There's probably little to say about these bikes which hasn't been said before. Much of the following, therefore, will doubtless support preceding lore. Some may even counter it. My example was originally a 1961 Tiger 100A, sporting sibling of the 500cc 5TA Speed Twin. Somewhere along the line it acquired a 350 3TA engine rebuilt to near Tiger 90 spec, later rebuild by myself to 500cc. 19" wheels have replaced the original 17 inch items, with a 1971 type TLS front brake. Svelte stainless steel mudguards have replaced the original and hefty Bathtub rear enclosure and porky front guard.
As such, ironically, my Triumph is fairly typical, as deviation is the norm among the hard used examples seen in parking spaces at shows and jumbles. A huge degree of interchangeability among different models and years is evidenced by these mongrels, which often display a surprising visual harmony between their mixed and matched components.
For a rider wishing to keep his bike on the road this interchangeability is a distinct asset, also resulting in a fair supply of non standard but usable machines, far cheaper than going for standard specimens. Tracing its roots to Triumph's landmark Speed Twin of 1937, these C range twins enjoyed a somewhat leisurely evolution between 1957 and 1974, the pace of which was dictated more by factory parsimony than any shortage of design talent. Why spend money on decent solutions to a problem when for peanuts you could do half a job, thus ensuring new models for subsequent seasons by introducing improvements piecemeal? To be fair, though, progress was generally of a forward nature; by and large, the later the spec the better the bike.
Small consolation to me, however, that my Triumph, purchased five years ago for a possibly excessive £300, with bald tyres, broken speedo and the wiring cut out, has the earliest chassis; probably the worst frame Triumph ever made. Hardly sufficient for the seminal 3TA's 18.5hp, this glorified bicycle trellis eventually had to cope with in excess of 30hp, an imposition which would doubtless find favour with a sector of the Spanish donkey riding fraternity. The fuel tank is a stressed member and the swinging arm pivot is mounted on a single tube behind the engine, allowing plenty of lateral flex.
I'd probably look more kindly on this device were it not noticeably bent. Not my doing, I assure you. I bought it like that, but tight right-handers are character building experiences and roundabouts best taken in a straight line. Compared with the contemporary Norton Featherbeds the thing's inexcusable, the more so given the Norton's seniority.
Complementing the bike's meagre skeleton, the front forks, also original, are satisfyingly clonky on the rebound and the steering damper comes loose, so I can have fun tightening it when I should be looking at the road. Since, due to shot rear dampers, this usually coincides with a semi-airborne state engendered by a poor road surface, it's an exciting diversion I'd recommend to nobody. Obviously, it's unfair to criticise a design on the basis of an ancient and abused single example, but Triumph introduced new frame and forks several times during production of the range so clearly recognised that there was room for improvement.
The front brake on mine, though of a type widely criticised and short lived, serves to highlight the inadequacy of the chassis, which feels on the point of collapse whenever the brake is used in anger. Of interest are the brake shoes, which are same as the front ones from a Morris 1100.
Perhaps the least development went into the engine which is essentially the thirties Speed Twin but with the gearbox casing integral with the crankcases. Of course, you still need to fill three oil reservoirs and on pre '61 350s there wasn't even a primary chain tensioner. Progress.
Usefully, the 350 and 500 motors are largely identical, differing from the con-rods up but sharing rocker gear. Even the cylinder heads appear to come from the same casting, the 500 ones simply having bigger holes machined out of them. You can't, however, bore a 350 barrel to 500cc. For the desperate, a worn out plus 60 500cc barrel will go to plus 80 to take standard 650 pistons, but there is dangerously little meat left if this is done.
With so many rebuilt engines about, it's worth being able to tell a 350 from a 500. The engine number's nothing to go by anymore. Check the cylinder finning behind the right-hand bore - 500 barrels have a recess to clear the distributor used on early types, the 350 fins didn't run close enough to need it.
The engines are pretty straightforward to work on, you can operate on engine, primary drive and gearbox separately and, excepting crankshaft, work with the engine in the frame. Certain procedures, such as valve clearance adjustment, can seem laughably primitive to Japanese schooled eyes. There's no provision for feeler gauge insertion, so clearances are expressed in terms of rotation of the square tappet adjusters - one flat equals ten thou, the cold clearance for all valves on the mild 3/5TA motors. Sports Tigers use two thou and four thou for inlet and exhaust, the manual suggests setting the two thou gap by backing off the adjuster until a faint tick can be heard - pass the ear trumpet, Ludwig.
Before setting these clearances it's very useful to know whether you have sports or touring camshafts in your engine. I thought it a safe bet mine were touring, what with the engine being stamped 3TA and all that, so I used to set the ten thou gaps. I didn't use the bike terribly much in 350 form and then not hard. I was none the wiser during the rebuild and it was only some time later when I removed the head for a helicoil repair that I found severe dishing on the ends of the inlet valves after only about 2000 miles.
The exhaust ones were okay. I was told this happens quite often and not to worry, so the valves are staying in for now. Of course, now I know I have sports cams so I use the right clearances. Presumably, if your bike has soft cams and you use sports clearances your valves will stick open. Who knows?
The two frequently levelled faults on Triumphs are that they vibrate and leak. Whilst I deny neither I suggest both are overstated. Vibration there certainly is but on my own bike it's more a sort of lively humming which is almost attractive in a mildly destructive way. I've not had any bulbs or batteries shatter as yet, though recently both silencers cracked up within weeks of each other, possibly due to the mountings which allow excessive flexing. It's largely a matter of checking if anything's coming loose and ensuring it won't happen again. The larger 650/750 Triumphs are far worse in this respect, while a standard low compression 3TA would be far smoother.
Mine does leak oil but very little and this mainly due to a crack around the drain bolt in the primary chaincase. I converted my engine to 500cc using parts bought at autojumbles with only bearings, valves, piston rings and pushrods bought new; I didn't bother fettling mating surfaces on a glass sheet and emery paper. Was I just lucky?
Doubtless I could build an oil tight, almost vibe free motor using all new parts and having the crank dynamically balanced. By the same token, I could throw together a complete dog with the worst bits I could find and proceed to rubbish Triumphs generally. Whilst conceding some inherent leakiness, I'd say that a 30 year old bike can only be as good or bad as its last rebuild. Triumph didn't build my bike - I did, and the marque's integrity stands or falls by my efforts. God help it!
Whilst generally pleased with the engine's simplicity and torque inspired power, niggles are present in the flyaway rocker caps - bin the fibre washers and fit Honda O-rings - and the hassles inherent in oil changes. Since my primary chaincase is effectively total loss, there's only the engine and gearbox oil to change. Since the oil tank drain bolt is awkwardly situated I disconnected the feed pipe instead, invariably bathing adjacent areas with warm oil. The laughable filtration provided by the gauze filter at the bottom of the crankcase suggests it's not a job to neglect. Over filling of the oil tank results in a dousing of all points astern, notably the tyre.
Draining the gearbox is a laugh because the drain plug hides behind the copper tubes from the oil pump and the wires from the alternator. Add to this all the dirty oil AWOL from the primary case (I only use waste stuff because of the leak) and the job's guaranteed messy. And what a shock when the plug's out and a trickle of water precedes a grey sludge plopping reluctantly out. I suspect I'll shortly be performing gearbox surgery due to an increased tendency for the bike to jump spectacularly out of third gear under hard acceleration, during which I'm glad there's no rev counter...
My first attempt at accurate ignition timing could have been disastrous. On distributor models like mine it's easy to obtain a rough setting by removing spark plugs and distributor cap, pressing a thumb over the right-hand plug hole and gently turning the kickstart so you can feel the piston rising on the compression stroke. Once the pressure stops that's TDC and if the points are just opening you won't be far out, though probably slightly retarded. If you are, or possess a short attention span, this method is probably quite adequate.
Eventually, though, I had to do it properly for peace of mind. Later engines acquired TDC indicators and full advance marks but on my type TDC is located with a stick poked down the spark plug hole, resting on the piston crown. Now you can either refer to a table giving degrees of crankshaft rotation in terms of piston movement and mark your stick accordingly (about 8mm BTDC for Tigers) or you can use a degree disc. Zero it at TDC and away you go. There are two types of discs depending on whether you are using it on the camshaft or crankshaft...
I put my crankshaft disc on the exhaust camshaft and away I went. Job complete, I took the bike out. Yup, not bad, I thought. Several days later a timely attack of self doubt convinced me that my 37 degress BTDC at full advance was really 74 degrees! That the engine hadn't been wrecked was testimony either to undeserved good fortune or the robustness of the motor. I had to do it all again. Next time I'm using a stick, like everyone else.
Despite the simplicity of the distributor system, with one ignition coil and one set of points, many distributors are badly worn and parts are hard to find. Wear of the shaft can make a nonsense of point's gap settings and uneven timing may result from uneven wear of the point's cams. I had an engineer rebush my distributor recently. Cam lobes can be evened by stoning.
The auto-advance springs on mine had seen better days - I cut down some Honda ones and reformed the ends with pliers, though they are a bit vicious, delaying full advance. You have to ensure the clutch cable doesn't foul any of the HT lead to distributor unions - it happened on mine and it took me ages to find out why the bike kept cutting out on one cylinder.
I can't comment on the standard electrical system as I made up my own with a single toggle switch for ignition and lights with a Jap 6V rectifier. By rights it should boil the battery because all the generator coils are permanently wired in and there's no voltage regulation, but it doesn't My only problem to date has been the result of using those terrible crimp connectors from auto accessory shops. Though the system is at present 6V, the restrained lighting provided has convinced me 12V is high on my list of priorities.
