From the tales I've read in the UMG, and elsewhere, this article on the joys of British motorcycles could have easily been entitled British Bikes Endured. Taken out of context of the whole experience, I could fill a few pages with tales of disaster, highway mishaps and mechanical carnage, experienced over 40 years of biking. But the bottom line on all this is that I’m still riding British motorcycles and the overall experience is much more entertaining than irritating. Honest!
Quite where it all started is lost in the mists of time. Vague memories of pre-war field bikes ridden at ten or eleven on a cousin's farm... pillion rides on dad’s Sunbeam... a ratty B31 with a dog enraging bellow and an excess of vibration. I think it all began before I even sat astride a motorcycle, I think it was an inherited trait; one that has been passed on to my own children and their grandchildren - once in the blood it was difficult to shift.
But let’s start when I was sixteen and piloting a Triumph Terrier, an earlier, smaller (150cc) version of the famous Tiger Cub. This was a good place to start - light in mass (about 200lbs), a useful eight horses at a heady 6000 revs and quite reasonable handling. A mix of sensations - rorty motor, awkward gearbox and seemingly direct suspension, each and every road imperfection being fed into my arms and backside.
The bike wasn't new but neither was it on its last legs. I'd been taught the basics of maintenance and riding, wasn't an accident looking for somewhere to happen. Yet, at a mere sixteen there was lots of easy joy coursing through my veins; soon, the little thumper was straining every where at maximum velocities.
A 60mph top speed wouldn't do much against today’s restricted 125s, but the bike had an inner fury all of its own. No need to look at the clock to see how fast it was going, just feel the vibration feeding through every point of the chassis and note the way the front tyre went all loose when flat out. I should've known better, but there you go... the Terrier was really designed to plod along at 30 to 50mph, giving good economy (150mpg?) and reliability.
Somehow, I got away with 5000 miles of riding without blowing up the engine (I did the oil and maintenance every 500 miles, part of the deal with my parents who paid for the bike). Before I traded it for the next cycle, the top end did ring heavily and it burnt oil like a stroker. Despite its obvious limitations, especially in retrospect, I went all over Yorkshire, couldn't keep off the little thing.
Next in line was a BSA C11. I don't know what visions of vintage vitality that name conjures up, but it was a 1940 relic that had escaped army abuse and had an upgraded front end off a later Triumph - stock, the forks and tiny drum brake were barely up to moped speeds.
Quite where it all started is lost in the mists of time. Vague memories of pre-war field bikes ridden at ten or eleven on a cousin's farm... pillion rides on dad’s Sunbeam... a ratty B31 with a dog enraging bellow and an excess of vibration. I think it all began before I even sat astride a motorcycle, I think it was an inherited trait; one that has been passed on to my own children and their grandchildren - once in the blood it was difficult to shift.
But let’s start when I was sixteen and piloting a Triumph Terrier, an earlier, smaller (150cc) version of the famous Tiger Cub. This was a good place to start - light in mass (about 200lbs), a useful eight horses at a heady 6000 revs and quite reasonable handling. A mix of sensations - rorty motor, awkward gearbox and seemingly direct suspension, each and every road imperfection being fed into my arms and backside.
The bike wasn't new but neither was it on its last legs. I'd been taught the basics of maintenance and riding, wasn't an accident looking for somewhere to happen. Yet, at a mere sixteen there was lots of easy joy coursing through my veins; soon, the little thumper was straining every where at maximum velocities.
A 60mph top speed wouldn't do much against today’s restricted 125s, but the bike had an inner fury all of its own. No need to look at the clock to see how fast it was going, just feel the vibration feeding through every point of the chassis and note the way the front tyre went all loose when flat out. I should've known better, but there you go... the Terrier was really designed to plod along at 30 to 50mph, giving good economy (150mpg?) and reliability.
Somehow, I got away with 5000 miles of riding without blowing up the engine (I did the oil and maintenance every 500 miles, part of the deal with my parents who paid for the bike). Before I traded it for the next cycle, the top end did ring heavily and it burnt oil like a stroker. Despite its obvious limitations, especially in retrospect, I went all over Yorkshire, couldn't keep off the little thing.
Next in line was a BSA C11. I don't know what visions of vintage vitality that name conjures up, but it was a 1940 relic that had escaped army abuse and had an upgraded front end off a later Triumph - stock, the forks and tiny drum brake were barely up to moped speeds.
One immediate feature of the BSA was the single saddle, a leftover from their days as a pushbike manufacturer and designed in conjunction with the government to limit the postwar population explosion. They were popular with the poofters as the resulting funny walk, after as little as 20 miles, gave them an air of easy virtue.
