Some nasty things have been said and written about Triumphs in general and Bonnies in particular, but I would venture to suggest that most of these have been perpetrated by those too young or silly to know a good thing when they see one. The analogy between bikes and women comes to mind yet again. It takes a wise and mature man to recognise and appreciate the value of a grand old tart with a heart. But she'll outlive all the flash, brash young scrubbers and, into the bargain, give you a far better ride.
But enough of that. This isn't yet another grey-beard's nostalgia trip, nor is it a review of a bike which is beyond reviews. This is a brief and painful lesson in the mysteries of Brit electrics, and it might even be of some practical use to someone.
First, though, a bit of scene setting. I've had this Bonnie for five years. She was made at Meriden, presumably by the Co-operative in 1979, and when I got her she was fully functional but just a bit rough all round.
There were a few teething problems, of course. A couple of head gaskets imparted an early lesson or two. Don't use those awful bloody composite things, use copper and check the head bolts' torque after 50 miles, 500 miles and whenever you're anywhere near the top end.
Contrary to popular myth, things don't fall off all the time. I don't know how many miles we've done because the speedo's usually non-functional, but in all this time only two components have actually come adrift, and these clearly demonstrate the cunning and foresight of Triumph designers. When the pitifully thin bracket sheared, causing the horn to fall off somewhere between Bath and Peterborough, it caught and held on the front engine mounting.
Likewise, when a similar bracket holding the rear brake fluid reservoir met a similar fate, the reservoir itself lodged perfectly on the mudguard and frame member. It was probably there for weeks. A pair of pliers and a drill replaced both in minutes.
These are, of course, exceptional failings. I could go on to extol the virtues of this magnificent machine ad infinitum, but I'll content myself by telling you that it was chosen as 'Bike I'd Most Like To Take Home' by a young lady at a recent MAG rally. Fair enough, she looked like anybody's prop-forward but the fact remains.
Down to the serious stuff - the electrics. Early last summer the previously almost unblemished performance was marred by occasional missing under load. The Bonnie started as easily as ever, with no more than the usual leap into the air antics, and went fine up to 4000rpm, but then a splutter and cough came in.
Switching on the lights had an adverse effect, too, so an electrical investigation resulted. I could feel the icy grip of electrical gremlins, the dreaded intermittent fault. Please god, let it be something obvious, anything obvious. We made a fair start. There were some pretty ropy connections in the headlight itself - there's a whole bagful of wire in there - and, joy of joys, an exposed bit of wire in the headlight switch allowing shorting on to the handlebars.
A natty bit of soldering by Steve, who knows about these things, and off we go on a test run. Horror. Only someone who has been in that awful situation, where you really think you've found the answer and suddenly find you haven't, will appreciate the feeling. No improvement. 4000 revs equals the stutters.
And this was only the early stages, so the cursing and cider consumption were still at pretty low levels. Next? Plugs, of course. No messing, two new ones despite the fact that the old ones looked fine. Result? No improvement. Plug leads, likewise. In fact, the bike was becoming worse, almost imposssible to ride any distance.
Next? Coils. Expensive stuff but fortune just occasionally smiles on Triumph owners, and did so in the form of Kev. A bearded, leather jacketed fairy godmother with an armful of electrical bits, including a coil or two. The name of the game being substitution and elimination. The first coil made no difference, the second cleared it up - 4000, 5000 and up. All I had to do was buy a new coil.
Alas, this was not to be. We thought a bit more coil juggling might be a good idea, just to be sure. For a start it ran fine with the two original coils, then failed with the substitute. On the final run it conked out altogether. This had to mean that both coils were buggered (they weren't, as subsequent bench tests showed) or something more central was at fault. This could easily have been cursing, swearing and throwing things about time, but being scholars, gentlemen and Triumph owners we just left it, hit the cider and came back another day.
The ignition amplifier seemed like a fair suspect, so we went for the substitution trick again. This would have been quite straightforward had the connectors all been the same. As it was, the combination of spades, bullets and blacksmith's solder needed some sorting. Sods' Law is a familiar companion to anyone who tangles with Brits, so the hair-raising pillion dash to the auto-electrical shop (why are they such sullen, unhelpful bastards?) and the subsequent connector swaps were a mere trifle.
The replacement amplifier had no effect at all. The bitch still started perfectly and ran up to about 4000, then died. Luckily, the death was at the top of the test hill, cunningly chosen so that the predictable failures allowed a free-fall glide down the hill and back to the garage. Free-wheeling down a twisting, near vertical, grass centred, cowshit splattered lane can be as exhilarating experience as anything on two wheels.
My electrical guru suggested the ignition timing unit as the next step. Bonnies went electronic some time before 1979, so the unit's simply a transducer/reluctor set up. These should be more or less immortal, but the winding in the transducer is a possible source of intermittent failure.
Unfortunately, Kev's spare transducer was ever so slightly different and wouldn't fit. Amazingly, the local Brit spares shop had a used one, which he let me have for a fiver and he'd have it back if it didn't do the trick (Stuart Motorcycles, Highbridge, Somerset).
And, of course, it didn't do the trick. Time for a progress check. We'd looked over the wiring for breaks and doubtful connections, changed the plugs and leads, and substituted coils, amplifier and ignition unit. What was left? Helpful suggestions included earth connections, carburation (done that) and complete rewiring. Less helpful ones featured matches and cliffs. As it was, desperation and lack of two wheels had driven me to buy a Jap and to start smoking again. Things were certainly looking very bad.
Then, with the support of Steve who'd guided and encouraged throughout the painful saga, we attempted a final once over to try to find something, anything. Somewhere beneath the battery, in a jumble of once multicoloured leads, lurks a three lead plastic connector. It joins the amplifier to the coils and battery earth. The bugger was loose. I couldn't believe that we hadn't seen it when we subbed the amplifier, but it was on the earth side and pretty unobtrusive. A few minutes work with the long-nosed pliers made the connection secure. I still can't really believe it, but the beautiful bitch started first kick and ran like the roaring, snarling brute she really is.
After all those weeks, all those missed runs, all that fiddling about... words are inadequate. There are a few morals to this tale. First, good friends are the most essential requisite for successful motorcycle maintenance, especially if you're a half-assed mechanic like me. Second, when confronted with that evil of evils, the under load, intermittent electrical fault, check every inch of wiring and every connector - twice! Third, as long as you've sufficient supplies of friends and cider, don't give up. If nothing else, you're learn something, perhaps about yourself.
Postscript: You may've noticed that in this tale of woe, misery and eventual triumph, there are no accounts of the road burning, cager paralysing, macho heroics usually favoured by UMG contributors. You will appreciate, I hope, that we connoisseurs of fine old tarts just don't need 'em. Besides, I've got a GPz1100 for that sort of nonsense.
Paul Hending