With five years of ownership behind me, albeit not of continuous usage, there are still a number of improvements to be made, not least of which is getting the frame straightened. It cost me about £200 to increase the engine capacity, though this included new bearings and a replacement crankshaft. Indeed, for half my original outlay I could have had a decently sorted Jap 250 with similar performance, higher general specification and better handling.
It would be easy to say that in practical terms it wasn't worth the money, but that would be to ignore the long term benefits of good fuel economy - 60mpg plus to the gallon on a bad day - inexpensive and obtainable spares (but you have to look for them) and the fact that the machine at least holds it value. There's no reason, either, why a well sorted one shouldn't be reliable.
Then again, there's something which can't be quantified in pounds sterling. On a good day, riding one of these machines is to be involved in a total aesthetic experience, a combination of that busy mechanical thrash, that mellow snorting from the exhausts and that sense of forward motion conveyed by the reflected scenery playing across the chrome of the headlamp shell while the speedo tells you improbable lies and you drift towards Nirvana. Savour it, reality is seldom as sweet.
Rod SmithAs such, ironically, my Triumph is fairly typical, as deviation is the norm among the hard used examples seen in parking spaces at shows and jumbles. A huge degree of interchangeability among different models and years is evidenced by these mongrels, which often display a surprising visual harmony between their mixed and matched components.
For a rider wishing to keep his bike on the road this interchangeability is a distinct asset, also resulting in a fair supply of non standard but usable machines, far cheaper than going for standard specimens. Tracing its roots to Triumph's landmark Speed Twin of 1937, these C range twins enjoyed a somewhat leisurely evolution between 1957 and 1974, the pace of which was dictated more by factory parsimony than any shortage of design talent. Why spend money on decent solutions to a problem when for peanuts you could do half a job, thus ensuring new models for subsequent seasons by introducing improvements piecemeal? To be fair, though, progress was generally of a forward nature; by and large, the later the spec the better the bike.
Small consolation to me, however, that my Triumph, purchased five years ago for a possibly excessive £300, with bald tyres, broken speedo and the wiring cut out, has the earliest chassis; probably the worst frame Triumph ever made. Hardly sufficient for the seminal 3TA's 18.5hp, this glorified bicycle trellis eventually had to cope with in excess of 30hp, an imposition which would doubtless find favour with a sector of the Spanish donkey riding fraternity. The fuel tank is a stressed member and the swinging arm pivot is mounted on a single tube behind the engine, allowing plenty of lateral flex.
I'd probably look more kindly on this device were it not noticeably bent. Not my doing, I assure you. I bought it like that, but tight right-handers are character building experiences and roundabouts best taken in a straight line. Compared with the contemporary Norton Featherbeds the thing's inexcusable, the more so given the Norton's seniority.
Complementing the bike's meagre skeleton, the front forks, also original, are satisfyingly clonky on the rebound and the steering damper comes loose, so I can have fun tightening it when I should be looking at the road. Since, due to shot rear dampers, this usually coincides with a semi-airborne state engendered by a poor road surface, it's an exciting diversion I'd recommend to nobody. Obviously, it's unfair to criticise a design on the basis of an ancient and abused single example, but Triumph introduced new frame and forks several times during production of the range so clearly recognised that there was room for improvement.
The front brake on mine, though of a type widely criticised and short lived, serves to highlight the inadequacy of the chassis, which feels on the point of collapse whenever the brake is used in anger. Of interest are the brake shoes, which are same as the front ones from a Morris 1100.
Perhaps the least development went into the engine which is essentially the thirties Speed Twin but with the gearbox casing integral with the crankcases. Of course, you still need to fill three oil reservoirs and on pre '61 350s there wasn't even a primary chain tensioner. Progress.
Usefully, the 350 and 500 motors are largely identical, differing from the con-rods up but sharing rocker gear. Even the cylinder heads appear to come from the same casting, the 500 ones simply having bigger holes machined out of them. You can't, however, bore a 350 barrel to 500cc. For the desperate, a worn out plus 60 500cc barrel will go to plus 80 to take standard 650 pistons, but there is dangerously little meat left if this is done.
With so many rebuilt engines about, it's worth being able to tell a 350 from a 500. The engine number's nothing to go by anymore. Check the cylinder finning behind the right-hand bore - 500 barrels have a recess to clear the distributor used on early types, the 350 fins didn't run close enough to need it.
The engines are pretty straightforward to work on, you can operate on engine, primary drive and gearbox separately and, excepting crankshaft, work with the engine in the frame. Certain procedures, such as valve clearance adjustment, can seem laughably primitive to Japanese schooled eyes. There's no provision for feeler gauge insertion, so clearances are expressed in terms of rotation of the square tappet adjusters - one flat equals ten thou, the cold clearance for all valves on the mild 3/5TA motors. Sports Tigers use two thou and four thou for inlet and exhaust, the manual suggests setting the two thou gap by backing off the adjuster until a faint tick can be heard - pass the ear trumpet, Ludwig.
Before setting these clearances it's very useful to know whether you have sports or touring camshafts in your engine. I thought it a safe bet mine were touring, what with the engine being stamped 3TA and all that, so I used to set the ten thou gaps. I didn't use the bike terribly much in 350 form and then not hard. I was none the wiser during the rebuild and it was only some time later when I removed the head for a helicoil repair that I found severe dishing on the ends of the inlet valves after only about 2000 miles.
The exhaust ones were okay. I was told this happens quite often and not to worry, so the valves are staying in for now. Of course, now I know I have sports cams so I use the right clearances. Presumably, if your bike has soft cams and you use sports clearances your valves will stick open. Who knows?
The two frequently levelled faults on Triumphs are that they vibrate and leak. Whilst I deny neither I suggest both are overstated. Vibration there certainly is but on my own bike it's more a sort of lively humming which is almost attractive in a mildly destructive way. I've not had any bulbs or batteries shatter as yet, though recently both silencers cracked up within weeks of each other, possibly due to the mountings which allow excessive flexing. It's largely a matter of checking if anything's coming loose and ensuring it won't happen again. The larger 650/750 Triumphs are far worse in this respect, while a standard low compression 3TA would be far smoother.
Mine does leak oil but very little and this mainly due to a crack around the drain bolt in the primary chaincase. I converted my engine to 500cc using parts bought at autojumbles with only bearings, valves, piston rings and pushrods bought new; I didn't bother fettling mating surfaces on a glass sheet and emery paper. Was I just lucky?
Doubtless I could build an oil tight, almost vibe free motor using all new parts and having the crank dynamically balanced. By the same token, I could throw together a complete dog with the worst bits I could find and proceed to rubbish Triumphs generally. Whilst conceding some inherent leakiness, I'd say that a 30 year old bike can only be as good or bad as its last rebuild. Triumph didn't build my bike - I did, and the marque's integrity stands or falls by my efforts. God help it!
Whilst generally pleased with the engine's simplicity and torque inspired power, niggles are present in the flyaway rocker caps - bin the fibre washers and fit Honda O-rings - and the hassles inherent in oil changes. Since my primary chaincase is effectively total loss, there's only the engine and gearbox oil to change. Since the oil tank drain bolt is awkwardly situated I disconnected the feed pipe instead, invariably bathing adjacent areas with warm oil. The laughable filtration provided by the gauze filter at the bottom of the crankcase suggests it's not a job to neglect. Over filling of the oil tank results in a dousing of all points astern, notably the tyre.
Draining the gearbox is a laugh because the drain plug hides behind the copper tubes from the oil pump and the wires from the alternator. Add to this all the dirty oil AWOL from the primary case (I only use waste stuff because of the leak) and the job's guaranteed messy. And what a shock when the plug's out and a trickle of water precedes a grey sludge plopping reluctantly out. I suspect I'll shortly be performing gearbox surgery due to an increased tendency for the bike to jump spectacularly out of third gear under hard acceleration, during which I'm glad there's no rev counter...
My first attempt at accurate ignition timing could have been disastrous. On distributor models like mine it's easy to obtain a rough setting by removing spark plugs and distributor cap, pressing a thumb over the right-hand plug hole and gently turning the kickstart so you can feel the piston rising on the compression stroke. Once the pressure stops that's TDC and if the points are just opening you won't be far out, though probably slightly retarded. If you are, or possess a short attention span, this method is probably quite adequate.
Eventually, though, I had to do it properly for peace of mind. Later engines acquired TDC indicators and full advance marks but on my type TDC is located with a stick poked down the spark plug hole, resting on the piston crown. Now you can either refer to a table giving degrees of crankshaft rotation in terms of piston movement and mark your stick accordingly (about 8mm BTDC for Tigers) or you can use a degree disc. Zero it at TDC and away you go. There are two types of discs depending on whether you are using it on the camshaft or crankshaft...
I put my crankshaft disc on the exhaust camshaft and away I went. Job complete, I took the bike out. Yup, not bad, I thought. Several days later a timely attack of self doubt convinced me that my 37 degress BTDC at full advance was really 74 degrees! That the engine hadn't been wrecked was testimony either to undeserved good fortune or the robustness of the motor. I had to do it all again. Next time I'm using a stick, like everyone else.
Despite the simplicity of the distributor system, with one ignition coil and one set of points, many distributors are badly worn and parts are hard to find. Wear of the shaft can make a nonsense of point's gap settings and uneven timing may result from uneven wear of the point's cams. I had an engineer rebush my distributor recently. Cam lobes can be evened by stoning.