A dual saddle was quickly added with some extra tubing to support the somewhat flimsy rear end. In fact, the whole frame reeked of the bicycle era but, no doubt, it was cheap to make and hence sell into the commuter and fleet market.
The only reason I bought the bike was because it seemed powerful. Straight through exhaust that shook the foundations of our house. Huge, open carb that sucked in passing insects and any cats that were unlucky enough to be in the immediate vicinity. The 249cc OHV engine had opened out ports, large valves, high-lift cam lobes and radical valve timing.
Or it seemed pretty radical at the time. Starting required four hands. One to close off the bellmouth, one to juggle the throttle and the other two to brace myself against the machine in case the dreaded kickback occurred. A very careful but full bodied kick was needed to avoid being thrown up into the air and over the house! Starting was one of those great unknowns - sometimes it'd purr into life first go, other times it'd wait until I was a sweat drenched physical wreck before bellowing into life.
Then there was the warming up period. Ignoring this resulted in a dead engine (obviously, I'd already freed up the clutch by kicking the cold mill over a few times!). The quickest way of warming the motor up was to blip the throttle for five minutes. This provided no end of amusement for my neighbours who came rushing out, cursing away that their windows were about to break, pictures were falling off walls and manic dogs were biting the heads off their children. I pretended not to hear them, not that hard as I was going deaf very young.
But what a thrill when she came on cam. Mind blowing acceleration and a heady 75mph top speed. Yes, I know your restricted 125 can do that but you missed out on the blurred vision and having a pneumatic hammer between your legs. As well as a frame that gave every indication that it was trying to tear both itself and the whole machine apart. Directional accuracy wasn't a concept readily embraced by the C11. The only thing that saved me from death was the non-standard front end and the vicious braking, aided and abetted by racing linings in the drum.
lt may seem mad, but I actually enjoyed every moment on the C11. It was just so raw that all the many frustrations were overcome. It was also quite practical, nothing seemed to wear out at all and fuel was close to 90mpg. Two years and about 14000 miles equated to three engine rebuilds and two gearbox explosions, the latter just not up to the power. I always knew when the engine needed a rebuild because vibration became so intense that the petrol tank ruptured. Luckily the whole thing was never engulfed in an excess of flames.
My happiness and contentment with the C11, more than anything else, was down to not knowing any better. Ignorance was bliss until yet another BSA caught my eye. A newish BSA A7SS Shooting Star. In a slightly faded fern green, its chrome and polished alloy shone beautifully in the back street dealers showroom. He was willing to accept the C11 as part of the deal and my family agreed to sign the finance, hoping that the relative quietness of the new steed would placate the neighbours.
The A7 felt huge after my past couple of singles, though by today’s standards it’s about on a par with a Suzuki GS450E. The latter, though, a pile of crap in my humble, totally unbiased, opinion. The seat seemed unrealistically high, I just didn’t feel part of the machine. I was a bit doubtful about it all until I rode off. Unbelievably smooth ride from the sophisticated suspension (two to three inches of travel at each end) and a motor that seemed turbine smooth, although in reality it was just two 250cc singles designed into one casing.
Power really flowed in once 4000 revs, or so, were dialled in. Then she flew, petrol tank vibrating between my knees and bars shimmering in my hands. 85.. 90... 95... 97... 98... 99... 100mph! My first ton up run! Only problem was that the straight was rapidly coming to an end. Slammed the throttle shut, prayed and heaved on the brakes. These were SLS drums both, but nothing extravagant and as I was to find out, prone to fade.
I hurtled into the corner with the suspension seized up under the braking effort. Tried to heel her over but there seemed so much momentum that it went as awry as an overloaded wheelbarrow and I ended up riding straight off the road. Luckily, there was a slip road that I could avail myself of. Unluckily, this was covered in gravel and caught the front wheel out. The slide was very traumatic.
When I came to, I’d had most of the flesh ripped off one leg and a gnash in the side of my head. Yes, these were the days when men were men and crash helmets were optional. Some time later I woke up in hospital, still in one piece but in great pain - my first thought was for the fate of the BSA. By the worried and sad faces around me I knew it was goner. Not quite, they were just mourning my close encounter with death.
Six months later I was able to get to grips with the venerable if scarred BSA. The frame and engine were basically fine. Everything else was dead. A variety of bits were scoured from the locality and knocked on to the reluctant frame, which had probably thought it’d deserved a well earned retirement. The resulting machine turned eyes for all the wrong reasons. But what could I do? I was still paying for the BSA and could only afford the cheapest components. They completely spoilt the old girl, but didn't stop her from providing me with endless miles of pleasure and the odd bit of pain.
