When you've once owned a bike registered FKU40, you don’t forget it. Not even twenty years later. After ten years, when a day without riding a bike led to serious withdrawal symptoms, I lived through a period of grubby vans and used Cortinas as the family grew... and grew. Four kids but no bike. The habit had been kicked.
I was in a traffic queue when I saw my old number plate. It was on the back of my once brand new Vincent Comet, itself on the back of a lorry. I stuck like glue, I'd have followed it to hell and back. We passed several breaker’s yards without stopping, then halted at a dealer's showroom. I cleared out my wallet and placed a deposit before they could get the Comet off the lorry. God only knows where the rest of the money was to come from, but this was fate. A million to one chance. I had to have my bike back.
It was a mess. Anything but a Vincent and it would have been scrapped. It had suffered the indignity of pulling a sidecar and every repair for the last ten years was an almighty bodge. Most of the springs had been replaced by rubber bands and the whole bike bristled with non-standard bits trying to solve problems even Vincents had never anticipated.
The dealer was about my age and knew his history - no more Vinnies because the company had gone bust in the late fifties. His employers also knew some idiot would pay silly money for the privilege of pouring even more money into this bottomless pit of a bike. Even so, the dealer seemed touched by my general lack of guile and lunatic enthusiasm. After phoning head office, rock bottom price was £65...
I was devasted. I didn’t want to “collect” it. I wanted to ride it. It sounds silly now, but in the early seventies £65 for a heap of scrap just because it had Vincent on the tank was outrageous. Rampant inflation hadn’t hit us yet, nor had the concept of a restored Classic Bike. Everyone who wanted to ride simply bought a new, or nearly new, Triumph or BSA. A few people buzzed about on Jap tin and plastic but nobody took that seriously. I came to an agreement with the dealer. He gave me a week to raise the cash and since I had a few days holiday coming up, said I could use his workshop to make a start on the bike with occasional help from the apprentice mechanic.
The bank manager used to ride a Triumph and fell for my heart rending performance. I must have put on a good show because he wiped an eye and insisted I should have at least a hundred. We were in business. Helped by an amused apprentice and a reluctant twelve year old son - who didn’t get excited until the first time he heard the engine run - the first objective was to get through am MOT. It took three attempts. I then followed a restore while you ride policy which was slow but spread the cost and was more fun. Or it should have been.
The disappointing way in which the pride of my youth went, stopped and steered was lost in the ecstasy of the first long, 20 mile run, and I wanted an excuse for another ride. I found a spare helmet in the attic and insisted my wife join me on what was bound to be an exhilarating summer evening’s run... after about three miles the Comet began to fire erratically, spluttered, spat and stopped.
Some twenty sweaty kicks later it back-fired through the carb and burst into flames. It was sheer panic rather than quick thinking, but I managed to turn the petrol tap off before it welded itself into a permanently open position. The fire died away leaving nothing worse than a well cooked carb. My wife didn’t enjoy the three mile walk home in wellies and never went on the pillion again.
A look behind the timing chest revealed a fibre gear which carried the auto-advance and retard mechanism, which had had enough and turned itself into bread crumbs. A few weeks later the main bearings tired of going round. It felt like the hand of God bringing the machine to a halt. Clearly a decree had gone out that the Vincent should go no further - and it didn’t until a major engine rebuild had been completed.
That kept me off the road until the following spring because I could only afford to have the work done a bit at a time. Even new, mechanical silence had never been a high priority and the motor sounded like rattling nuts and bolts in an aluminium bucket. Some thought its looks so magnificent that it had been designed by God, but others described it as a plumber’s nightmare.
Other problems included an incredibly light centrifugal clutch that was either in or out - a disaster waiting to happen in traffic until you got used to it. Starting was a ritual known only to seasoned owners and the handling an acquired taste. Up to 10mph there was a weave, thereafter being replaced by a feeling of being on rails. The steering was so fixed on the straight ahead that it took a few hundred miles of practice before you got the knack of scratching.
The bike bristled with original features and advanced technology but production methods were primitive... l'd been on a pilgrimage to the factory where handmade meant the place was like a collection of blacksmith’s shops. My Comet was the poor relation to the V-twin, the rear cylinder was missing, leaving an expensive 500cc single which was not even that quick.
The attraction of the bike was that the chassis was built to the same strength and quality as the mighty V-twin. It meant you could ride this slightly over-geared single to the very limit of your ability and it would never tire or show the least sign of stress. Any time lost in acceleration was quickly made up on the bends. Bumpy exits across reverse cambers were meat and drink to the lighter Comet. Wherever you aimed it, it went! And if you ever got less than 75mpg there was a leak in the fuel system.
At least that’s how I remembered mine. Twenty years and some abuse later it’s a different story - even after careful restoration. By the time my Comet looked and went something like its old self, my twelve year old son was nearly twenty and riding his first real bike - a cafe raced 500cc BSA A50. It was a stunning looker with brisk performance matched only by its lack of reliability.
It was time to give the Comet its final test. 100 miles or so to the north lay a network of roads in the Pennines where I had once been king. I knew every bump and the fastest entry and exit line in and out of every bend, quick or slow. The only way to tell if the restored Comet was up to scratch was to ride it over those self same roads, so a weekend trip was planned with my son on his BSA for company.
You've guessed it. I hurtled into a fast bumpy bend on the right line at exactly the right speed. The Vincent showed no inclination to go where I'd aimed it, twisting and squirming like a sixties Triumph on a bad day. Worse was to come. As we approached a favourite bit of swervery, my son slipped by and left me for dead. Even my wife thought that was unkind when he told her about it.
A bit more objective testing on a down hill straight showed the rebuilt engine nearly 100mph down on maximum speed, and winding it up through the gears produced a lot of noise but not much else. OK, maybe I couldn't ride like I used to and maybe my son is much better than I thought. And some of those poor quality spares didn’t help. Was the frame just too tired? Perhaps I hadn’t put things together properly? Whatever it was I decided to sell.
Times had changed. The phone started ringing at 7.30am the day my ad appeared in MCN. By noon my original outlay of £65 plus about £50 a year spent on restoration had returned over a grand’s worth of notes. I was glad the Comet went to a rider and not a collector... he rang about a month later to tell me about this big carb, polished ports, a mod using Goldie valve springs - a ton just there for the taking and much better acceleration.
What a tragedy that collectors and investors have priced these fabulous machines out of the reach of those who would really appreciate them. But if you're in the right place at the right time, the odd, affordable if rough Comet still comes up...
Stan Barrett