The auto-advance springs on mine had seen better days - I cut down some Honda ones and reformed the ends with pliers, though they are a bit vicious, delaying full advance. You have to ensure the clutch cable doesn't foul any of the HT lead to distributor unions - it happened on mine and it took me ages to find out why the bike kept cutting out on one cylinder.
I can't comment on the standard electrical system as I made up my own with a single toggle switch for ignition and lights with a Jap 6V rectifier. By rights it should boil the battery because all the generator coils are permanently wired in and there's no voltage regulation, but it doesn't My only problem to date has been the result of using those terrible crimp connectors from auto accessory shops. Though the system is at present 6V, the restrained lighting provided has convinced me 12V is high on my list of priorities.
With five years of ownership behind me, albeit not of continuous usage, there are still a number of improvements to be made, not least of which is getting the frame straightened. It cost me about £200 to increase the engine capacity, though this included new bearings and a replacement crankshaft. Indeed, for half my original outlay I could have had a decently sorted Jap 250 with similar performance, higher general specification and better handling.
It would be easy to say that in practical terms it wasn't worth the money, but that would be to ignore the long term benefits of good fuel economy - 60mpg plus to the gallon on a bad day - inexpensive and obtainable spares (but you have to look for them) and the fact that the machine at least holds it value. There's no reason, either, why a well sorted one shouldn't be reliable.
Then again, there's something which can't be quantified in pounds sterling. On a good day, riding one of these machines is to be involved in a total aesthetic experience, a combination of that busy mechanical thrash, that mellow snorting from the exhausts and that sense of forward motion conveyed by the reflected scenery playing across the chrome of the headlamp shell while the speedo tells you improbable lies and you drift towards Nirvana. Savour it, reality is seldom as sweet.
***************************************************
After reading many stories relating to old British bikes, where the owners have complained about them being unreliable, noisy, oil leaking and suffering from a lot of vibration, I thought you would like to hear of one that was good - eventually! The 1970 Triumph Daytona T100T (with a 1967 engine) first came into my life when a friend of mine who had wanted an old British bike for some time bought it late in 1977 for £450.
After reading many stories relating to old British bikes, where the owners have complained about them being unreliable, noisy, oil leaking and suffering from a lot of vibration, I thought you would like to hear of one that was good - eventually! The 1970 Triumph Daytona T100T (with a 1967 engine) first came into my life when a friend of mine who had wanted an old British bike for some time bought it late in 1977 for £450.
I went with him to look at it and although it appeared a bit rough and tatty it sounded alright, pulled well when we were taken for a spin on it by the owner. Paul (my friend) decided to buy it and a deposit was left, the bike collected the following evening in the works van. I actually had the use of the bike for the first few months because Paul only had a provisional licence at the time. He had to borrow my Honda CB250 to learn and to take his test on. When he passed his test I know he was pleased as it pissed him off not being able to ride his own bike. He had his Triumph back and I ended up with the Honda.
He ran it for a year or so (with me doing all the maintenance, etc) until he became a bit bored and fed up with paying out money for bits to keep it going. At this time I managed to do a deal with him and buy it myself. I kept it for a year or so but it was getting to the stage where it really needed a lot of time and money spent on it and as I wasn't in a position financially to do this at the time I decided to sell it. Paul decided to buy it again and have a complete overhaul done.
I had nothing to do with any of this until it came to reassembly of it all, which wasn't easy as I didn't know how it all came apart. Eventually, after studying the workshop manual and a bit of experimenting (thank god for Meccano when I was a kid) we got it all together and running. It was then taken for its MOT and was taxed, then used a lot over the next few years. After a winter of it being left in his garage he couldn't be bothered with it, so as I was a little more flush at the time I bought it back again. It was Jan 1990 by then and after a month or so tidying it up and getting it running, I put it through the MOT again.
I was looking forward to a summer of trouble free riding. Not so, it wouldn't run smoothly or rev over 5000rpm, and it also used a fair amount of oil as well as leaving a puddle wherever it was parked. I then decided that when the tax was due in September I'd take it off the road and restore it to as new if not original condition over the next winter and through the next summer.
In mid October the big strip began. I'd already fitted Boyer Bransden electronic ignition and tried to set the carbs to make it rev free so I knew I was going to have look deeper into the engine to find out the problem; so I decided to leave the engine until last. I started the rebuild by having the frame, swinging arm, oil tank, engine plates and fork bits powder coated. All new bushes, springs, stanchions for the forks, new pin and bushes for the swinging arm, and wheel bearings were ordered.
I will point out one thing here about fitting of the new swinging arm bushes and pin - the two grease holes in the pin are offset from the centre and if you get it wrong you have to strip it all down again after 1200 to 1400 miles to renew them as they seize up and wear out. I did this twice before I realised I was assembling it the wrong way. You can feel when the bushes are worn as it makes the bike very vague and it wants to go its own way - carry a few Pampers with you in the tool-box ready for when this happens.
New flat handlebars were ordered as I thought the bike looked much more sporty with them on. New wiring harness along with a new rectifier and other electrical bits were ordered and fitted. New stainless guards, nuts and bolts, were also fitted. It now started looking like a motorcycle again which encouraged me to get on with it as I did get a bit fed up at times during the rebuild.
The tank when I bought the bike was painted red and looked good apart from it looking a bit tatty, so I thought I would have a go at respraying it myself. Over the next week or so I did a lot of rubbing down, priming, rubbing down, until it was ready to spray which I did with aerosol cans. It came out very well and looked good but after a few months the paint started to lift, so in the end I had another friend of mine spray it for me. It looked even better, and I wished I'd got him to do it in the first place.
After all the cycle parts had been put together I started on the engine thinking it would be an easy job to strip and rebuild it, bearing in mind that it had been done before. As the strip commenced, first with the cylinder head, barrels, pistons, etc, it was becoming apparent that it was all quite well worn. The valves were flapping about in the guides, the bore was out to plus forty (max on a Daytona) and it got worse the further I went into the engine.
I had to have the crank reground and fit new mains and big-ends. Some helicoiling was done and an invisible repair made to the crankcases By Norman White at Thruxton Circuit near where I work in Andover. The gearbox was knackered but I managed to get a good secondhand one from Richard Hacker. Most of the new parts came from Roebuck M/C's who were brilliant, they always knew what I was talking about (even if I didn't) and any parts that I ordered were nearly always with me the next day if I rang before midday.
The whole job took about 20 months, mainly because I couldn't afford to buy all the bits at once. It all went back together alright and the time came to fire it up. Oil in the tank (Castrol GTX), petrol, and kick, kick, kick, fire, kick, fire, run...I was chuffed if not surprised. It sounded fine so it was timed up on the strobe and an appointment was made for its MOT the next Monday.
Typically, it was bloody pissing down and it soon made the nice shiny new bike look rather grubby. Anyway, it passed okay so I went for the tax. The man who tested it complemented me on the bike and also was surprised when he bounced the forks up and down and that they actually worked. I have several mates with Triumphs and their forks all work alright so I think he was being a bit sarcastic.
It was still early in the year, I spent a lot of rather cold although dry evenings out on the bike running it in. I did notice after a few hundred miles, a rattling/buzzing noise coming from the top of the engine. After checking the tappets and making sure that nothing was loose around the engine, I lifted the head off. Turned out to be a loose valve guide, so all of the guides were replaced with plus two thou oversize, and the problem disappeared.
The first oil change was done at 250 miles and every 1000 miles after that. I think it's easier and cheaper to replace the oil regularly than to have to strip and replace parts. The old tyres that were on the bike (TT100's) had always made the bike feel a bit skittish, so when the rear one needed replacing I bought an Avon AM21 Roadrunner. I'd had a pair of the original Roadrunners on the Honda and they were really stable. Unfortunately, the new rear one didn't make that much difference to the Triumph, so when I could afford it I bought a matching AM20 for the front. That did make a big difference when I'd found the best tyre pressures to suit me and the bike - 22psi front and 25psi rear.
The other problem that came to light as the mileage increased and the engine was revved higher, was a flat spot between 4000 and 5000 revs. Over 5000rpm it was really quick and it was very good up to 4000rpm for around town. I tried everything to cure this by changing the needle position, slides, jets, etc and even tried adjusting the ignition timing. But none of it worked, so I wrote to Hughie Hancox, who replied that the fault was common to Daytonas and was known as ''cam-itis'' and that to make it go you had to really wind it on, as it was designed as a sports model.
Keeping the engine on song was a bit of a chore, mainly needing regular attention to the tappets (every 400 to 500 miles), keeping the carbs in balance - two cotton buds or two three inch nails are ideal for this, and it's really worth the effort to make sure the two carbs open exactly together or it vibrates like mad. A bit of a waste, really, as I had the crank dynamically balanced whilst it was apart. I also kept a check on the oil as it did use a bit but didn't leak much as I took a lot of trouble with the engine mating surfaces.
I covered over 5000 miles over the next few years or so. One maintenance chore I didn't miss having to do was setting the points. After setting the electronic ignition it didn't need touching other than a quick check with the strobe every 1000 miles. Original points, for those who insist on them, are vastly superior to pattern items. The tyres hardly wore at all. I kept the swinging arm bearings well greased as they are a pain to replace.
The only other problem I had was when returning from the 1994 Banbury run when my bike wet-sumped about 15 miles from home. I managed to limp home where all the usual checks were made to find the problem. I made sure all the oil pipes were clear, as were the breathers. I removed the oil pump to check the balls were seating. I could ride the bike for up to 30 miles before the fault would show itself and got caught out a few times when testing it after trying all sorts to cure it.