Regularly serviced and oiled, the motor itself proved a remarkable testament to the prowess of the British motorcycle industry. Six years of abuse, 45000 miles of enjoyment, added up to a rebuilt cylinder head, new primary chain plus a rebore and set of oversize pistons. For sure, the engine rattled, leaked a bit of oil and had increased its vibration, but when I sold it I didn’t feel that I was offloading a dying dog but that I was finding a new home for an old friend. Over the years, I’d bought proper A7 parts to get her back to the correct spec and she looked as good new when I sold her.
A dual saddle was quickly added with some extra tubing to support the somewhat flimsy rear end. In fact, the whole frame reeked of the bicycle era but, no doubt, it was cheap to make and hence sell into the commuter and fleet market.
The only reason I bought the bike was because it seemed powerful. Straight through exhaust that shook the foundations of our house. Huge, open carb that sucked in passing insects and any cats that were unlucky enough to be in the immediate vicinity. The 249cc OHV engine had opened out ports, large valves, high-lift cam lobes and radical valve timing.
Or it seemed pretty radical at the time. Starting required four hands. One to close off the bellmouth, one to juggle the throttle and the other two to brace myself against the machine in case the dreaded kickback occurred. A very careful but full bodied kick was needed to avoid being thrown up into the air and over the house! Starting was one of those great unknowns - sometimes it'd purr into life first go, other times it'd wait until I was a sweat drenched physical wreck before bellowing into life.
Then there was the warming up period. Ignoring this resulted in a dead engine (obviously, I'd already freed up the clutch by kicking the cold mill over a few times!). The quickest way of warming the motor up was to blip the throttle for five minutes. This provided no end of amusement for my neighbours who came rushing out, cursing away that their windows were about to break, pictures were falling off walls and manic dogs were biting the heads off their children. I pretended not to hear them, not that hard as I was going deaf very young.
But what a thrill when she came on cam. Mind blowing acceleration and a heady 75mph top speed. Yes, I know your restricted 125 can do that but you missed out on the blurred vision and having a pneumatic hammer between your legs. As well as a frame that gave every indication that it was trying to tear both itself and the whole machine apart. Directional accuracy wasn't a concept readily embraced by the C11. The only thing that saved me from death was the non-standard front end and the vicious braking, aided and abetted by racing linings in the drum.
lt may seem mad, but I actually enjoyed every moment on the C11. It was just so raw that all the many frustrations were overcome. It was also quite practical, nothing seemed to wear out at all and fuel was close to 90mpg. Two years and about 14000 miles equated to three engine rebuilds and two gearbox explosions, the latter just not up to the power. I always knew when the engine needed a rebuild because vibration became so intense that the petrol tank ruptured. Luckily the whole thing was never engulfed in an excess of flames.
My happiness and contentment with the C11, more than anything else, was down to not knowing any better. Ignorance was bliss until yet another BSA caught my eye. A newish BSA A7SS Shooting Star. In a slightly faded fern green, its chrome and polished alloy shone beautifully in the back street dealers showroom. He was willing to accept the C11 as part of the deal and my family agreed to sign the finance, hoping that the relative quietness of the new steed would placate the neighbours.
The A7 felt huge after my past couple of singles, though by today’s standards it’s about on a par with a Suzuki GS450E. The latter, though, a pile of crap in my humble, totally unbiased, opinion. The seat seemed unrealistically high, I just didn’t feel part of the machine. I was a bit doubtful about it all until I rode off. Unbelievably smooth ride from the sophisticated suspension (two to three inches of travel at each end) and a motor that seemed turbine smooth, although in reality it was just two 250cc singles designed into one casing.
Power really flowed in once 4000 revs, or so, were dialled in. Then she flew, petrol tank vibrating between my knees and bars shimmering in my hands. 85.. 90... 95... 97... 98... 99... 100mph! My first ton up run! Only problem was that the straight was rapidly coming to an end. Slammed the throttle shut, prayed and heaved on the brakes. These were SLS drums both, but nothing extravagant and as I was to find out, prone to fade.
I hurtled into the corner with the suspension seized up under the braking effort. Tried to heel her over but there seemed so much momentum that it went as awry as an overloaded wheelbarrow and I ended up riding straight off the road. Luckily, there was a slip road that I could avail myself of. Unluckily, this was covered in gravel and caught the front wheel out. The slide was very traumatic.
When I came to, I’d had most of the flesh ripped off one leg and a gnash in the side of my head. Yes, these were the days when men were men and crash helmets were optional. Some time later I woke up in hospital, still in one piece but in great pain - my first thought was for the fate of the BSA. By the worried and sad faces around me I knew it was goner. Not quite, they were just mourning my close encounter with death.
