time was a revelation. Everything was much more brutal and direct that my normal fare of Japanese middleweights. Having the gearchange and brake lever on the wrong side was the least of my worries, something I'd quickly adapted to.

All the controls were heavy but the effort was worthwhile. Great thumping wedges of torque rushed in when I wound open the throttle. My left hand was almost broken when I tried to pull in the clutch for the first time and stomping the gear lever was akin to dropping a ten pound weight on my foot. Acceleration was furious, neck jerking stuff of which dreams of the fast life are made. Accompanied by the kind of churning vibes that made me weary in the depths of my soul, left me wondering as to the efficacy of the famed Isolastic engine mounts, and thankful that I still had a perfect set of teeth, for fillings would surely have dropped right out after a few moments.

There was no mistaking that this was one dynamic, disorderly piece of long stroke vertical twin British engineering. In fact, the owner had patiently explained, as if to a moron, that the reason the engine shook in the frame at tickover, making the whole bike rattle like a jack-hammer, was not because there was anything wrong with the motor - perish the thought - but because he'd tightened up the shimming in the Isolastic mounts as far as they would go. The choice being, on this era of Commando's, between a relatively smooth set-up with ill-making handling (the swinging arm being as isolated from the frame as was the engine) or the aforementioned vibes with the steering precision and stability for which the Norton name was justly famed in the sixties, thanks to its mythical Featherbed frame, which was dumped after the 750 Atlas model redefined the meaning of vertical twin vibration.

It soon became apparent that the best way to ride the Commando was in fourth gear, where the relative lack of revs and tall gearing subsumed most of the grinding vibes, where the torque, anyway, made much use of the gearbox above 30mph hardly worth the effort, especially given the way my shoe was being torn apart by the lever and my left hand was screaming at the clutch abuse.

There was one limitation on this seemingly laid back, if not mentally liberating, ease of use - namely, that below 30mph in top some quirk of the final drive design made for a resonance in the chain that fed paranoid thoughts of instant demise, the chain snapping in two and massacring either my leg or the chaincase. Or maybe both. This resonance effectively locked the box into top gear, meaning massive amounts of clutch slip, which was like trying to stop a catapult once released.

As well as being heavy the clutch was also very vehement. The upshot of all that was that if the bike ran below 30mph in top I had the choice of opening up the throttle or pulling the clutch in, grinding to a halt, turning off the engine, knocking the suddenly freed box into neutral and then firing the bike back into life on the kickstart. Well weird! I have mentioned this trait to other Norton Commando owners, and read many a test, but no-one seems to share my problem or is able to offer a solution.

Some non-standard component in the final drive or primary transmission may be the cause but I've put it down to the unique character of my particular machine, it's got to be better to have individuality than thousands of bikes that are absolutely identical. I soon learnt to get into third any time that 30mph, or less, was needed, when the problem disappeared as if it was a mere figment of my imagination.

The gearchange was heavy but definite, only liable to miss a change when I tried to hurry the box or when I was less than manly with the clutch - trying to change gear without the latter produced death noises, a false neutral and a box that sulked for the next five minutes until it sorted itself out. The gearbox oil was separate from the rest of the engine, being of pre-unit construction, and didn't seem to object to 10,000 mile oil changes.

It took me about six weeks of constant riding to become used to the Norton's ways. As my clutch hand strengthened it became a much nicer machine to ride and proper boots gave my feet an easier time. They were also necessary to perfect the art of kicking the big twin into life. A matter of not just an audacious kick but also of perfect throttle and choke positioning, variables that depended on the engine's temperature, the humidity and, seemingly, on the flux of the moon. After a while, intuition plays a part and it became a first kick affair every time; an accomplishment that made me feel really good, on a par with the gods.

Curious how these old British bikes worm their way under the skin. Thus, some four months and 5,500 miles into the game, did I sense a discordant note from within the engine, an untoward flurry of vibes as 4000 revs were approached, a need to work the throttle harder than before, and in a miraculous moment of smoothness at 4500rpm, when the mirrors stopped shaking, a puff of grey smoke that curled up from the silencers only to be lost in the mirrors as the wind twirled it away.

