BMW R100C: Round the Clock Blues

Exactly why I went with the deal, I don't know. Must have been one of those days! Some BMW's are hardy survivors, this old dear had made it around the clock, plus another 20,000 miles in the hands of a DR. The engine knocked and clattered, the gearbox made the whole heap leap a yard in the air and the front end had a mind of its own that was best described as psychotic. 300 notes was the only good thing about the deal... oh, and the tyres and brake pads were only half worn. The shaft meant no nasty chains but there was loads of wear in its joints that belied its reputation for Teutonic quality - Titanic was more like it!

The ride home needed some delicate work on the gear lever, brutality on the clutch and a mad determination on the bars - the bike veered so heavily under what was left of the acceleration that I almost caused a mass pile-up on my exit from the vibrant city of Oxford. Steady as a drunken camel at 80mph, I felt damn lucky that the vibratory Boxer mill didn't really want to rev any higher in top gear. After a fashion, and wearing a stoic grin, all was well for the next few miles until I had to stop in a hurry...

Slamming the throttle shut in a cavalier fashion gave every impression that the back wheel had fallen out, so I had little alternative but to hit on the front discs which squealed and screamed before locking up the wheel. Given that I had hardly any idea which way the tyres would skid, this wasn't exactly fun. Even less so when I discovered that the brakes had locked on solidly! Speed was dissolving rapidly as the whole bike slewed across a couple of lanes of traffic whilst I battled with the bars; the day only saved by getting both feet down.

Had I not been wearing heavy-duty boots, both ankles would've been broken rather than merely sprained! The machine made it to the side of the road in one piece but it took an almighty effort to keep it from falling on to one of the heavily scarred cylinder heads. It was at this moment in time, body and mind overdosing on adrenaline and fear, that the engine cut out with a solid clunk. BMW batteries are infamously intractable devices that live by rules yet to be defined by the human mind.

What that added up to was a battery that ground the electric boot over for a few seconds and then gave up. My idea of a perfect way to spend a summer evening - bump-starting an ancient Boxer twin with a pair of nearly broken ankles! Freed the front calipers with a couple of kicks. After a few desperate hundred yard dashes, we rounded a corner and sighted a charming pub set in the middle of rural England. I was so knackered I thought I might be hallucinating but, no, the 'No Bikers!' sign reassured me that I was in the 20th century!

I was dressed quite respectably (by motorcycle standards), just had to lock the helmet on the Beemer and saunter in all innocent, like. A few bottles of Newcastle Brown whilst I waited for those nice chaps in the AA to turn up. Word had evidently gone out, though, the barman - an ex-army type gone to seed but still at least twice my mass - searching through the crowd for the motorcycle hoodlum. I passed muster!

The AA guy arrived, jump-leaded the bike and she fired up first go. The guy grimaced at all the engine racket and said he would follow me home for the next few miles, sensing that the mill was about due to seize up. Before I could exit the car park, the barman appeared, screaming abuse, asking if I could read and enquiring about my parentage. I muttered something about riding a BMW and almost ran him over when the clutch lurch caused the bike to veer way off line.

An interesting time followed, riding a bike with no way of stopping, barely controllable handling and an engine that clunked, threatening to cut out again. The AA vehicle was nowhere to be seen in the madly churning mirror. I took it easy but still ended up in a rare sweat by the time the merry town of Colchester was sighted. The one good thing about the Beemer, the still excellent front light had cut a dazzling path through the countryside. This proved that the charging circuit must be okay, merely a knackered battery playing up.

Sure enough, the item when extracted from the rusted chassis was actually seeping acid!. It actually smelt like piss after a particularly heavy night at an Indian restaurant. The battery compartment was cracking up under the onslaught and parts of frame looked like they were just about to corrode through. Charmed and uplifted by this thought, I barely restrained myself from taking a hammer to the heap. Instead, a welding torch was waved in its general direction and a few bits of old car door (they have their uses, see, though what the neighbour thought of the hole in his Ford's door I never did find out!) welded in with an artistry that would give Heath Robinson inspiration.