Six months later I was able to get to grips with the venerable if scarred BSA. The frame and engine were basically fine. Everything else was dead. A variety of bits were scoured from the locality and knocked on to the reluctant frame, which had probably thought it’d deserved a well earned retirement. The resulting machine turned eyes for all the wrong reasons. But what could I do? I was still paying for the BSA and could only afford the cheapest components. They completely spoilt the old girl, but didn't stop her from providing me with endless miles of pleasure and the odd bit of pain.
Regularly serviced and oiled, the motor itself proved a remarkable testament to the prowess of the British motorcycle industry. Six years of abuse, 45000 miles of enjoyment, added up to a rebuilt cylinder head, new primary chain plus a rebore and set of oversize pistons. For sure, the engine rattled, leaked a bit of oil and had increased its vibration, but when I sold it I didn’t feel that I was offloading a dying dog but that I was finding a new home for an old friend. Over the years, I’d bought proper A7 parts to get her back to the correct spec and she looked as good new when I sold her.
By then it was 1966. Hordes of Japanese motorcycles had appeared on our roads. Buzz boxes, rice burners, smoking strokers, call them what you will, but I could have nothing to do with them then and it’s just as true today. I’m not sure why exactly. Memories of what the bastards did in the war, though I was too young to serve, played a part. I do know it use to drive my old man completely nuts and I’m surprised all the riders weren't hung, drawn and quartered.
And the sheer cheek of it. They said the Japs didn’t leak oil, didn't break down despite revving to obscene heights and that a 350 could burn off our own 650’s. I was having none of that nonsense, went searching for fastest, baddest big twin I could find. The king of the road, Vincents aside (and who could afford one of those?), at that time was undoubtedly the Triumph Bonneville.
Unfortunately, their prices were a bit beyond me as I wanted to treat myself to a brand new machine. Instead I bought a Triumph TR6, basically the single carb version of the Bonnie which to all extents and purposes was just as fast. In the road tests the Bonnie would win out but only because the rider was willing to thrash the engine until it jumped up and down in the frame at 8000 revs.
Around that time my neighbour bought a Black Bomber, a horrible Honda 450cc twin with a massive motor that contained DOHC’s and other frivolous bits of so-called engineering. It was inevitable that I would have to put this traitor firmly in his place. Both machines were run in so there would be no excuses and only one winner - or so we thought.
I've never been so shamed in all my life. Right from the start, the Honda screamed up the highway, buoyed along on what sounded like 12000 revs to my disbelieving ears. By the time I'd worked my way up to second he was fast disappearing. It wasn’t that he had so much more power - he didn't, they both had 40 to 45 horses but that he worked his throttle like a madman, an aberration that to me was like taking a hammer to my engine.
He claimed a 120mph top speed against 110mph on my beloved Triumph, further putting the boot in by reckoning on averaging 70 against my own 60mpg. I couldn't believe that the Japs had got so far ahead of the game on a bike 200cc smaller than my own. True, the Triumph still had better handling but what was the use of that if I wasn't even on the same bit of road as him?
He was basking in glory for a whole week. Then his camshaft bearings went. There was, after all, a God in his heaven! His manic revving from cold meant too high revs before enough oil had made it to the top end. Glory be, these Japanese engineers weren't perfect. Although the bike was repaired under guarantee, he was somewhat more restrained on the throttle, letting me take the lead on the magnificent British twin.
What the Japanese hadn't quite learnt was that if you were going to build in faults, you should wait until the bike’s well out of the guarantee before they turn up. Hence 15000 miles down the road did the Triumph turn out to be a big pain. I have to admit that with all the rice burners to put down I'd been riding the TR6 rather hard, more often than not around the 100mph mark. Judging by the amount of secondary vibes put out, the engine didn’t like this at all.
One sunny morning in 1968, she was most reluctant to start the way I’d been bought up, it was usually a one kick affair (OK, four actually, but the first three were just to free up the clutch plates). Half an hour later she finally rattled and smoked into life. I had noticed some engine noise and fumes previously but this time there was a loud knocking noise from the bottom end.
And the sheer cheek of it. They said the Japs didn’t leak oil, didn't break down despite revving to obscene heights and that a 350 could burn off our own 650’s. I was having none of that nonsense, went searching for fastest, baddest big twin I could find. The king of the road, Vincents aside (and who could afford one of those?), at that time was undoubtedly the Triumph Bonneville.