I rode the bike for another 100 miles when its pain at my lack of immediate response became even plainer, with the footpegs trying to fall off their alloy mounting plates and a bloody big crack in one of the lustrously chromed megaphones. The latter announced by enough noise to have the neighbours phoning the police and ever so young police officers galloping along the pavement, waving their notebooks, shrieking something that was thankfully loss to the magnificent growl.

Fearing the worst, I removed the engine from the frame and started to tear the head off. I didn't have to look far for the cause, a loose exhaust valve-guide that had allowed the valve to mash its seat. Bits for Commando's are available new, so it was just a matter of regrinding the seat and fitting the new bits. I let a Norton expert do a complete cylinder head refurbishment for £250, was pleasantly surprised to receive back a polished head that glowed like chrome, with the ports beautifully cleaned up and all the threads refurbished.

It came back just in time for me to avoid terminal withdrawal symptoms. Running was even better than before, a more responsive engine and fuel improving from 50 to 55mpg. I bathed in the glory or a well set-up vertical twin, that up to 90mph could still see off many a middleweight Japanese four. Light weight and gusty torque made up for any deficit of outright power. The Norton would lope up to the ton, no problem, but then began to slow, although on a good day it was possible to do about 125mph. I say about because the speedo went a bit vague at such speeds, the needle twittering, one time flicking off the scale as if we'd entered warp speed. We hadn't, it was just the vibration.

After the head refurbishment, the Norton ran for the next two years and 28000 miles with just the usual maintenance. A long enough time and fine enough ride to convert me so completely to its cause that I didn't even need to think about taking it off the road for six months to completely rebuild the engine, every internal component, apart from those within the gearbox, needing attention, replacing or rectification. About £1200's worth of work!

I did the rebuild myself, a perusal of the manual convincing me of its apparent simplicity. It all went back together with the ease of a particularly zany Meccano set but I knew straight away, from the way it vibrated and responded to the throttle, that there was more art and artifice in the rebuild than revealed by the workshop manual. It wasn't terrible but it lacked an edge, seemed more craven in nature than before, exulted less in response to my right hand, and ground out so much vibration that I couldn't bring myself to push it beyond 5000 revs.

I tried to persuade myself than a few thousand miles of running in would sort it out but if anything they just confirmed my opinion of my own poor engineering abilities. A fairly despondent two years and 9000 miles followed, my lack of care showing up in a chassis that started to corrode where it wasn't wearing out. Loose forks, shot shocks and a leaking petrol tank were but symptoms of a general malaise, a decline in spirit, that affected both the machine and myself.

Several times I came close to selling the bike, for even in its poor state it was still worth serious money, but my recollections of charging through the countryside in the early days of ownership kept such a traitorous act at bay. Finally, I decided a complete refurbishment of the Commando was needed. The engine was entrusted to the same guy who'd done the head, with orders to extract the best that could be found in the mill, topped off by an SU carb conversion, rubber belt primary drive and later vernier Isolastic mounts.

The chassis I did myself, not having the money to off-load it on to anyone else. Four months later the as new machine stood gleaming on my driveway under the glorious summer sunshine. Polished and painted to perfection, I knew the moment the motor stuttered into life, just by the way it gently throbbed in the frame, that I was on to a winner. I didn't even mind the 3000 miles of moderate riding that it took to bed the motor in.

What a glorious engine, what a sublime sound and what a feline beast it'd turned out to be. I could barely bring myself to get off the machine after a hard day's ride! Of course, by then I had set the riding position to suit myself perfectly, always wore heavy-duty boots and had macho lower arm muscles.

The SU carb and belt drive made the motor feel marvellously contented at 90mph in top, fuel was around 60mpg and consumable wear so moderate I never bothered to work it out - in comparison to the cost of rebuilding the mill every two years a meaningless expense.

I love the rorty old Norton. Buying one is expensive, setting one up properly even more likely to cause bankruptcy, and the end result, even when close to perfection in my eyes, quite likely to horrify those more used to sophisticated Japanese bikes. But on the road it's a real hero, revealing every ounce of the effort involved in the motorcycle experience to those willing to listen to its beat.