After a brief look at Halford's prices for a small car battery (didn't even think about approaching a BMW dealer), Runter was despatched with instructions to procure a used one. Runter was one of those motorcycle characters who lives in a cellar (mine, actually) and has regular sessions with the local Plod. No doubt, some poor cager came back to find his car wouldn't start and the AA guy would be amazed to find an empty space where the battery should've been.

Runter had become famous way back when VW Beetles were popular- he could swap engines between cars in about 15 minutes, would buy an old wreck and half inch a motor off something that actually ran, the owner wondering why his auto was suddenly rattling and knocking just like the Boxer... which had me wondering how long it would take to swap over BMW motors. That would be a lark, though Runter, commendable chap that he is, doesn't mess with other people's motorcycles.

Runter has a passing proficiency as a mechanic - he's the kind of guy who delights in putting a 450cc cylinder and piston on one side of an R65 mill - so was despatched on the R100 once the battery was hammered in (literally as it was a tight fit). Runter's testing methods are pretty simple, full throttle, drop the clutch and see what happens. If nothing breaks it's a good one. Despite a year's worth of despatch abuse, the venerable Beemer didn't take too well to such outlandish madness...

The BMW reared up on its back wheel, then veered sideways, before crashing down, sliding along the ground before twitching back and forth from cylinder head to cylinder head. Fortunately, it was a hot day and the softened road surface was brutally ripped up rather than the machine being torn asunder. No, more damage was done by Runter, who having been spat off landed on his head (thus avoiding any serious injury), leapt up and gave the bike a good kicking with his genuine army boots.

An evil bastard, was his description after I'd stopped pissing myself with the laughter. A very long list of things needed doing but I narrowed it down to new engine/gearbox/shaft drive oil, new steering head bearings, valve clearances and caliper strip and clean. Runter was reminded of his rent free status, with plenty of muttering and a crate of beer, was left to his own devices whilst I motored around on my other steed - a much modded and rather lovely 1972 Honda CD175.

The BMW emerged from all this attention much improved. Far from perfect, it went where it was pointed, ran up to the ton before threatening to expire, and braked predictably if with unknown ferocity (students of Japanese engineering will recall that the CD175 came with a SLS drum front brake, so the comparison between the two machines was all the heavier). The state of the engine was shown up in heavy oil consumption (never worked it out, just kept adding cheap recycled stuff every day) and fuel around the 35mpg mark, as well as a need to cut out below 2000rpm.

The latter was probably the spark plugs, which refused to budge - we just knew that they were so well corroded in that if serious force was applied they would snap off in the cylinder heads, causing a major trauma. Runter suggested he could whip the heads off and clean them in situ, but I was too worried about all the mechanical mayhem that might be found inside the engine. Just rev the beast in town, the growl out of the rusted exhaust system something else!

Given that the CD175 was ideal for hustling through town, and with modded air-filter and exhaust could bumble along at 75mph on the open road whilst turning in 80mpg, what exactly was the BMW good for? Well, it scared the shit out of the ped's and cagers, not to mention myself when I forgot just how wide it was. Those cylinder heads appeared designed specifically for ripping the sides off cars and I felt rather happy that the bike was still registered in the old owner's name (the one before the DR) who was probably going grey and frail with all the irate punters and Plod turning up on his doorstep!

The open road was where the BMW was meant to shine, but a serious weave from 80mph onwards rather took the joy out of it. Mates, following the spectacle, reckoned the back wheel looked like it was about to fall out of the frame! Oddly, it never went into a frenzied speed wobble even though I was often convinced it was only moments off going wild! With its heavy fuel consumption and the way it tore through the Metz's, it wasn't a cheap bike to run (by the way, the fully enclosed chain on the CD lasted for more than 20,000 miles, so even the shaft on the BMW wasn't much of a bonus).

When some vague acquaintance offered me 600 notes it was time to say goodbye to the Bavarian bouncer. Despite listing all the faults, the guy had to have it, and he's since got the clock up to 144,000 miles!

Charlie K.