Some bikes drive you to drink, others help you avoid becoming a permanent alcoholic. For a while I was a borderline case, knocking back a bottle of whisky every day, waking up half dead and only getting going again when I hit the bottle. A friend insisted that I take his BMW R60/5 off him, which at 220,000 miles was just run in, according to him, but looked as faded as it sounded rattly even to my blurred senses.
The rotter only told me I'd need to fit new pistons after the deal was struck. Performance was pretty pathetic, defined by the slowness of the cement mixer of a gearchange and the way the shaft drive tried to undo the whole of the hopping back end. The shocks were so loose that control was not in their make-up, whilst the forks, despite the mildest of drum front brake, jumped up and down in a most perturbing way. There was no way I would ride the bike drunk; a most sobering machine.
My mind was further distracted from the demon drink by all the hassle revealed when I pulled off the cylinders. I thought it was going to be an easy touch but I ended up taking the thing down to the crankshaft, which needed a rebuild but was replaced by a spare that the previous owner just happened to have handy.
All that hard work kept me busy for a whole month, it seemed pretty obvious that I should do the chassis up at the same time. There are thousands of ways of blowing large chunks of money rebuilding boxers but I ignored them. The suspension, for instance, was fixed merely by fitting heavier duty used springs and the generator rebuilt with a few bits meant for cars.
Ready for the road, the R60 looked jolly nice but still rumbled, shook and careered down the road in a thoroughly disturbing way. Many suggest that the 600cc version of the boxer was the smoothest of the bunch but it always seemed a rough old bugger to me, with footpegs that flapped about and a petrol tank that tried to detach itself from the frame.
And what of the famed riding position and long distance comfort? I was initially disappointed, suffering wrist pains in town and developing cramps in my thighs. This may merely have been withdrawal symptoms from the lack of alcohol because after a month or so I did, indeed, find that I could run around without any great discomfort. The seat (a relatively new piece as the old one had finally fallen apart at 195,000 miles) was the most comfortable I'd ever come across, the only real intrusions into long distance happiness were the rather confounding heaviness of the clutch and throttle.
The styling wasn't exactly modern, many a pedestrian exclaiming at my bravery in riding a vintage machine on modern roads. From the saddle the bike just looks and feels very functional in that minimal Teutonic way. Poseurs will find the later models more appropriate but the R60/5 proved quite enduring; the more I used it the fonder I became of both its appearance and the way it worked.
My friend took me on the back, amazed me with the way he produced a clean, quiet gearchange - I'd assumed he was lying when he denied my charge that such a change was a complete impossibility. It took me a good nine months to perfect, even under expert instruction. It's all about perfect throttle, clutch and foot coordination, although it's just as well that the heavy flywheel made the mill so slow revving that the laggardly gearchange action didn't really matter.
In the early days I tried to ride everywhere in top gear, clutch slip below 40mph seemed preferable to shouting abuse at the gearbox. This worked for all of two weeks until the clutch slipped permanently and needed a new plate. Ignoring the clutch slip below 40mph had the back wheel hopping all over the road, more a result of the tall gearing rather than a vicious power delivery.
Power output was insufficient to put more than 95mph on the clock, despite a riding position that encouraged me to get my head down. Acceleration was slow enough to threaten to throw me into a permanent coma. The best cruising speed was 70 to 80mph, barely sufficient to stop us being run down by the caged maniacs on the motorway. Greater speeds were accompanied by some hallucination inspiring vibes, threatening my fillings, watch and even the cycle parts; most unsophisticated.
There was also the chassis. The stiffer springs stopped most of the nonsense below 70mph, but there remained some large weaves at higher speeds, even on newish Metzelers, which, incidentally, lasted for over 15000 miles a set. The weakest point in the chassis was almost certainly the swinging arm mounts which lacked bracing whilst simultaneously afflicted by vicious reaction forces from the shaft drive.
The previous owner replaced the R60 with a R100RS which repeatedly threw itself into vile speed wobbles at 90mph after weaving at 80mph. This turned out to be shot steering head bearings, so I thought I'd put a new set in mine, but apart from taking out a huge chunk of my hand with the hammer they made no difference whatsoever.
A four fold improvement in handling was wrought when I finally sussed that the rumbling at the back end was caused by shot wheel bearings, although it was still not perfect it never came close to tipping me off. To be honest, I much preferred the R100 which was tighter and lighter feeling at the same time (again, on upgraded suspension).
The R60 was very heavy going through the curves, feeling more like 500 than 400lbs, probably because the steering geometry was inspired by the older Earles fork type Beemer, although the low centre of gravity should've helped.
Boxer owners often boast about getting the cylinder heads down on the tarmac but the only way I thought it would happen would be as a prelude to falling off! That was how I felt when I actually achieved the impossible, on a bumpy road with an adverse camber that left the suspension all locked up. This is fun, I didn't think, as the back wheel was tipped off the tarmac until I flicked her upright with enough muscular input to almost tear my arms out of their sockets. The jerk took about a hundred yards of fear and loathing before it sorted itself out. Almost drove me back to drink, but after half an hour the shaking abated.
It wasn't all bad, once into the grove, after persuading my reluctant body that it didn't really need an excess of speed, I could sit on the thing for a few hours, eating up the miles as if to the grand tourer idiom born. The rough and ready (or agricultural) nature faded into the background after the first year, what had been grumpy and vibratory becoming rather asinine to the new found, alcohol free, clarity of my mind.
Economy kept astounding me, averaging out at around 70mpg even with over 250,000 miles on the accurate clock. Oil wasn't so good, hard riding needing a check every fuel stop on long rides. I think it was getting past the valves as all I'd done was regrind them rather than replace them. The shaft needed nothing more than an oil change every year. The only real maintenance chore was tightening up the spokes which weren't too amused by the assault of a hefty girlfriend, panniers, top box and tankbag full of ever so essential junk.
Initially, I adjusted the carbs every 200 miles but they went in and out of balance so fast that I left them to their own devices until the engine ran really rough. The valves were almost a joy to adjust, due to their easy accessibility but needed attention every 750 miles (as did the points); understandable given the high mileage. Overall, I didn't find it a very onerous task to keep the bike in good shape.
Well, then, I like the R60 despite all its obvious faults and miserly performance. A quick blast around the block, for the first time, is more likely to make you throw up than convert you to the boxer cause. Newer models are a better riding experience but won't last so well. It's a bit like one of those old pub characters; you're not sure how they keep on going but you're glad for the ambience they add to our increasingly bland world.
Dave Slade