J.J.

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My best friend has an ex-plod 850 Commando, still has the huge white fairing and a motor that has gone around the clock a couple of times. In contrast, my original spec 750 has done a mere 27000 miles, with just one major rebuild some 6000 miles ago. It's about as mild as a big Norton twin can get but still good for 110mph. The main thing is that it's a reliable, almost vibration free, 90mph cruiser.

The ex-plod bike, in comparison, has been tweaked and will do 120mph despite the plastic. It rumbles and shakes, though, despite sharing with my bike fitment of the later vernier shims in the Isolastic mounts. As far as I can recall, I think it was the Plod who demanded them for ease of servicing and they were later fitted to the final series of 850 Commando's.

The history of my bike is a bit odd. It was bought by a collector in the early seventies who stashed it away until the recession of 1992, when in desperate need of dosh he sold it to me for £2500. In happier days he'd valued it at ten grand! He was a motorcyclist, had turned the engine over every couple of weeks and fitted modern rubber before selling it.

The clock read just 4000 miles when the bike fell into my hands and I'd ridden it and ridden it until the top end started smoking. That was the first hint that the whole engine needed a rebuild, something I only found out after I started to strip it down. About £1500 was spent fixing it!

These days, having taken the hint, I have a second bike (CB500 twin) for the serious stuff and just use the Commando for pleasure. My initial feeling was that it was a brilliant piece of kit. I've owned many British twins and was well pleased with the relative lack of vibration and excessive amount of torque - way ahead of a Bonnie, for instance.

The heaviness of its controls was par for the course, didn't really hinder the bike in the various conditions it had to take as my sole form of transport. It was the magnitude of its versatility that made me treat it as a proper motorcycle that was meant to be ridden rather than a classic that was meant to be admired and pampered. Hence high miles and loadsa of speeding.

The Isolastic mounts, which effectively separate the engine, gearbox and swinging arm from the rest of chassis, are famed for producing an ill-handling brute but as long as they were set up properly I didn't really experience any hinged-in-the-middle madness. The later vernier shims are much easier to adjust, but even the old system wasn't that bad - after all, a bit of bonding between man and machine is all to the good.

The Commando isn't as light handling as a Bonnie or Featherbed Norton but it does have a basic stability that even the modern Honda lacks - thanks to relatively large wheels that don't flip away without any warning and do far less damage to the tyres. I was appalled when the original Jap tyres on the CB wore out in less than 6000 miles; at equal speeds the Norton will do at least twice that! Admittedly, the Honda needed almost no maintenance and its O-ring chain was amazingly free of hassle compared to the stringy affair on the Commando (which also, ancient thing that it is, has chain primary drive).

Whilst the handling was fine, the drum brakes weren't quite up to excessive high speed work. The TLS front drum was better than most in the sixties but no way could it claim the same kind of stopping power as even seventies' discs let alone thoroughly modern fare. Fade was experienced after a couple of hard stops from in excess of 80mph - a real problem on fast swooping back roads when I had to slow down to let the brake cool off.

The rear drum and engine braking weren't up to much, retardation limited by the swinging arm waggling away when banked over. In the Norton way, it's possible - and probably advisable - to retrofit the later disc brake, although my friend has never been complimentary about their behaviour in the wet. Shoe life, at either end, is amazing compared to Jap disc's, around the 15000 mile mark.

The odd shape of the seat where it wraps around the small petrol tank makes for both a lack of comfort and a certain disassociation from the machine - it's hard to feel part of the package when you're rather awkwardly perched atop it. Under mild use the engine turns in 60mpg, under heavy abuse around the 45mpg mark; in neither case does the lack of range develop before both bum-ache and shoulder spasms set in. 50 miles without respite is more than enough. Again, it's possible to fit a bigger tank and later saddle, which would solve both problems simultaneously but I love the way the bike looks too much for that; better to suffer in silence.

