There is a great deal of snobbery in British bike circles. All the talk of the superior virtues of older bikes comes to nothing when you ride an Indian Enfield. The derision is worse than if you turn up on some Jap crap at a British bike event. Never mind that the Indian is virtually identical and in some aspects superior to the original Royal Enfield 350 Bullet and a fraction of the cost.
It was the cost that led me to purchase the five year old machine with just 12500 miles on the clock. The one owner was the typical old geezer with an asthmatic cough that was more powerful than the gentle wheeze emitted from the end of the Bullet's silencer at tickover. “Never had a day’s bother with ‘er,” he managed to communicate between coughs.
The long stroke motor looked brutish to my Japanese trained eyes and the way every function was reflected in its shape and lines near intoxicating. With only 17hp at 6000 revs you had to hang on to every virtue with something approaching desperation. The OHV 350cc thumper clattered and rattled a bit but it seemed generally sound. You couldn’t expect engineering perfection from such an old design.
I was soon to learn that a slight pool of oil was only to be expected. It was nothing to the mess some real Royal Oilfields left when | saw them at events - they were dropping oil by the bucketful. That the mirrors were rendered useless by the vibes was forgiven as I was hard pressed to find circumstances when I would want to break the law on the machine, so hardly needed to look out for blue flashing lights. Plod on bikes often waved as they passed, probably assuming I was a vintage freak on some ancient Brit and therefore to be humoured.
I had expected some kind of braking, though. The first time I tried to pull up to a halt nothing seemed to happen. I had to stand on the back brake and use knuckle busting pressure on the front before the SLS drums responded with some braking action. Even then the engine provided more retardation, having a lovely note on the overrun and plenty of engine braking.
The bike needed an MOT... much to my horror the local back street merchant gave the machine the OK without blinking an eyelid. The brakes were to provide many memorable moments and were eventually to be one of the main reasons why I sold the Enfield. The most disturbing was when a Sierra pulled out of a drive as I was ambling down some country lanes at a most pleasant 35mph. Even at that speed the brakes were next to useless and we only lost about 5mph before whacking the car’s door. I am happy to say that the front end of the Bullet revealed itself as quite tough. The car had a huge crease in its side, I had a slight dent to the rim, which was put to rights by a back street dealer for £20. I was able to ride the 35 miles home without too much worry.
The front end developed a slight wobble but once used to its handling the Enfield is not a difficult bike to control. Weighing only 360lbs it actually feels much heavier, down to conservative geometry and, by today’s standards, a huge front wheel. The bars are extraordinarily wide and provide loads of leverage for bend swinging but tend to take off car mirrors in traffic.
Suspension is all used up by my 20 stones, what little deflection remains only willing to act when the machine runs over a stone or through a huge pot-hole. Ride quality is poor over country roads, with the whole machine skipping over the surface to, at times, a rather alarming extent. The faster you go the worse it gets. In fact, I rarely if ever went above 60mph.
It wasn’t just the chassis that limited high speed fun but the vibration as well. Long stroke singles are not the easiest of devices in which to damp out vibration, although the Enfield’s massive flywheel subdues it to a reasonable extent below 5000 revs. Classic bike maniacs will try to assert that there is nothing wrong with a bit of vibration in a single, it just lets you know that the engine is turning over.
Try telling that to the spark plug that fell apart or the carb that fell off and nearly turned the bike into a fireball. Admittedly, I had not then gotten into the habit of going over the bike with a spanner after every trip! General maintenance was surprisingly infrequent, both valves and ignition timing staying well in tune for long periods.
As mentioned, performance was minimal and limited. There was enough punch to keep up with the flow of traffic up to around 50mph, although from that kind of speed you had to be damn sure you didn’t need to brake in a hurry. And, on a motorcycle on modern roads that was rather difficult. I didn’t even bother taking the bike on to the motorway, I knew it would be only a question of time until I was driven on to the hard shoulder by irate motorists.
The bike was pleasant enough down the back roads, where hours could be idled away gently pottering across the landscape. It took quite a while to get into the right frame of mind to successfully pilot the plot around the country but after a few months I began to adapt to the new demands of a mature riding style. Just about every other biker insisted on burning me off in no uncertain terms, but they were obviously socially deviant, poorly hung, macho mad idiots.
Riding in the rain would’ve made a lot of sense had not water found its way into the drums and the ignition system. Whether having no brakes whatsoever or no motive power was worse I never did decide. No satisfactory cure was ever found for the former but the ignition system eventually responded to being covered in a silicone based spray that was supposed to seal just about everything. At a tenner a can it bloody well ought to.
The one area where I could boast to my heart’s content was the fuel economy. Admittedly, the bike was always used mildly out of self preservation, but 80 to 90mpg was more than respectable for such an iron age motorcycle. Other consumables were equally slow in wearing out, so much so that in 13000 miles in a year I never had to pay out for anything. The engine ran just as well as when I'd bought it with no apparent internal wear.
Starting was still a ritual that required heady levels of concentration and a most macho pair of motorcycle boots. The latter also proved useful in thumping the gear lever (the neutral finder prompted the box to lock up until given a few more kicks, was therefore never used after the first couple of attempts). The four speed box was sluggish in action and I found it quicker to start off in second and boot her up to top as soon as possible. Even with my massive bulk aboard the torque laden motor did not seem to object.
Sometimes, a hot motor which had stalled due to clutch drag (in turn making it impossible to find neutral at a standstill when the engine was still running) proved most reluctant to start. A lot of coughing and spluttering would result from each increasingly desperate kick until just as I was about to collapse from total exhaustion the lump thumped into life, often with a huge backfire through the exhaust. The sound was so sudden and startling that in large cities the populace visibly cringed and one large chap (perhaps ex-army) dived for cover with a perfect roll).
The bike proved itself as a very reliable short distance commuter and was often the centre of attention when parked up. The dangerous lack of brakes (to an extent fixed on newer machines) made sure that I never suffered from either boredom or delusions of grandeur. Also, the electrics were never very reliable, with small fires and blowing bulbs a regular occurrence... even when the headlamp was lit it was about as much use as waving a toy torch around.
These factors conspired to persuade me that enough was enough. I bought the machine for £600 and sold it for £850, which covered my petrol costs. A year's riding for next to nothing can’t easily be scoffed at, but, still, I don‘t think I was inspired enough to want to buy another... maybe when I'm eighty and they have an electric start version.
W.T.H. Potts