Unfortunately, their prices were a bit beyond me as I wanted to treat myself to a brand new machine. Instead I bought a Triumph TR6, basically the single carb version of the Bonnie which to all extents and purposes was just as fast. In the road tests the Bonnie would win out but only because the rider was willing to thrash the engine until it jumped up and down in the frame at 8000 revs.
Around that time my neighbour bought a Black Bomber, a horrible Honda 450cc twin with a massive motor that contained DOHC’s and other frivolous bits of so-called engineering. It was inevitable that I would have to put this traitor firmly in his place. Both machines were run in so there would be no excuses and only one winner - or so we thought.
I've never been so shamed in all my life. Right from the start, the Honda screamed up the highway, buoyed along on what sounded like 12000 revs to my disbelieving ears. By the time I'd worked my way up to second he was fast disappearing. It wasn’t that he had so much more power - he didn't, they both had 40 to 45 horses but that he worked his throttle like a madman, an aberration that to me was like taking a hammer to my engine.
He claimed a 120mph top speed against 110mph on my beloved Triumph, further putting the boot in by reckoning on averaging 70 against my own 60mpg. I couldn't believe that the Japs had got so far ahead of the game on a bike 200cc smaller than my own. True, the Triumph still had better handling but what was the use of that if I wasn't even on the same bit of road as him?
He was basking in glory for a whole week. Then his camshaft bearings went. There was, after all, a God in his heaven! His manic revving from cold meant too high revs before enough oil had made it to the top end. Glory be, these Japanese engineers weren't perfect. Although the bike was repaired under guarantee, he was somewhat more restrained on the throttle, letting me take the lead on the magnificent British twin.
What the Japanese hadn't quite learnt was that if you were going to build in faults, you should wait until the bike’s well out of the guarantee before they turn up. Hence 15000 miles down the road did the Triumph turn out to be a big pain. I have to admit that with all the rice burners to put down I'd been riding the TR6 rather hard, more often than not around the 100mph mark. Judging by the amount of secondary vibes put out, the engine didn’t like this at all.
One sunny morning in 1968, she was most reluctant to start the way I’d been bought up, it was usually a one kick affair (OK, four actually, but the first three were just to free up the clutch plates). Half an hour later she finally rattled and smoked into life. I had noticed some engine noise and fumes previously but this time there was a loud knocking noise from the bottom end.
Down to a mate who was working as a mechanic... everything, except the excellent gearbox, was worn out. He did a rebuild me for me on the cheap, not a total disaster, but not very inspiring. Just to put the record straight, I know one guy who did 80000 miles on a TR6 but he was a very mild rider who never went over 5000 revs.
The Triumph would slog away at low revs without any trouble whatsoever, felt nice and relaxed with just the merest hint of vibration, the kind of stuff that rapidly fades into the background and is really just the motor telling you that all’s well. Ridden mildly, these big twins are the business.
I should’ve learnt my lesson but in 1968 I traded the TR6 in for a rorty Triton. Slimline frame, massively worked over pre-unit Bonnie engine and the kind of cafe racer riding position beloved of the modern race replica crowd. Nickel plated frame, big TLS front drum, Manx petrol tank... in short, the business!
Not for nothing were all the bolts wired in. Big, tuned British twins vibrate, especially when they are placed in different frames. Oh, it was a brute. 130mph on the clock, as near as I could read it as it was bouncing in its alloy bracket. Superb handling - stable yet easily flickable. Diabolical brakes that were on/off in action and stopped working in the wet. A riding position that stretched me out over the long petrol tank, that was truly wretched below the ton.
It was the sixties version of the GSXR1100 (I think, never having ridden one but read about them in the UMG). A mixture of fantastic fun and pure agony. I’ll never forget the time I burnt off a plod Jaguar (doesn’t that take you back to all those cops and robbers shows). The poor bastards didn’t know what had hit them. I only did it because the rear number plate had fallen off a few miles back! And, yes, a sharp eye had to be kept open for screws, engine covers, oil pumps (even the tank!), etc coming loose, but it was really nothing more than a thirty minute check over each and every day.
Three years, god knows how many miles (the speedo kept breaking), lots of engine work and an amazing amount of good times. I would’ve kept the bike for ever but a friend wanted to sell his Vincent 1000, a Series B, in faded but nice condition. He took the Triton and a few notes in exchange.
I don’t know what I was expecting from Britain’s early superbike but it certainly wasn’t the speed wobbles every time I wound her up to 90mph. Nor a malicious clutch that had a mind of its own, causing me to leap into a pack of pedestrians and knock in the back of a Ford Anglia. Nor the way the thing would refuse to start for days on end. My friend kept telling me it was an acquired art without revealing any secrets. I sold it to a coal miner up in the Welsh Valleys, who stomped on the kickstart and fired it up straight away. Oh well, another dream shattered.