It's also one of those bikes that needs lots of polishing to keep it up to spec but, unlike the Honda, I don't seem to mind putting in the effort. The petrol tank's GRP, has cracked and developed leaks a few times but it's easy enough to patch with a glass-fibre kit. As far as I know, the silencers are original fare and still immaculate - an impossible achievement for a Jap bike, I think. The front guard did rot on its underside, did so in a cunning way - the first I knew of it was when it was hanging off by one bracket, fortunately in town and not the open highway when it might have fallen off and locked up the front end. Worth keeping an eye open.

Engine maintenance is pretty tedious. The valve clearances can get edgy after as little as 250 miles, the top end the most dodgy area of the bike - dropping valve guides and bent pushrods not unknown. The original points were renown for their shoddiness, especially the advance/retard mechanism, but they are long gone. Replaced with relatively trouble-free electronic ignition, though the vibes from the engine can take it out.

The rest of the maintenance is really down to making sure that nothing has come loose, after each and every hard ride. Although the rider doesn't feel it, the engine vibes can spit out bolts even if they are Loctited and wired in position! The Honda, in contrast, is amazingly well put together but doesn't have the Norton's sheer class - maybe in 30 years time?

The Commando was well ahead of its time when it was launched in the late sixties but they messed up with shoddy engineering. Some of the 850's were equal to the Jap fours of the day in terms of speed, ahead of them in handling, but not up to their bulletproof design standards. That so many Nortons have survived is mostly down to the dedicated enthusiasm of their owners who spend time, money and energy keeping them rolling. The pay-back's heaps of character, loadsa fun and increasing values as long as the bike's kept stock. Not that the latter matters, I've no intention of selling mine.

John Hemingway

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I decided I needed another Commando. They get to you like that. I began the endless round of phones calls and visits to see old dogs that were vastly overpriced. I visited several import houses where I saw numerous complete and low mileage bikes that turned out to be wrecks that consisted of numerous non standard parts that were only low mileage because they had expired early in their lives in the hands of whichever American gorilla had bought them and then butchered them.

I actually made an offer on one of these bikes. It was in fact just an engine and frame whose numbers matched, the rest being made up of bits that were either non standard, worn out or both. I offered £500 only to be told straight faced by the vendor that he expected to get £2800 for it. I wonder if he ever sold it? I decided that I would be happier to buy a basket case and restore it myself. At least that way I would know what had been done.

I eventually found a 1972 Norton 750 Commando with 20,000 miles on the clock. It had come into the dealers the day before I arrived, it was in a number of boxes but was basically complete and straight. I paid a not inconsiderable £1500 for her and took her home. I then spent the next few days completely stripping the bike down to component parts, carefully labelling each piece and using dozens of jars, envelopes and photos as I went. I had £1500 to spend on the restoration.

The dealer had told me he believed the bike had been taken off the road some years ago and that the engine had been done up before it was put away. This was supported by the fact that I drained two gallons of oil from the engine, all the ports were blocked off and it had been filled completely to the top! I also found that every single wire had been cut off at its connector, presumably because a rewire was planned.

On stripping the engine down I found that the barrel was a brand new 750 item on its original bore. This cheered me until I noticed that the pistons were different - one having a slotted skirt, the other being solid. I was advised that on no account should I use the slotted one, which meant stomping up for a new pair. I carefully examined the rest of the engine parts, preplacing or refurbishing as necessary. A properly rebuilt Norton engine can be a very reliable device, a bodged job can be hell on earth.

I replaced all the bushes and bearings in the frame, forks and swinging arm. Luckily the gearbox was perfect and had been fitted with a needle roller layshaft bearing. The bike was painted candy apple in colour, not standard, admittedly, but it set off the lines of the Commando so well that I could live with that.

This was to be no show-piece, though, that spent its time in the living room. I intended to use the Norton hard. With this in mind I fitted Boyer electronic ignition and a single carb conversion - using an Amal with one size larger main jet. These two mods I highly recommend to any Commando owner; there is now very little to go out of adjustment or synchronisation, the bike just goes on and on, mile after mile.