In the end, the fault was found; only showed after completely stripping the engine down again. As the engine became hot air leaked between the scavenge pipe and the crankcases so it had to be replaced. Once reassembled it went perfectly and I had no more trouble with it.
By this time I was really beginning to feel the need for something a bit more modern to do some long distance touring. When a work colleague decided to sell his GPZ 900 I bought it. God, what a difference in the performance. The bike's so smooth, although it's very bland in comparison, lacking character.
The Triumph's great fun to ride around the local country lanes as it's light and very flickable through tight bends. In fact, it's probably quicker than the Qwacker in this respect. Unfortunately, I couldn't justify the cost of keeping both bikes, so the Triumph had to go. I got lot of stick from the members of the local Triumph OC but sold it was. To a man from Holland. His friend was touring England with his girlfriend, looking for a bike for himself, and also a Triumph for his friend over there. A deal was done and it was a sad goodbye to the old girl. Mind, I've got loads of photos and some video film. I do miss it but think a cafe racer style Triton will be my next project.
David Garside
***************************************************
I'd done a good rebuild on my Triumph Daytona engine. God knows I had enough practice at it. Had the crank dynamically balanced, a rebore with new pistons and a refurbished top end. I'd taken hours getting all the carbon off the old components and polishing them up to a lovely shine. Combining improved modern parts with much tender loving care I felt I'd built a motor that was better than new.
This seemed confirmed when it fired up with a throaty roar on the third attempt, helped by almost open megas that glowed even under the subdued sun. The lovely mechanical rustle convinced me that my prowess as a mechanic was improving by the week......until I clocked the puddle of oil that was forming under the engine. It was pouring out of the primary chaincase, took three stripdowns before the flow stopped. I'd had to helicoil a couple of the screw threads, as every time I tried to tighten them they stripped. Well, any 25 year old motor is entitled to a little bit of nastiness, isn't it?
A well put together British twin is a grand sight to behold, even if I say so myself. Careful running in ensued, the Triumph treated as gently as I'd treat a virgin, in the unlikely event that I ever got the chance. Just as I was swinging a leg over the old girl, some young lady came running up to me, demanding I see off some youths who were troubling her. It must've been my ancient leather that impressed; she was much less enthusiastic when I took my helmet off. I offered her a lift but she declined. You can't win 'em all. I don't seem to be able to win any!
After 1500 miles, quickly done down the local lanes, the Triumph was ready for some serious travelling. My women friends had all done a disappearing act, something to do, I guess, with my strong personal odour (consisting of tobacco, beer, petrol and dead oil). Most of the time I didn't even notice it, occasionally, in very confined spaces, I'd get a whiff of a curiously pungent concoction that seemed to threaten to go up in flames if it came anywhere near a naked light. Travelling solo made life a hell of a lot simpler, and there was always the chance of picking up a hitch-hiker.
As the Daytona was already in such good shape, all I had to do was pack a pile of tools, spares, clothes and camping gear into a pair of old Craven panniers I'd found through the cosmic exchange system (this time someone turned up at the house, demanding a spare cylinder head I had for the Daytona, offering the pannier set and a few other bits in exchange). I immediately became worried that my cylinder head might crack up but I knew where I could get hold of at least two in good shape. It wasn't as if I was some gorilla mechanic who was going to tighten down the cylinder head bolts until they snapped.
If you can wait long enough just about any bit will turn up, exchanges rather than hard cash being the order of the day. Sometimes you come out ahead a little on the deal, sometimes you don't, but overall I reckon to break even. It's a lot better than fattening dealers' pockets.
By the time I'd finished packing the panniers the back wheel was threatening to coalesce with the mudguard, a nicely cut down and chromed item. As the Girlings were turned up high I dug out a pair that came from a sidecar outfit. This had consisted of a massive double adult sidecar and a Triumph Tiger. I say had as the owner had foolishly entrusted it to his son to learn on. This eight stone weakling had within the week ridden the sidecar into a skip and spun what was left of the once pristine Triumph into an oncoming car. The learner had walked away unscathed until his father caught up with him. The bits were sold off cheap, which is how I was able to fix my sagging back end.
The sun wasn't actually shining but the road to London was dry. It would have made more sense to head north to the wastelands of Scotland but I'd had word that the outlaw I'd grievously insulted by slumping on to his young lass was heading that way. I just knew the Triumph would see off his monstrous Harley chop but he had an excess of fellow chicken abusers and the devil on his side. The word was that he was going to tie me between a couple of chops and split me asunder. No sense of humour, some people.
In fact, that wasn't my only reason for heading for the capital, a long time friend who had made a fortune out of the property boom and got out in time had shown no such street smarts when buying an apparently restored Triumph 650 Bonnie - you know, one of those nicely shaped late sixties types, which in all its finery would turn most minds. The reality was a shiny chassis with a bodged together motor that left a trail of engine parts in its wake whenever it was used in anger, My friend was willing to put me up, ply me with beer and pay me if I came down to sort the engine out. How could I resist such an offer?
That was how the Daytona and I found ourselves on the M1, roaring along in the slow lane at 80mph. The motor didn't exactly feel relaxed at this pace, it always had a bit of a revvy feel to it, although it could slog it out at low revs with the best of them, and the vibration was beginning to intrude after an hour or so in the saddle. The riding position was typically British, with lowish bars but footrests mounted quite far forward; it was comfortable on the motorway after you'd spent a year or so adapting to it but fine in town after just a quarter of an hour's acclimatization.
Pulling into the services for some petrol I was not too amused to find an oil splattered engine that juddered in the frame at tickover. The rev counter drive was loose and two engine mounting bolts had started to come undone, despite having been done up with a copious quantity of Loctite. A good half of my luggage was tools and parts; I liked to think I was prepared for all eventualities.
Stability on the motorway was fine. No weaves as such, but the chassis could leap about over the occasionally rutted surface. There was none of the hinged in the middle feel when banked over but the Daytona would run wide when accelerated hard out of bends. I sometimes leant over so far that the fixed footrests snagged on the tarmac, tried to spin the Triumph off the road. Chassis bearings are very long-lived, although stock wheels are a bit untrustworthy; mine have been rebuilt with stainless steel spokes and alloy rims.
The vibes are the limiting factor to high speed travel (yes, yes, I know your FZR is just ticking over at 80mph but we are talking high speeds for old British bikes). It's tolerable on the Daytona for an hour or two, unlike the really frenzied bigger twins, but after that I end up looking like a chronic palsy sufferer if I don't have a ten minute break. Two hours is about the longest I can go without a fag.
65 to 70mph cruising is a different matter, I can last as long as the fuel then, about 200 miles. After a while, my body seemed to have adapted to the shape of the Triumph and if you put me on something ergonomically perfect, like a BMW boxer, I'd probably be in agony after five minutes. Strange thing the human body.
After a couple of breaks and quite a few hours I found myself in Central London. Our glorious capital or Shit City as our Welsh editor enthuses. I was favouring the latter description when I found my path through the city barred by armed police. I was a bit incoherent after too many hours in the saddle and had some funny shaped cigarettes inside my jacket. Just to take the piss I put on a heavy Irish brogue and muttered something about heading for the docklands.
That was how I found myself spread-eagled against the wall as two porkers poked away at my body. They weren't too efficient, didn't even find the funny fags. They put a rod in the petrol tank and then the oil tank, poked about in the silencers and had a look under the seat. Then they let me on my way. They seemed a little reluctant to let me go as I had switched into a deep Yorkshire accent halfway through the interrogation.
My friend had acquired a whole floor of a renovated warehouse with a large garage downstairs. There was enough room to open a bloody hotel. He found it hard to believe that I lived in one tiny room which I didn't even own. After a night of debauchery in East End pubs, about the only places they would let me in, the next morning I set to work on the Bonnie. Externally, it was in a sorry state with oil seeping out of the pushrod tubes and cylinder head gasket but after stripping it down to the crankcases it was evident that its problems were down to a poor rebuild rather than knackered engine components. They do need a lot of tender loving care when being assembled, as well as a few hard won dodges. A new gasket set, a couple of pushrods and an oil ring were all that were needed.
The valve timing was a few teeth out and the cylinder head was a bit warped but nothing I couldn't deal with. The bottom end looked fine and the owner had admitted that the gearbox was slick, so I left well alone. It took a couple of days to get everything together but the reassembled machine was ready for my friend to kick into life.
I knew that it would take a while so let him get some exercise for 15 minutes. He knew enough to tickle the carbs to get the petrol flowing and not bother with the chokes (I'd dumped those on the Daytona) but his technique was a bit half-hearted, the best he managed was a bit of disgruntled banging in the silencers.
He ended up slumped over the bars, I gently moved him aside and gave the big twin a full bodied (and I've got a fuller body than most) kick. What I forgot was the accumulated fuel in the combustion chamber, receiving a hell of a kickback as it caught on the wrong stroke. My scream ricocheted around the whole building. After that, the owner got her running first kick. Bitch!
I had a go later in the day, after my leg had recovered, was quite impressed with the way the power was laid down but the vibration above 5000 revs was eyeball popping. My mate refused to believe that they were like that in our youth, but they vibrated right out of the factory. We just must've been tougher back then, or maybe we knew no better.
After years cocooned in luxury cages the guy was all agog with the danger and brashness of it all, jumped at the excuse to head for France. Well, we were both a little drunk and had been eyeing a Frog barmaid in his local. This guy had lost all sense of money throwing me 500 sovs for my time - if he'd asked nicely I would have done it for free; I actually like working on old British bikes! Cynics might say that running a Daytona I have no choice in the matter.