1972, and the Japanese were ruling the roost. Huge fours, dangerous three cylinder triples, an excess of twins (I was almost tempted by the Yamaha XS650). God, they were everywhere and the British industry was on the rocks. A BSA Rocket Three took my fancy. Those fishtail silencers and all my happy memories with the marque. A big three cylinder machine based on the Triumph Trident engine, which many a cynic reckoned was merely one and a half Daytona’s cobbled together. A test ride revealed unknown smoothness, a lack of low end grunt and searing acceleration once she came on cam. Also a lot of weight but good stability.
It was two years old with 8000 miles on the clock. Bound to have loads of life left in it. Well, it did and it didn’t. Let’s say first that the bike took me through the whole of Europe over the next five years. It did over 100000 miles and never let me down on the road.
The Triumph would slog away at low revs without any trouble whatsoever, felt nice and relaxed with just the merest hint of vibration, the kind of stuff that rapidly fades into the background and is really just the motor telling you that all’s well. Ridden mildly, these big twins are the business.
I should’ve learnt my lesson but in 1968 I traded the TR6 in for a rorty Triton. Slimline frame, massively worked over pre-unit Bonnie engine and the kind of cafe racer riding position beloved of the modern race replica crowd. Nickel plated frame, big TLS front drum, Manx petrol tank... in short, the business!
Not for nothing were all the bolts wired in. Big, tuned British twins vibrate, especially when they are placed in different frames. Oh, it was a brute. 130mph on the clock, as near as I could read it as it was bouncing in its alloy bracket. Superb handling - stable yet easily flickable. Diabolical brakes that were on/off in action and stopped working in the wet. A riding position that stretched me out over the long petrol tank, that was truly wretched below the ton.
It was the sixties version of the GSXR1100 (I think, never having ridden one but read about them in the UMG). A mixture of fantastic fun and pure agony. I’ll never forget the time I burnt off a plod Jaguar (doesn’t that take you back to all those cops and robbers shows). The poor bastards didn’t know what had hit them. I only did it because the rear number plate had fallen off a few miles back! And, yes, a sharp eye had to be kept open for screws, engine covers, oil pumps (even the tank!), etc coming loose, but it was really nothing more than a thirty minute check over each and every day.
Three years, god knows how many miles (the speedo kept breaking), lots of engine work and an amazing amount of good times. I would’ve kept the bike for ever but a friend wanted to sell his Vincent 1000, a Series B, in faded but nice condition. He took the Triton and a few notes in exchange.
I don’t know what I was expecting from Britain’s early superbike but it certainly wasn’t the speed wobbles every time I wound her up to 90mph. Nor a malicious clutch that had a mind of its own, causing me to leap into a pack of pedestrians and knock in the back of a Ford Anglia. Nor the way the thing would refuse to start for days on end. My friend kept telling me it was an acquired art without revealing any secrets. I sold it to a coal miner up in the Welsh Valleys, who stomped on the kickstart and fired it up straight away. Oh well, another dream shattered.
1972, and the Japanese were ruling the roost. Huge fours, dangerous three cylinder triples, an excess of twins (I was almost tempted by the Yamaha XS650). God, they were everywhere and the British industry was on the rocks. A BSA Rocket Three took my fancy. Those fishtail silencers and all my happy memories with the marque. A big three cylinder machine based on the Triumph Trident engine, which many a cynic reckoned was merely one and a half Daytona’s cobbled together. A test ride revealed unknown smoothness, a lack of low end grunt and searing acceleration once she came on cam. Also a lot of weight but good stability.
It was two years old with 8000 miles on the clock. Bound to have loads of life left in it. Well, it did and it didn’t. Let’s say first that the bike took me through the whole of Europe over the next five years. It did over 100000 miles and never let me down on the road.
Brilliant, right? Not quite, because it had a pig of a cylinder head design that burnt out its valves, spat out rockers and bent its pushrods. This happened every cylinder head and swap it over every 9000 miles. As well as this preventative maintenance I kept a careful eye on the primary chain and, of course, all the nuts and bolts.
The bike was a very useful tool for Continental touring. It remained stable when loaded up with an excess of gear, could comfortably be cruised at 90 to 100mph for a couple of hours, and although heavy could still be ridden slowly over slippery cobbled roads in places like Belgium. Altogether an impressive machine if slightly flawed in its engine design. It sold quickly in 1977 and I was very sad to see it go.