Out on the road, the Commando is a perfect motorcycle for what I require. She is deceptively fast and the Isolastic engine mountings really do iron out all of the vibes once on the move. You just become aware that there is a lot going on down below and the more you ask for the more you are given. I once saw a road test that managed to get 125mph from a 750 Commando that was in bog standard trim, but I have not tried anything so very potentially damaging to the engine as that. What mine will do flat out I don't know, I am content to do 85-90mph because I rather value my licence.

At tickover the bike sits on its mainstand with the front wheel gently bouncing up and down whilst the tail light shakes about ominously. As soon as the revs rise, though, everything smooths out and the more you ride it the more impressed you become. The shims in the Isolastic mounts are supposed to be checked every 2000 miles but they rarely need adjustment. The Mk 3 is even easier with a vernier adjustment mechanism, even if more vibes do get through.

I own a motorcycle to ride not to spend all my time repairing, which is why I am pleased with the Norton. Each modification I have done serves a purpose and makes the bike ideal for me. It might not suit everyone, some purists have told me that I shouldn't have fitted electronic ignition, others have said I am losing out on top end power in having only one carb. That may or may not be true, all I know is that in normal road conditions it would not be possible to tell if the bike had one or two carbs.

The same huge gobs of torque are present, making the four speed gearbox redundant for most of the time. Compared with Jap bikes of the time, a correctly shimmed frame feels much less like it is hinged in the middle than rival Japs which usually weigh 100lbs more than the Norton. Perhaps a well sorted Dominator or Bonneville would have an handling advantage on paper, but on the road the relative lack of primary vibes on the Commando means the Norton is much more useable for longer periods.

The single front disc is, these days, antiquated but works okay wet or dry. The rear drum is a pleasure to use. The slightly raised bars and slightly forward footrests work well at speeds up to 70mph. The large petrol tank spreads the legs a little, but its range of over 200 miles compensates. The bike looks as good as new and cleans up well after being used in wet weather.

Another point in the Norton's favour is the ability to draw a crowd whenever it is parked. Past Norton owners appear from nowhere even if I just visit the shops. When I first came to put the bike back on the road I was pleased to find that fully comp insurance was only £55 through the Norton Owners Club with Carol Nash. This is a very substantial saving. At the end of the day I have spent about £3200 on this bike.

From day one I have logged every penny that it has cost me and although I would not make any money on her if I were to sell her, I would certainly not lose any. With the prices of Commandos spiralling ever upwards I feel that owning this bike is a good investment. If I had chosen to use cheaper parts (I used genuine Norton bits throughout) and less stainless steel items, I could probably have saved £700.

Finding a good Commando is not easy. There are lots of highly priced bikes about that are either about to fall apart or are very far from standard. Go for something in a low state of tune with sensible modifications, preferably with proof of the claimed money spend.

Whether any particular project is worth it in the final analysis is very much a personal decision. However, I know that I get a real high every time I ride this bike. The sound she makes is enough to stir the blood of any real motorcyclist. Was it worth it? You bet it was.

Tim Raymond

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I'm still not sure how it happened. There I was running along quite nicely on a Honda Hawk. Stopped off for some fuel at this backwoods gas station. Saw they had a few bikes for sale, it was only natural to have a look. And, there it was. A 1972 Norton 750 in Interstate livery. Not my favourite silhouette. But the big vertical twin motor, canted suggestively forward, brought back fond memories.

I wasn't even drunk or drugged. I'd been riding for over a week on the Hawk. Hard days, long distances and a monk-like existence. My brain had finally left behind various terrifying hallucinations and I was meeting each day with a new found clarity. I could actually enjoy cruising at a mild 70 to 80mph.

In the States, even now, old British bikes are not expensive unless they are extreme classics, like big Vinnies. The price tag on the Commando would have any member of the Norton Owners Club wetting his pants. How could I resist a test ride? I'd done so many miles on Nortons in the past that the experience of that brutish torque came flooding right back.

The garage owner looked on amused. He had been around long enough to know how recalcitrant they could be. The bike was almost sold when I got it going first kick. Boyer ignition helped, the stock points are terrible. I had thought the Hawk full of torque, but the Commando showed it up in no uncertain terms.