A couple of days later we were all set for a thrash down to Dover. Both bikes looked beautiful in the early morning sun. The Bonnie rider looking the part in Levi's and a new leather jacket with an old look (if you see what I mean), although slightly spoilt by a space age full face helmet. My passing resemblance to a tramp was borne of years of experience; there was sod all point dressing up when there was a big chance of having to do a roadside renovation.
I set a fast pace through the already heavy London traffic (don't these people sleep?), the narrowness of the twins letting us cut through most gaps; those that were too small almost magically opened for us when the throttles were revved and the poor work slaves jerked their heads out of their suits, tortoise-like, wondering what the heck was coming down on them. It often seemed like a game of mind over matter, thinking hard that gaps would open, and then they would.
Of course, some car drivers had lost their minds long ago and there was no knowing what they were going to do. Harsh braking and wild swerving were usually sufficient to avoid the tin cages but my companion looked a bit white faced when I stopped at one set of lights; I wasn't sure if his shaking body was from the Triumph's vibes or a dose of terror and trembling from trying to keep up with me. London traffic was the craziest in the whole country, no doubt about that. That inspired me to ride even harder.
Pulling over to fuel up, after about 40 miles of excess, the Bonnie rider pulled in and spat enough gold out of his mouth to make a hooker come. The vibes had got to his fillings a quarter of a mile back. He was in urgent need of a dentist and muttering something about buying a nice BMW brick. Nostalgia can lead to all kinds of misunderstandings and old British bikes are an acquired art that can't be picked up in five minutes. He sped off to London, leaving me to continue at a more moderate pace, as I could hear the oil frothing in the tank!
Everyone knocks Dover but during the day there's a nice fish and chip shop open and a couple of newsagents to wander around, buying the latest bike mags to read before hitting the Continent where they are too expensive or not available. It's always amusing to ride past the scowling faces in the long line of cars and leap aboard the ferry at the head of the queue. No-one's ever had the guts to come up to me to complain!
It was whilst securing the Daytona in the hold that I spied half a dozen Harley choppers. They looked vaguely familiar, so I wandered over to have a closer look. Long, long forks, as black as an Arab's wotsit and as fearsome as a woman scorned..... f..king hell, they belonged to the Angels who wanted to tear me limb from limb. They were easy enough to track down from the bedlam coming from one of the bars. I didn't stay around to see what they were doing, headed for the other end of the ship. It was fearful couple of hours until we docked in Calais, not helped any by getting so drunk out of my head that I managed to nick some tourist's bright yellow mac as a means of disguise.
I'd decided to let them off first, hoping that they would not recognise the Triumph, jammed as it was between a couple of race replicas. It was easy enough to know when they were on their way, the whole hold, if not the whole damn ship, reverberated to their open pipes. I was last out of the boat, as wary as a Honda GL500 owner at a Harley owners meeting. The whole plot failed dismally when I chuffed past the group of Angels, they had been pulled over by the customs, having their bikes and persons torn apart. My yellow mac did nothing to disguise my person, judging by the fists shaken and curses shouted as I roared past. I tried to look entirely innocent but it had no effect whatsoever.
At least the Frog custom's officers peculiar need to sniff around the Angels would give me a head start. I was trying to think where the hell a bunch of rancid Angels would go in France, so I could go in completely the opposite direction. All I could figure was that they would stick to the main road as their custom cycles would not handle the curves in the back lanes. I might as well enjoy myself by heading for the sun and fun of the South of France.
It was getting on a bit by then, so I ended up taking the coast road down to a camping site near Berck. I wanted a taste of the late afternoon sun, so stripped down to a pair of ancient bathing trunks and threw myself into the somewhat polluted sea. Judging by the admiring glances, my bleached white excess of flesh went down well amongst the tanned Frogs, although having several kids trailing after me shouting encouragement wasn't much fun. I very rarely venture on to beaches in the UK, my flight to the Continent seemed to have left me feeling tres liberated. It must be the air.
The night was spent in a much more civilized manner in various bars, but I stayed away from the women, having read about Happy Henry's exploits with cunningly disguised transvestites. Er, no thanks! Wandering back to the camp in the small hours I had trouble finding my tent. I wasn't actually looking for the tent but the Daytona.....after walking around for half an hour I found the tent but no sign of the Triumph. I was so drunk that I thought I must've ridden it into the town and left it there, but careful reconstruction of the evening's events revealed that, no, I really did leave it in the field next to the tent.
Stolen! I was almost in tears! The campsite manager wasn't too amused to find an abusive English lunatic hammering away at his door. Luckily, he was a lot smaller than me but refused to help, giving a typical Gallic shrug of indifference. He pointed me in the direction of the local police station. I knew I was going to have problems as I'd never bothered with insurance - nearly all accidents are the fault of cagers and even the worst damage to a Triumph can be fixed cheaply - and I never actually got around to registering the bike in my name.
Of course, the porker (who was actually very porky) didn't speak a word of English so I had to hang around for hours, slumped down on a couple of chairs (about as comfortable as riding a Harley at the ton for an hour) until a reasonably smart officer turned up. After much unintelligible gabbling between the police I was led outside by this grim faced porker who looked like he was going to take me to a firing squad.
There, in the corner of the yard was my Triumph Daytona, with bent brake lever and footpeg plus some scratches in its paint. I caressed its surfaces looking for serious damage but could find none. Apparently, as far as I could gather, some wretched youth had pinched it, ridden into town in an attempt to impress some young lasses only to fall off, although knowing Triumphs I suspect that the Daytona had pitched him off at the first opportunity. The youth had promptly done a runner, leaving the gendarme to pick up the mess. The guy let me take it away, as they had yet to put in through their bureaucracy, if they had I would have to wait for weeks to get it back.
The old dear roared into life first kick, obviously happy to have the old man back at the controls rather than some inconsiderate youth. I bought two locks and threatened the campsite manager with death if it disappeared again. I lounged in bars for most of the day, in no state to take the rigours of travelling at that stage in the game. That night I slept for a good twelve hours and was raring to go in the morning.
The Triumph wasn't! After about twenty kicks I gave up and fitted a new set of plugs. That produced some misfiring so it was in with the spare set of ignition coils. The engine growled into life first kick. Rather than feeling totally pissed off with the Triumph, I had a great sense of accomplishment; another trial of my wits overcome.
Following the French coast as much as possible isn't the best way of seeing France but it's a damn good way of avoiding avenging Angels! One very good thing about France is that it's a huge place, the chances of meeting up with them thus very small. I was taking things in a very laid back manner, quite happy to spend the whole day getting down to Le Harve. The harshness of the sun was dulled by the sharpness of the breeze off the channel. The road was mostly boring with too many small clusters of houses to filter through and too many holiday trippers in the way.
Just outside Dieppe I met up with some English clown on a bright yellow Norton Commando. He was going in the opposite direction but when he clocked myself and Daytona, he braked viciously, doing a rear wheel U turn in a thoroughly dangerous manner. More perilous for myself than him, as clocking these mad antics, I forgot to pay attention to where I was going. I braked in time to only mildly dent the 2CV's bumper. The French owner acted as if I'd tried to goose his wife, completely and utterly outraged judging by the rapid fire stream of French and wild gesticulations. He seemed on the verge of beating the shit out of me when the giant on the Commando roared up. Just the sight of him was enough to have the cager running for his car and clearing off pronto.
That's one of the problems with English bikes, it's almost impossible to ride along minding your own business. The giant had me shaking in my boots when he told me that my friends on the Harley chops were only half an hour up ahead. They had stopped him to ask if he'd seen some old geeza on a Triumph Daytona; such a sight being so rare that he figured I must be he. After imparting these doom laden words he roared off up the road on open megas that could still be heard half a mile away.
A sharp change of direction seemed to be in order, a quick glance of the map showing that Amiens was within an afternoon's riding distance. The Daytona took that moment, when I wanted to be out of the area as fast as possible, to grind to a halt in an excess of backfiring. Aha! I recalled exactly the same demise occurring three years before just as I was trying to overtake a coach and the dual carriageway was due to change into a single road - I saved myself by hitting the brakes viciously.
This time the bike rolled to a halt in front of a couple of cages, the Frogs letting loose on their horns as if their life depended on it, which was nothing new as they tended to drive on the throttle and the horn. I got off the road before I was run down. Sure enough the puny advance/ retard mechanism had fallen apart; found out at the cost of burnt fingers. I had several spares, so it was just a matter of sitting by the side of the road, smoking fag after fag whilst the motor cooled down. About an hour later I was back on the road.
I was pretty weary by the time I reached Amiens. There was too much heat, too many speeding cars and too much worry about a pack of enraged Angels descending on my tail. I found a hotel that would allow me to hide the Triumph in their courtyard. My ebullient mood at arriving on the Continent was rapidly dissipating. There was only one thing to do, get drunk out of my head.
Gunge
I'd done a good rebuild on my Triumph Daytona engine. God knows I had enough practice at it. Had the crank dynamically balanced, a rebore with new pistons and a refurbished top end. I'd taken hours getting all the carbon off the old components and polishing them up to a lovely shine. Combining improved modern parts with much tender loving care I felt I'd built a motor that was better than new.
This seemed confirmed when it fired up with a throaty roar on the third attempt, helped by almost open megas that glowed even under the subdued sun. The lovely mechanical rustle convinced me that my prowess as a mechanic was improving by the week......until I clocked the puddle of oil that was forming under the engine. It was pouring out of the primary chaincase, took three stripdowns before the flow stopped. I'd had to helicoil a couple of the screw threads, as every time I tried to tighten them they stripped. Well, any 25 year old motor is entitled to a little bit of nastiness, isn't it?