Family commitments meant that extravagant touring was out but I was allowed a bike for commuting and weekend work. A 1972 Commando 850 was purchased. I’d heard all the stories about exploding crankshafts, breaking valves, terrible points, etc. But this one was different. Rebuilt engine with Superblend bearings, the mildest of camshafts, low compression ratio, totally oil tight engine - in short, a real softy! An ideal complement to my domestic bliss.
Certainly, the handling was well weird. Stupidly, Norton had decided to use Isolastic bushes to isolate both the engine and the gearbox from the frame, which meant the swinging arm was only somewhat tenuously connected to the actual frame. This from a company that had defined good handling with their Featherbed frames in the sixties. And one with the only engine design that retained a separate gearbox - why on earth didn’t they just isolate the engine? The result wasn’t as bad as you’d expect, just some shimmying through the bends. Until the swinging arm’s shims get a bit loose then it went into some speed wobbles that cured constipation. After the first time I checked the clearances every week without fail - a minor hassle compared to falling off and killing myself.
I| loved the big old engine, which apart from shuffling around at low revs was smooth up to 70mph and put out an excess of torque. Just shove it into fourth and use the throttle to go. Couldn't be easier. The bike was also quite narrow and agile, able to shoot through traffic. No problem with erring cars or deaf peds as the exhaust roar shook windows, sent tremors through the ground and caused cagers to swivel every which way trying to figure out where the tractor was.
This was just as well because the electrics were marginal and prone to breaking down. Lost count of the number of batteries I went through and the big capacitor had a tendency to burst into flames, so was dumped. Despite being used mildly, fuel was a poor 40mpg and I had some trouble with the valve guides. The rest of the engine was remarkably tough - 50000 miles in ten years without any replacements. The key was its mild state of tune and my mild riding. A lesson well learnt. By the time I sold it the original chrome was a bit rusted, the suspension was loose and the paint very faded. I should've looked after it better but my enthusiasm was eaten up by work, family, house moving, etc.
By 1988 I was looking for something a bit less imposing than a big vertical twin. The solution came in the form of a BSA Bantam D10. They had the cheek to call this model the Supreme but it was basically just a sixties commuter. Amazingly, this one had just a single owner who'd spent the previous five years rebuilding it to as new spec. This included the original, minimal suspension which made me feel my age over modern roads. And, god help me, tiny single sided drum brakes that would have been hard pressed on a Honda Melody.
The bike was a very useful tool for Continental touring. It remained stable when loaded up with an excess of gear, could comfortably be cruised at 90 to 100mph for a couple of hours, and although heavy could still be ridden slowly over slippery cobbled roads in places like Belgium. Altogether an impressive machine if slightly flawed in its engine design. It sold quickly in 1977 and I was very sad to see it go.
Family commitments meant that extravagant touring was out but I was allowed a bike for commuting and weekend work. A 1972 Commando 850 was purchased. I’d heard all the stories about exploding crankshafts, breaking valves, terrible points, etc. But this one was different. Rebuilt engine with Superblend bearings, the mildest of camshafts, low compression ratio, totally oil tight engine - in short, a real softy! An ideal complement to my domestic bliss.
Certainly, the handling was well weird. Stupidly, Norton had decided to use Isolastic bushes to isolate both the engine and the gearbox from the frame, which meant the swinging arm was only somewhat tenuously connected to the actual frame. This from a company that had defined good handling with their Featherbed frames in the sixties. And one with the only engine design that retained a separate gearbox - why on earth didn’t they just isolate the engine? The result wasn’t as bad as you’d expect, just some shimmying through the bends. Until the swinging arm’s shims get a bit loose then it went into some speed wobbles that cured constipation. After the first time I checked the clearances every week without fail - a minor hassle compared to falling off and killing myself.
I| loved the big old engine, which apart from shuffling around at low revs was smooth up to 70mph and put out an excess of torque. Just shove it into fourth and use the throttle to go. Couldn't be easier. The bike was also quite narrow and agile, able to shoot through traffic. No problem with erring cars or deaf peds as the exhaust roar shook windows, sent tremors through the ground and caused cagers to swivel every which way trying to figure out where the tractor was.
This was just as well because the electrics were marginal and prone to breaking down. Lost count of the number of batteries I went through and the big capacitor had a tendency to burst into flames, so was dumped. Despite being used mildly, fuel was a poor 40mpg and I had some trouble with the valve guides. The rest of the engine was remarkably tough - 50000 miles in ten years without any replacements. The key was its mild state of tune and my mild riding. A lesson well learnt. By the time I sold it the original chrome was a bit rusted, the suspension was loose and the paint very faded. I should've looked after it better but my enthusiasm was eaten up by work, family, house moving, etc.