It growled as it thrust forward, the torque hitting me in the stomach as I made with the throttle and gearbox. The latter a delight in its own way, needing firm pressure but giving back a feeling of precision. The handling was a bit weird, with a slight hinged in the middle feel and some shaking of the head coming out of bends hard. But not vicious. Unless a lot of care is taken with the Isolastic engine mounts they all do that.

When the garage owner talked about giving me some money if I gave him the Hawk in exchange, there was no easy way out of the deal. Despite my exemplary new lifestyle my previous exploits in South America had severely dented my bankroll. The clock read only 29000 miles and the engine sounded like it would get me the 2500 miles to the Big Apple.

It was only when I was back on the main road that I began to recall all the times my previous Nortons had let me down. Main bearings blowing, valves tangling, pistons exploding.....a litany of disasters that eventually so warped my judgement that I ended up on fearsome Japanese iron. I reassured myself that most of my problems were caused not by the inherent fragility of the Norton mill but by my almost demented need to tune the motors until they burst asunder. The stock 745cc engine growls out not much more than 60 horses. Good only for 110mph, not that I was going to wring the neck out of the Norton to that extent.

No, with my new found wisdom, if not outright fear, I was content to burble along at 70 to 80mph over some fairly rough but wide back roads. Even this mediocre speed was sufficient to have American drivers blasting their horns and waving their fists as if I was still some demented highway hoodlum. Well, it was such pleasant summer weather that I could not resist riding sans helmet.

The Isolastic system of absorbing engine vibration was always a curious affectation. As with many quaint bits of British engineering it works after a fashion. Depending on the tightness of the set-up, there was a choice between almost total isolation and wobbles or perfect handling and some vile vibration. When set up perfectly, it was smooth and stable in the 40 to 80mph range.

Alas, as mileage increased my own machine revealed itself as becoming both looser and more vibratory. At the next gas stop (about 45mpg, par for the course for these old Nortons), I gave the swinging arm a kick and was suitably alarmed by the way it waggled around.

Where the spacers should have been there were the remnants of what looked suspiciously like cut up beer cans. There was a garage attached to the gas station, where some artful bodgers straightened out crashed cars. They let me drill out and roughly cut some thin plate which I hammered into place. Hardly a sophisticated repair but it seemed do to the job. Quite made my day; must be going f..king senile.

The Hawk had proved a surprisingly comfortable bike to ride long distances. Its riding position was perfect for my frame. The Norton was a nasty piece of work for more than a 150 miles in a day. The tank was too wide where it met the seat, the seat too hard, the bars far too high (Yank cow-horns) and the footrests thus hopelessly misplaced.

It was great in town, once my left hand had once again adapted to the pressure of the clutch, but anything more than 60mph proved troublesome. There was also the vibration, which seemed fierce over the first 500 miles but thereafter ceased to annoy me. It was a typical British bike trait, almost as if the machine wanted to dissuade the casual rider, only willing to reward those who put in some time and effort. Rather like life, I guess.

On one deserted stretch of road there was a half naked frail hitch-hiking. Ride on, I told myself, so was surprised to find myself regressing by slamming on the single Lockheed front disc, which was, by the way, even after all this time still a fierce stopper. Such was the retardation that I had the forks juddering. I ignored the woman for a while whilst I tired to pull the forks off, intent on checking that the steering head bearings were not on the way out. By the time I turned my attention to her some loud yobs had pulled up in a four wheel drive. Temptation removed.

I have to admit that after doing a 1000 miles on the Norton that old throttle crazy urge is hard to resist. Sometimes I'd just like to find a deserted bit of road and see what the old girl will do flat out in fourth gear. See if valve bounce sets in before the vibes blur things so much that forward vision becomes totally obscured. There's a certain art to riding in a totally crazy manner.

Just doing that small mileage has kept me so busy that I've managed to resist. The valves seem to demand adjustment every time I need to fuel up! The chain turned out to be similarly afflicted, full of tight spots. The carbs are hardly ever in balance. Bolts keep coming undone, bits rattling, trying to destroy themselves. That's British biking for you. Oh God, what have I done?

Johnny Malone