A well put together British twin is a grand sight to behold, even if I say so myself. Careful running in ensued, the Triumph treated as gently as I'd treat a virgin, in the unlikely event that I ever got the chance. Just as I was swinging a leg over the old girl, some young lady came running up to me, demanding I see off some youths who were troubling her. It must've been my ancient leather that impressed; she was much less enthusiastic when I took my helmet off. I offered her a lift but she declined. You can't win 'em all. I don't seem to be able to win any!
After 1500 miles, quickly done down the local lanes, the Triumph was ready for some serious travelling. My women friends had all done a disappearing act, something to do, I guess, with my strong personal odour (consisting of tobacco, beer, petrol and dead oil). Most of the time I didn't even notice it, occasionally, in very confined spaces, I'd get a whiff of a curiously pungent concoction that seemed to threaten to go up in flames if it came anywhere near a naked light. Travelling solo made life a hell of a lot simpler, and there was always the chance of picking up a hitch-hiker.
As the Daytona was already in such good shape, all I had to do was pack a pile of tools, spares, clothes and camping gear into a pair of old Craven panniers I'd found through the cosmic exchange system (this time someone turned up at the house, demanding a spare cylinder head I had for the Daytona, offering the pannier set and a few other bits in exchange). I immediately became worried that my cylinder head might crack up but I knew where I could get hold of at least two in good shape. It wasn't as if I was some gorilla mechanic who was going to tighten down the cylinder head bolts until they snapped.
If you can wait long enough just about any bit will turn up, exchanges rather than hard cash being the order of the day. Sometimes you come out ahead a little on the deal, sometimes you don't, but overall I reckon to break even. It's a lot better than fattening dealers' pockets.
By the time I'd finished packing the panniers the back wheel was threatening to coalesce with the mudguard, a nicely cut down and chromed item. As the Girlings were turned up high I dug out a pair that came from a sidecar outfit. This had consisted of a massive double adult sidecar and a Triumph Tiger. I say had as the owner had foolishly entrusted it to his son to learn on. This eight stone weakling had within the week ridden the sidecar into a skip and spun what was left of the once pristine Triumph into an oncoming car. The learner had walked away unscathed until his father caught up with him. The bits were sold off cheap, which is how I was able to fix my sagging back end.
The sun wasn't actually shining but the road to London was dry. It would have made more sense to head north to the wastelands of Scotland but I'd had word that the outlaw I'd grievously insulted by slumping on to his young lass was heading that way. I just knew the Triumph would see off his monstrous Harley chop but he had an excess of fellow chicken abusers and the devil on his side. The word was that he was going to tie me between a couple of chops and split me asunder. No sense of humour, some people.
In fact, that wasn't my only reason for heading for the capital, a long time friend who had made a fortune out of the property boom and got out in time had shown no such street smarts when buying an apparently restored Triumph 650 Bonnie - you know, one of those nicely shaped late sixties types, which in all its finery would turn most minds. The reality was a shiny chassis with a bodged together motor that left a trail of engine parts in its wake whenever it was used in anger, My friend was willing to put me up, ply me with beer and pay me if I came down to sort the engine out. How could I resist such an offer?
That was how the Daytona and I found ourselves on the M1, roaring along in the slow lane at 80mph. The motor didn't exactly feel relaxed at this pace, it always had a bit of a revvy feel to it, although it could slog it out at low revs with the best of them, and the vibration was beginning to intrude after an hour or so in the saddle. The riding position was typically British, with lowish bars but footrests mounted quite far forward; it was comfortable on the motorway after you'd spent a year or so adapting to it but fine in town after just a quarter of an hour's acclimatization.
Pulling into the services for some petrol I was not too amused to find an oil splattered engine that juddered in the frame at tickover. The rev counter drive was loose and two engine mounting bolts had started to come undone, despite having been done up with a copious quantity of Loctite. A good half of my luggage was tools and parts; I liked to think I was prepared for all eventualities.
Stability on the motorway was fine. No weaves as such, but the chassis could leap about over the occasionally rutted surface. There was none of the hinged in the middle feel when banked over but the Daytona would run wide when accelerated hard out of bends. I sometimes leant over so far that the fixed footrests snagged on the tarmac, tried to spin the Triumph off the road. Chassis bearings are very long-lived, although stock wheels are a bit untrustworthy; mine have been rebuilt with stainless steel spokes and alloy rims.
The vibes are the limiting factor to high speed travel (yes, yes, I know your FZR is just ticking over at 80mph but we are talking high speeds for old British bikes). It's tolerable on the Daytona for an hour or two, unlike the really frenzied bigger twins, but after that I end up looking like a chronic palsy sufferer if I don't have a ten minute break. Two hours is about the longest I can go without a fag.
65 to 70mph cruising is a different matter, I can last as long as the fuel then, about 200 miles. After a while, my body seemed to have adapted to the shape of the Triumph and if you put me on something ergonomically perfect, like a BMW boxer, I'd probably be in agony after five minutes. Strange thing the human body.
After a couple of breaks and quite a few hours I found myself in Central London. Our glorious capital or Shit City as our Welsh editor enthuses. I was favouring the latter description when I found my path through the city barred by armed police. I was a bit incoherent after too many hours in the saddle and had some funny shaped cigarettes inside my jacket. Just to take the piss I put on a heavy Irish brogue and muttered something about heading for the docklands.
That was how I found myself spread-eagled against the wall as two porkers poked away at my body. They weren't too efficient, didn't even find the funny fags. They put a rod in the petrol tank and then the oil tank, poked about in the silencers and had a look under the seat. Then they let me on my way. They seemed a little reluctant to let me go as I had switched into a deep Yorkshire accent halfway through the interrogation.
My friend had acquired a whole floor of a renovated warehouse with a large garage downstairs. There was enough room to open a bloody hotel. He found it hard to believe that I lived in one tiny room which I didn't even own. After a night of debauchery in East End pubs, about the only places they would let me in, the next morning I set to work on the Bonnie. Externally, it was in a sorry state with oil seeping out of the pushrod tubes and cylinder head gasket but after stripping it down to the crankcases it was evident that its problems were down to a poor rebuild rather than knackered engine components. They do need a lot of tender loving care when being assembled, as well as a few hard won dodges. A new gasket set, a couple of pushrods and an oil ring were all that were needed.
The valve timing was a few teeth out and the cylinder head was a bit warped but nothing I couldn't deal with. The bottom end looked fine and the owner had admitted that the gearbox was slick, so I left well alone. It took a couple of days to get everything together but the reassembled machine was ready for my friend to kick into life.
I knew that it would take a while so let him get some exercise for 15 minutes. He knew enough to tickle the carbs to get the petrol flowing and not bother with the chokes (I'd dumped those on the Daytona) but his technique was a bit half-hearted, the best he managed was a bit of disgruntled banging in the silencers.
He ended up slumped over the bars, I gently moved him aside and gave the big twin a full bodied (and I've got a fuller body than most) kick. What I forgot was the accumulated fuel in the combustion chamber, receiving a hell of a kickback as it caught on the wrong stroke. My scream ricocheted around the whole building. After that, the owner got her running first kick. Bitch!
I had a go later in the day, after my leg had recovered, was quite impressed with the way the power was laid down but the vibration above 5000 revs was eyeball popping. My mate refused to believe that they were like that in our youth, but they vibrated right out of the factory. We just must've been tougher back then, or maybe we knew no better.
After years cocooned in luxury cages the guy was all agog with the danger and brashness of it all, jumped at the excuse to head for France. Well, we were both a little drunk and had been eyeing a Frog barmaid in his local. This guy had lost all sense of money throwing me 500 sovs for my time - if he'd asked nicely I would have done it for free; I actually like working on old British bikes! Cynics might say that running a Daytona I have no choice in the matter.
A couple of days later we were all set for a thrash down to Dover. Both bikes looked beautiful in the early morning sun. The Bonnie rider looking the part in Levi's and a new leather jacket with an old look (if you see what I mean), although slightly spoilt by a space age full face helmet. My passing resemblance to a tramp was borne of years of experience; there was sod all point dressing up when there was a big chance of having to do a roadside renovation.
I set a fast pace through the already heavy London traffic (don't these people sleep?), the narrowness of the twins letting us cut through most gaps; those that were too small almost magically opened for us when the throttles were revved and the poor work slaves jerked their heads out of their suits, tortoise-like, wondering what the heck was coming down on them. It often seemed like a game of mind over matter, thinking hard that gaps would open, and then they would.
Of course, some car drivers had lost their minds long ago and there was no knowing what they were going to do. Harsh braking and wild swerving were usually sufficient to avoid the tin cages but my companion looked a bit white faced when I stopped at one set of lights; I wasn't sure if his shaking body was from the Triumph's vibes or a dose of terror and trembling from trying to keep up with me. London traffic was the craziest in the whole country, no doubt about that. That inspired me to ride even harder.
Pulling over to fuel up, after about 40 miles of excess, the Bonnie rider pulled in and spat enough gold out of his mouth to make a hooker come. The vibes had got to his fillings a quarter of a mile back. He was in urgent need of a dentist and muttering something about buying a nice BMW brick. Nostalgia can lead to all kinds of misunderstandings and old British bikes are an acquired art that can't be picked up in five minutes. He sped off to London, leaving me to continue at a more moderate pace, as I could hear the oil frothing in the tank!
Everyone knocks Dover but during the day there's a nice fish and chip shop open and a couple of newsagents to wander around, buying the latest bike mags to read before hitting the Continent where they are too expensive or not available. It's always amusing to ride past the scowling faces in the long line of cars and leap aboard the ferry at the head of the queue. No-one's ever had the guts to come up to me to complain!