By 1988 I was looking for something a bit less imposing than a big vertical twin. The solution came in the form of a BSA Bantam D10. They had the cheek to call this model the Supreme but it was basically just a sixties commuter. Amazingly, this one had just a single owner who'd spent the previous five years rebuilding it to as new spec. This included the original, minimal suspension which made me feel my age over modern roads. And, god help me, tiny single sided drum brakes that would have been hard pressed on a Honda Melody.
I soon adapted to the machine’s ways. Agile and nippy in traffic, my commuting times were no worse and by some miracle of engineering the 175cc stroker was turning in 100mpg, with no signs of any consumable wear. A miser’s delight, it'd also whine along at 60|mph down the back lanes with handling far better than any Jap commuter. I know this because I've ridden inside quite a few of the blighters. Maintenance was easy and nothing ever fell off.
In 1992 I moved down to the pleasant city of Bristol. For some reason, there are lots of old Brits rumbling around the city, which often resembles a race track. Despite my age, I was joining in with the fun, the valuable classic I was proudly riding was being pushed to the limit without failing.
I met up with a guy who was into racing Bantams, a rather disturbing concept, who I had to physically restrain from tearing out my motor and doing the works on it. | know only too well how easy it is to turn a pleasant little commuter mill into a short-lived, nasty racer. No thanks. But, the biking bug was biting deeper and deeper; my second childhood my wife called it but didn’t object as our one time neighbour had recaptured his youth by marrying a Filipina forty years his junior (for the record, the marriage lasted only so long as it took her to get a UK passport and all his money). No, a new motorcycle was much safer and less expensive.
In 1994 in the local rag I spied a nearly new Trident 750 for £3999. Yes, you guessed it. A few days later I was the proud owner of another big triple. I was a bit worried by the mass of the thing, but once settled into the comfortable saddle, I found her sure-footed, with a lovely surge of power up to five grand and then an arm wrenching jerk that had me wondering if I was going to need a pacemaker. Brilliant, was what I told the wife.
In 1992 I moved down to the pleasant city of Bristol. For some reason, there are lots of old Brits rumbling around the city, which often resembles a race track. Despite my age, I was joining in with the fun, the valuable classic I was proudly riding was being pushed to the limit without failing.
I met up with a guy who was into racing Bantams, a rather disturbing concept, who I had to physically restrain from tearing out my motor and doing the works on it. | know only too well how easy it is to turn a pleasant little commuter mill into a short-lived, nasty racer. No thanks. But, the biking bug was biting deeper and deeper; my second childhood my wife called it but didn’t object as our one time neighbour had recaptured his youth by marrying a Filipina forty years his junior (for the record, the marriage lasted only so long as it took her to get a UK passport and all his money). No, a new motorcycle was much safer and less expensive.
In 1994 in the local rag I spied a nearly new Trident 750 for £3999. Yes, you guessed it. A few days later I was the proud owner of another big triple. I was a bit worried by the mass of the thing, but once settled into the comfortable saddle, I found her sure-footed, with a lovely surge of power up to five grand and then an arm wrenching jerk that had me wondering if I was going to need a pacemaker. Brilliant, was what I told the wife.
Strangely, though, I preferred the Bantam for shooting around Bristol. It was light and rapid enough up to 50mph to see off all the cages. But for long distance work the Trident obviously ruled. The wife, in the intervening years since marriage, had doubled her weight and waddled rather than walked. I was almost in hysterics when she tried to climb on to the back of the Trident, having become tired of being left out of things. It was me coming back wild of eye and large of grin that had inspired her to dig out her old pudding basin lid.
I'm not sure what she expected but it certainly wasn’t the explosive power of the Trident’s engine, nor the way I'd rush through the pack of cages. Whatever, after an hour’s mixture of town and motorway, she was in a really foul mood, not helped any when she burnt her leg on the silencer when falling off the back when dismounting. A week later she was talking to me again, but only to suggest that it was time to give up biking and that the guy down the road had a nice Plastic Pig we could buy for weekend outings. Women may live longer, but they certainly don’t age so well!
So far I’ve done 7000 miles on the new Triumph. It’s a bit boring in one way, as it’s totally reliable, needs hardly any maintenance, doesn't leak oil and nothing's fallen off. It lacks a lot of the detail design of the old British twins, seems to have too many bits and bobs all over the shop but at least it’s made in the UK and I can carry on flying the Union Jack.
So that’s the story so far, not though, I hope, the end of the line. I’m pretty fit for my age, full of energy and enthusiasm for motorcycling and expect to be on the road for another couple of decades - naturally on British bikes. None of this foreign junk!
T.R.K.