I had only a very sketchy idea what it was, but I knew it was British and it had to be mine...it looked like a raw racing bike, the fever was so strong that I bought it without looking at the details. The guy agreed to deliver it to my home but the engine blew before he got there. I still wanted it and let him repair the motor.
The destruction was caused by one of the timing gears splitting in half like a walnut, causing the pushrods to tangle. Replacement effected a complete, if temporary, cure. It started about tenth kick and sounded wonderful. After the XS250 it made a noise like nirvana, it just reeked of the race track and, er, burning oil.
Closer inspection revealed a Triumph 650 engine stuffed none too neatly into a Norton slimline frame, creating a classic cafe racer. The gearbox was a close ratio Norton job, a nine stud cylinder head was less prone to cracking that the eight stud item and high compression pistons meant a hefty kick was required to start her. Many a macho friend was left limping by the bitch and a short flight through the air resulted if the motor kicked back.
This was the raw material to be moulded by my bare hands (I had very few tools in those days) into a living legend, a tarmac eating monster just like in Classic Berk. I started badly, using molegrips and went on to stiltsons - my enthusiasm knew no bounds.
The true nature of the beast was revealed as I worked - everything was utterly shagged. Swinging arm, both wheel bearings, steering head bearings.......I broke out in a cold sweat and threw it back together, hoping I wouldn't notice.
Somebody famous once said it showed strength of character to set out on a journey that you knew you may never survive. I had bags of the right stuff at the time, so set off for Bristol, about 200 miles away. The five gallon alloy tank full of petrol which slopped around, causing threepenny bit cornering and hairy moments on roundabouts. On the way it dropped a con-rod circlip, causing mechanical carnage to the bores: with inspired insight I failed to notice.
Merrily, I poured can upon can of oil into it without even once wondering where it was going. After all, they were supposed to breathe a bit, all part of their character. She got there and back, the only casualty, as far as I was concerned, was a stripped spline on the kickstart, something which happened all the time due to the compression and stupidly small Norton splines.
I arrived in the Bristol rush hour and had a fine old time slipping the clutch to keep down to 30mph, the engine was running a bit hot by then. On the way back I experienced a bit of character building exercise when she ran out of petrol with virtually no warning (no reserve tap), she just took a deep breath and stopped. Two petrol stations closed as I watched horrified from the other end of a quarter mile straight. A mile later, a bloke gave me a lift to Crowmarsh Downs, incidentally, lecturing me on the intricacies of the Velo clutch; slumped in the passenger seat I was too weak to protest.
Eventually, I did notice the engine's imitation of a two stroke as far as oil burning went, and soon the molegrips whizzed into action. After having to deal with the morons in most Jap shops, meeting an interested and alert human being behind the counter of a British bike shop came as a revelation. Several times I was directed to another shop or told of a better bit to fit.
Somehow, 200 miles didn't seem like enough of a test of bike and man, so the next trip was planned. Cornwall, and hopefully back, a total of 600 ill-considered miles. Just before departure the gearbox went west in a small way. It started to jump out of first into neutral under load, delivering a Ninja like blow to my right foot. I know now that the dog-clutches were cream crackered, but I decided the indent spring was too weak, so I put some washers under it, which proves faith is stronger than reality.
I remember the pride in a job well done I felt as I stepped back to survey my work. It still jumped but was twice as difficult to hook back into gear. Wear to the dogs was probably due to the close ratio nature of the box, as they necessitated a lot of abuse when launching. I also recall the clutch centre falling out from the same cause.
I started out at four in the morning. Darkness was all around, so was gearbox oil. Even more luggage made the handling even more hairy. A particularly huge pothole in Berkhampstead almost fetched me off and did serious damage which I studiously failed to notice. Exeter was coming into view when the handling deteriorated to an extent that even I couldn't fail to detect - two lanes of carriageway proved insufficient and I ended up on the verge feeling sick.
My first puncture. I had to lay the beast down (no stands) to get the wheel off and start walking. In my opinion Sunday is the only day to have a flat, people are much more sympathetic and a guy gave me a lift to a friendly garage where I was given an old tube and instructed in the use of tyre levers free of charge. I refitted the wheel and was on my way again in an hour feeling able to cope with anything.
The one in four hill up to my parents alpine retreat was negotiated in first, neutral, second and pink, pink, pink. I arrived at the holiday cottage in Mousehole filthy and tired but indomitable. The journey back was equally uneventful, until the damage done in Berks started to make itself felt. A bit of a wobble developed into full scale jelly on stilts in the cross winds all too common on the A30.
My confidence knew no bounds so I stripped the steering head in a quiet spot. After reassembling it, I continued in the conviction that I had cured it. Of course, it was worse, but I had run out of knowledge so I carried on at moped speeds. Briefly, I experimented with the steering damper but became discouraged when a hefty twist resulted in a lock to lock weave.
Something was happening in Wiltshire. Groups of bikers were being stopped by the police. I toddled ever onwards, unaware that the police were fixing to have a riot the next day; even the razor wire around Stonehenge failed to alert me. Amazingly, they failed to stop probably the most unroadworthy vehicle in the country.
I wobbled on with another puncture at Thatchen where I met a nice man who raced Norton outfits, who smiled in disbelief at my pride and joy, but gave me another tube anyway, and a file to remove the rust that was causing the deflationary tendencies.
About a week later I found the cause of the handling problems. Norton had the bright idea of using an alloy pinch bolt arrangement on the fork leg - it fell off. I fitted a modified leg with grubscrews, just like Norton used when racing.
After my extensive touring successes, my thoughts ranged far and wide. A suitable challenge, what else but a Continental excursion to a 24 hour endurance race, to see how the pros handled the sort of problems I handled every day. The Belgians seemed to be running contrary to their reputation by staging something interesting, and not too far into enemy territory. Plans were made, a new front tyre fitted, tickets were bought.
Again, an early start, travelling through London so early that it took the only taxi on Hyde Park Corner minutes to catch up and cut me up. It started to rain heavily but I was going well until I got to Rochester when the right-hand silencer fell off, and later the clutch exploded. Working against the clock, I pushed the bike under a handy bridge next to the police station. The clutch responded to treatment but the magneto decided to pop out of its cam ring. With sparks occurring at every point but the right one she literally breathed fire, through the carbs.
It started to snow, I started to swear. True to her Brit soul she did not want to go abroad, and it ended up thus. I had just finished reassembling the mag when a chap and chapess pulled up on an XS400, grinning, he said, 'Lovely Briton, I always wanted one, want to swap?' We exchanged documents at his house, although it broke down twice on route to his place. He invited me to visit any time. Possibly for the first time in my life I got sensible and never went near the place again.
A couple of weeks later he sent me a letter, mentioning that it had ruined its mains but by that time Classic Berk had done a special on the things and their value had shot up, so I thought he was adequately compensated. He had been warned.
That bike was the most unreliable machine I ever owned, but also the most enjoyable. Now, I'm older I still ride worn out bikes, but I often say that if you want to get somewhere you go by train, if you want to have an adventure go on one of my bikes.
Jon Guyver