It was whilst securing the Daytona in the hold that I spied half a dozen Harley choppers. They looked vaguely familiar, so I wandered over to have a closer look. Long, long forks, as black as an Arab's wotsit and as fearsome as a woman scorned..... f..king hell, they belonged to the Angels who wanted to tear me limb from limb. They were easy enough to track down from the bedlam coming from one of the bars. I didn't stay around to see what they were doing, headed for the other end of the ship. It was fearful couple of hours until we docked in Calais, not helped any by getting so drunk out of my head that I managed to nick some tourist's bright yellow mac as a means of disguise.
I'd decided to let them off first, hoping that they would not recognise the Triumph, jammed as it was between a couple of race replicas. It was easy enough to know when they were on their way, the whole hold, if not the whole damn ship, reverberated to their open pipes. I was last out of the boat, as wary as a Honda GL500 owner at a Harley owners meeting. The whole plot failed dismally when I chuffed past the group of Angels, they had been pulled over by the customs, having their bikes and persons torn apart. My yellow mac did nothing to disguise my person, judging by the fists shaken and curses shouted as I roared past. I tried to look entirely innocent but it had no effect whatsoever.
At least the Frog custom's officers peculiar need to sniff around the Angels would give me a head start. I was trying to think where the hell a bunch of rancid Angels would go in France, so I could go in completely the opposite direction. All I could figure was that they would stick to the main road as their custom cycles would not handle the curves in the back lanes. I might as well enjoy myself by heading for the sun and fun of the South of France.
It was getting on a bit by then, so I ended up taking the coast road down to a camping site near Berck. I wanted a taste of the late afternoon sun, so stripped down to a pair of ancient bathing trunks and threw myself into the somewhat polluted sea. Judging by the admiring glances, my bleached white excess of flesh went down well amongst the tanned Frogs, although having several kids trailing after me shouting encouragement wasn't much fun. I very rarely venture on to beaches in the UK, my flight to the Continent seemed to have left me feeling tres liberated. It must be the air.
The night was spent in a much more civilized manner in various bars, but I stayed away from the women, having read about Happy Henry's exploits with cunningly disguised transvestites. Er, no thanks! Wandering back to the camp in the small hours I had trouble finding my tent. I wasn't actually looking for the tent but the Daytona.....after walking around for half an hour I found the tent but no sign of the Triumph. I was so drunk that I thought I must've ridden it into the town and left it there, but careful reconstruction of the evening's events revealed that, no, I really did leave it in the field next to the tent.
Stolen! I was almost in tears! The campsite manager wasn't too amused to find an abusive English lunatic hammering away at his door. Luckily, he was a lot smaller than me but refused to help, giving a typical Gallic shrug of indifference. He pointed me in the direction of the local police station. I knew I was going to have problems as I'd never bothered with insurance - nearly all accidents are the fault of cagers and even the worst damage to a Triumph can be fixed cheaply - and I never actually got around to registering the bike in my name.
Of course, the porker (who was actually very porky) didn't speak a word of English so I had to hang around for hours, slumped down on a couple of chairs (about as comfortable as riding a Harley at the ton for an hour) until a reasonably smart officer turned up. After much unintelligible gabbling between the police I was led outside by this grim faced porker who looked like he was going to take me to a firing squad.
There, in the corner of the yard was my Triumph Daytona, with bent brake lever and footpeg plus some scratches in its paint. I caressed its surfaces looking for serious damage but could find none. Apparently, as far as I could gather, some wretched youth had pinched it, ridden into town in an attempt to impress some young lasses only to fall off, although knowing Triumphs I suspect that the Daytona had pitched him off at the first opportunity. The youth had promptly done a runner, leaving the gendarme to pick up the mess. The guy let me take it away, as they had yet to put in through their bureaucracy, if they had I would have to wait for weeks to get it back.
The old dear roared into life first kick, obviously happy to have the old man back at the controls rather than some inconsiderate youth. I bought two locks and threatened the campsite manager with death if it disappeared again. I lounged in bars for most of the day, in no state to take the rigours of travelling at that stage in the game. That night I slept for a good twelve hours and was raring to go in the morning.
The Triumph wasn't! After about twenty kicks I gave up and fitted a new set of plugs. That produced some misfiring so it was in with the spare set of ignition coils. The engine growled into life first kick. Rather than feeling totally pissed off with the Triumph, I had a great sense of accomplishment; another trial of my wits overcome.
Following the French coast as much as possible isn't the best way of seeing France but it's a damn good way of avoiding avenging Angels! One very good thing about France is that it's a huge place, the chances of meeting up with them thus very small. I was taking things in a very laid back manner, quite happy to spend the whole day getting down to Le Harve. The harshness of the sun was dulled by the sharpness of the breeze off the channel. The road was mostly boring with too many small clusters of houses to filter through and too many holiday trippers in the way.
Just outside Dieppe I met up with some English clown on a bright yellow Norton Commando. He was going in the opposite direction but when he clocked myself and Daytona, he braked viciously, doing a rear wheel U turn in a thoroughly dangerous manner. More perilous for myself than him, as clocking these mad antics, I forgot to pay attention to where I was going. I braked in time to only mildly dent the 2CV's bumper. The French owner acted as if I'd tried to goose his wife, completely and utterly outraged judging by the rapid fire stream of French and wild gesticulations. He seemed on the verge of beating the shit out of me when the giant on the Commando roared up. Just the sight of him was enough to have the cager running for his car and clearing off pronto.
That's one of the problems with English bikes, it's almost impossible to ride along minding your own business. The giant had me shaking in my boots when he told me that my friends on the Harley chops were only half an hour up ahead. They had stopped him to ask if he'd seen some old geeza on a Triumph Daytona; such a sight being so rare that he figured I must be he. After imparting these doom laden words he roared off up the road on open megas that could still be heard half a mile away.
A sharp change of direction seemed to be in order, a quick glance of the map showing that Amiens was within an afternoon's riding distance. The Daytona took that moment, when I wanted to be out of the area as fast as possible, to grind to a halt in an excess of backfiring. Aha! I recalled exactly the same demise occurring three years before just as I was trying to overtake a coach and the dual carriageway was due to change into a single road - I saved myself by hitting the brakes viciously.
This time the bike rolled to a halt in front of a couple of cages, the Frogs letting loose on their horns as if their life depended on it, which was nothing new as they tended to drive on the throttle and the horn. I got off the road before I was run down. Sure enough the puny advance/ retard mechanism had fallen apart; found out at the cost of burnt fingers. I had several spares, so it was just a matter of sitting by the side of the road, smoking fag after fag whilst the motor cooled down. About an hour later I was back on the road.
I was pretty weary by the time I reached Amiens. There was too much heat, too many speeding cars and too much worry about a pack of enraged Angels descending on my tail. I found a hotel that would allow me to hide the Triumph in their courtyard. My ebullient mood at arriving on the Continent was rapidly dissipating. There was only one thing to do, get drunk out of my head.
Gunge
****************************************************
I had an argument with the owner about the amount of vibration the 500 twin was putting out. He reckoned it was perfectly normal that the bars should thrum in my hands and that I could barely keep my feet on the pegs - even at low revs. I would have none of that nonsense, recollected my old 500 as being sweetly smooth. A long time ago, for sure, but the rose tinted spec's couldn't be that biased, could they?
It had to be said that the chassis was in fine, original fettle, reflected in the three grand asking price. The bike positively glowed with good health. The engine didn't smoke it just rattled and vibrated, didn't want to go above 70mph in top gear. I deduced that something was seriously wrong, the trouble was convincing the vendor. Despite the possible, indeed probable, hassles I yearned after the machine, something that could probably be seen in my eyes.
Could we take the machine to a mechanic to elicit an independent opinion? No, too much trouble and there were hundreds of people on the phone. I could have it for £2750 cash, take it or leave it. I squashed the yearning and left my phone number instead. Four weeks later I was offered the bike for £1500...with a seized engine. I got him down to a grand in the end!
The main bearings had failed, mangling the pistons, crankshaft and bore, Spares were readily available and with my brother's help the engine was reassembled in a weekend. Simple to work on - as long as you know what you're doing. At least I was now sure of the motor and a cursory examination of the chassis revealed it close to perfection.
I ran the motor in, very gently for the first 500 miles, then working up to 8000 revs over the next 500 miles. Luckily, the T100A was not without some low rev torque, could be run along on a minimal throttle without sending me to sleep. The sole advantage of having the pistons rise and fall together in a vertical twin's that it gives a very relaxed and assured feel at low revs.
Memories of my youth came flooding back. In the late fifties and early sixties British bikes ruled the road - and an awful lot of them were sold because youths just couldn't afford cars. I used to go around in a pack of about twenty guys on 500 and 650's. A real wild time, glorious noise and lots of willing young women - god, where have they all gone? Apart from a few mad feminists who'd I cross the road to avoid, there are almost no women involved in biking nowadays.
As I bought the Triumph in the summer it was quite fitting that I should do part of the running in by commuting to work. I was called a daft bugger by the wife when I revealed this plan, as the ancient twin surely wouldn't be up to modern roads. Well, it was and it wasn't...
As speed was limited it was a bit of a liability on the dual carriageway section of the trip. I had to watch my back as even in the slow lane many sleepy cagers ignored my presence and would happily have back-ended me! As soon as the running in was complete this wasn't a problem as the bike would plod along at 80mph without any trouble.
In town or along crowded A-roads it was a different matter entirely. Weighing only 350lbs, and having most of that mass down low, it was an easy bike to flick in and out of the cages, just growl along on the back of the torque... the note out of the exhaust was meaty without being annoying, but penetrated into the driver's cocoon and stopped ped's wandering out into my path.
A nice exhaust note's a reassuring safety factor in modern road conditions, something new bikes can't hope to match unless they are illegally modified. The upgraded front brake, a TLS drum, was more than up to stopping the bike from the moderate velocities it was able to attain. No doubt, had I thrashed the engine, kept up a 90 to 100mph pace, then a degree of fade would've set in, but in the mild riding I did I found the drum powerful enough to avoid the insane antics of the cagers yet sensitive enough to stop the tyre squealing when conditions turned treacherous.
As with the rest of the bike, the drum required only minimal attention. Do I hear gasps of disbelief out there. Well, it went like this. There was only a single carb, so no carbs to balance. Ignition was electronic thanks to Mr Boyer, so no adjustments there. There wasn't a camchain - remember pushrods? That just left the four valves to adjust or check every 500 miles - a fifteen minute, or less, chore.
Normally, on a Triumph twin, you'd have to go over all the bolts every weekend but I'd Loctited and wired in most of those, and with the range of revs I used there wasn't that much primary vibration to do any damage. It would definitely thrum away nicely once above 6000 revs but the sensible owner only uses the upper end of the rev scale for quick bursts of acceleration.
During running in, fuel was 75 to 80mpg. I know you don't want to believe that but it's true. How can a 30 year old design turn in better economy than a modern 125? Don't ask me, write nasty letters to the Japanese companies. After running in, fuel was 65 to 70mpg. A figure which included brief blasts to as much as 85mph and continuous bursts of acceleration. Included, in fact, sufficient performance to see off all cars in town and country (but not dual carriageways) and to give any number of modern motorcycles a run for their money.
What's more, over the past three years and 19000 miles, the chain hasn't worn out, the brake shoes still have plenty of meat and the back tyre, a cheapo Avon, only needed replacing at 18000 miles because I didn't like the way the Triumph wriggled over manhole covers. It did drink the oil quite heavily but as it was changed every 2500 rather than 1000 miles this was no worse than on the Jap's. All these things add up, and if you worked out the savings you'd probably find the bike has already paid for itself - not that it matters, it was just a pleasant, unexpected bonus.
What really matters was that I so enjoyed riding the machine. This wasn't just nostalgia, which could have rapidly faded if the bike turned out to be a pig. As mentioned, it was pleasant and relaxing to ride, but also it fitted me so well and seemed to have an almost human side to it. Reacting, for instance, to rain and cold with a fit of the stutters until it'd warmed itself up.
Handling was exceptionally good. By this I don't mean I could get my elbow down at 100mph but that the bike sat on the road with a great sense of security, that I had loads of feedback from the tarmac and that even when the front tyre started to slip on a patch of diesel, it would do so without any of the violence of a modern bike and a gentle twitch of the bars would pull us back from disaster. A lot of this must be down to the large wheel sizes - what a pity that fashion now dictates all bikes have to have fat seventeen inch tyres, which though incredibly sticky, rarely last for more than 5000 miles. All so silly.
Everything on the Triumph is well matched, such an integrated machine that it feels an extension of my limbs. In the real world, it could easily be dismissed as slow and vibratory but after living with it for a while it becomes like an old friend, whose limitations you don't really notice any more.
So go and buy one, or any other well fettled British twin. There is an awful lot that can go wrong, still some dodgy deals out there and you definitely shouldn't buy the first bike you see. There are some real horror stories doing the rounds. But get a good bike and it's easy to be converted into the fold, easy to wonder how the Japs have got away with ruining motorcycling...
Alex J.
It had to be said that the chassis was in fine, original fettle, reflected in the three grand asking price. The bike positively glowed with good health. The engine didn't smoke it just rattled and vibrated, didn't want to go above 70mph in top gear. I deduced that something was seriously wrong, the trouble was convincing the vendor. Despite the possible, indeed probable, hassles I yearned after the machine, something that could probably be seen in my eyes.
Could we take the machine to a mechanic to elicit an independent opinion? No, too much trouble and there were hundreds of people on the phone. I could have it for £2750 cash, take it or leave it. I squashed the yearning and left my phone number instead. Four weeks later I was offered the bike for £1500...with a seized engine. I got him down to a grand in the end!
The main bearings had failed, mangling the pistons, crankshaft and bore, Spares were readily available and with my brother's help the engine was reassembled in a weekend. Simple to work on - as long as you know what you're doing. At least I was now sure of the motor and a cursory examination of the chassis revealed it close to perfection.
I ran the motor in, very gently for the first 500 miles, then working up to 8000 revs over the next 500 miles. Luckily, the T100A was not without some low rev torque, could be run along on a minimal throttle without sending me to sleep. The sole advantage of having the pistons rise and fall together in a vertical twin's that it gives a very relaxed and assured feel at low revs.
Memories of my youth came flooding back. In the late fifties and early sixties British bikes ruled the road - and an awful lot of them were sold because youths just couldn't afford cars. I used to go around in a pack of about twenty guys on 500 and 650's. A real wild time, glorious noise and lots of willing young women - god, where have they all gone? Apart from a few mad feminists who'd I cross the road to avoid, there are almost no women involved in biking nowadays.
As I bought the Triumph in the summer it was quite fitting that I should do part of the running in by commuting to work. I was called a daft bugger by the wife when I revealed this plan, as the ancient twin surely wouldn't be up to modern roads. Well, it was and it wasn't...
As speed was limited it was a bit of a liability on the dual carriageway section of the trip. I had to watch my back as even in the slow lane many sleepy cagers ignored my presence and would happily have back-ended me! As soon as the running in was complete this wasn't a problem as the bike would plod along at 80mph without any trouble.
In town or along crowded A-roads it was a different matter entirely. Weighing only 350lbs, and having most of that mass down low, it was an easy bike to flick in and out of the cages, just growl along on the back of the torque... the note out of the exhaust was meaty without being annoying, but penetrated into the driver's cocoon and stopped ped's wandering out into my path.
A nice exhaust note's a reassuring safety factor in modern road conditions, something new bikes can't hope to match unless they are illegally modified. The upgraded front brake, a TLS drum, was more than up to stopping the bike from the moderate velocities it was able to attain. No doubt, had I thrashed the engine, kept up a 90 to 100mph pace, then a degree of fade would've set in, but in the mild riding I did I found the drum powerful enough to avoid the insane antics of the cagers yet sensitive enough to stop the tyre squealing when conditions turned treacherous.
As with the rest of the bike, the drum required only minimal attention. Do I hear gasps of disbelief out there. Well, it went like this. There was only a single carb, so no carbs to balance. Ignition was electronic thanks to Mr Boyer, so no adjustments there. There wasn't a camchain - remember pushrods? That just left the four valves to adjust or check every 500 miles - a fifteen minute, or less, chore.
Normally, on a Triumph twin, you'd have to go over all the bolts every weekend but I'd Loctited and wired in most of those, and with the range of revs I used there wasn't that much primary vibration to do any damage. It would definitely thrum away nicely once above 6000 revs but the sensible owner only uses the upper end of the rev scale for quick bursts of acceleration.
During running in, fuel was 75 to 80mpg. I know you don't want to believe that but it's true. How can a 30 year old design turn in better economy than a modern 125? Don't ask me, write nasty letters to the Japanese companies. After running in, fuel was 65 to 70mpg. A figure which included brief blasts to as much as 85mph and continuous bursts of acceleration. Included, in fact, sufficient performance to see off all cars in town and country (but not dual carriageways) and to give any number of modern motorcycles a run for their money.
What's more, over the past three years and 19000 miles, the chain hasn't worn out, the brake shoes still have plenty of meat and the back tyre, a cheapo Avon, only needed replacing at 18000 miles because I didn't like the way the Triumph wriggled over manhole covers. It did drink the oil quite heavily but as it was changed every 2500 rather than 1000 miles this was no worse than on the Jap's. All these things add up, and if you worked out the savings you'd probably find the bike has already paid for itself - not that it matters, it was just a pleasant, unexpected bonus.
What really matters was that I so enjoyed riding the machine. This wasn't just nostalgia, which could have rapidly faded if the bike turned out to be a pig. As mentioned, it was pleasant and relaxing to ride, but also it fitted me so well and seemed to have an almost human side to it. Reacting, for instance, to rain and cold with a fit of the stutters until it'd warmed itself up.
Handling was exceptionally good. By this I don't mean I could get my elbow down at 100mph but that the bike sat on the road with a great sense of security, that I had loads of feedback from the tarmac and that even when the front tyre started to slip on a patch of diesel, it would do so without any of the violence of a modern bike and a gentle twitch of the bars would pull us back from disaster. A lot of this must be down to the large wheel sizes - what a pity that fashion now dictates all bikes have to have fat seventeen inch tyres, which though incredibly sticky, rarely last for more than 5000 miles. All so silly.
Everything on the Triumph is well matched, such an integrated machine that it feels an extension of my limbs. In the real world, it could easily be dismissed as slow and vibratory but after living with it for a while it becomes like an old friend, whose limitations you don't really notice any more.
So go and buy one, or any other well fettled British twin. There is an awful lot that can go wrong, still some dodgy deals out there and you definitely shouldn't buy the first bike you see. There are some real horror stories doing the rounds. But get a good bike and it's easy to be converted into the fold, easy to wonder how the Japs have got away with ruining motorcycling...
Alex J.