it was dads bike for as long as I can recall. Bought it new in 1962. Rode it up to almost the day he died, in 1993. Then it was mine. A big beefy thumper was how it appeared to me in my youth. Now, it seemed tiny. My XS850 triple sat alongside it in the garage. David and Goliath! I knew dad would turn in his grave if I ever sold the Ajay. I had no choice but to get used to it!
Starting was the major hurdle. On the Yam, just a click of the button. The British bike was for real men only! A big kickstart on the right, needed a real lunge to fire her up. In its favour, the engine had a mild compression ratio and set of cams. Never fired back. Not like some British bikes that had passed through my hands. A decent pair of boots a necessity.
The engine was alive! A muted sonic boom. A gentle thrum through the whole machine at tickover. Eeh, lad, that’s what real biking’s all about. The riding position pleasantly relaxed for the mild speeds the bike was capable of. The seat was superb, the Yam’s had always been a spine basher. The suspension was short in travel but well controlled.
The first few blasts. The bike surprisingly competent. At least the boom-boom of the silencer made drivers aware of my presence. A nice slice of torque as the engine went about its business. Never really developed into hard power. But she shook up the road well ahead of the vast majority of cagers.
Drivers reacted variously to the sight of the AJS. The older ones gawped, waved and grinned. You could almost hear the strains of Rule Britannia mixed with youthful memories running through their minds. Most of the younger ones also gawped. Then felt their manhood threatened. Tried to catch up, caught out invariably by the traffic.
I liked the Ajay in second at low speeds. Made the ground tremble as it wound itself up. The bike seemed to make waves of energy that forced the necessary small gaps in traffic open. Don’t mess with me, it said. Otherwise, the solid iron of an old British motorcycle will make serious dents in your crumple zone.
The more I rode the Ajay the more I liked it. The Yam was always a pig in town, anyway. Fat, heavy and a brutal transmission prone to overheating. And occasionally exploding. Best suited to a 80 to 95mph motorway drone. Where the Ajay would never cope with modern speeds and braking.
At first sight the seven inch SLS drums might not seem much. But dad was a canny soul. They’d been relined with racing spec materials, upgraded shoes as well. The front lever had been modded also. Braking needed a fair old handful of muscle. Could screech the tyre when necessary. Hadn't lost any of their subtleness either. Having suffered the rotted discs on the Yam, the Ajay’s were infinitely preferably. Shoe wear? About 25000 miles, the old man reckoned!
The old man died rich. Which is no way to pass away but I shouldn't complain! One thing that helped him along the path to miserly heaven was the 90mpg the AJS regularly turned in. He used to claim closer to a hundred and I never believed him. He might’ve been right as he rarely went above 50mph in his later years.
The engine, rebuilt twice in 88000 miles, consumed no oil! Nor leaked any as far as I could see. Finish was largely original and mostly immaculate. Simply because dad got a kick out of polishing it up each and every day. Maintenance was meticulous but hardly necessary for at least 500 miles. So well had its disparage parts worn into each other.
Perfection, then? Not quite. Primary vibration was omnipresent at all revs. Not teeth rattling but disturbing. A cheap watch broke. A petrol pipe cracked up. A few bulbs exploded. Nothing major, but it did grate on my nerves after half an hour, or so. Wimp, my old man would growl. Too many years on smoothish Japs. Short journeys the Ajay won out; the longer stuff, the Yam ruled supreme.
After about six months with the AJS, I traded in the XS for a newish XS900 Yamaha. Took up most of my riding time for the next few months. A new machine, new excitement, new boundaries to be broken. The AJS never challenged my abilities. Perfectly formed and capable for its role in life, you either took it or left it the way it was.
I know some people find a great sense of achievement in riding an old Brit long distances. But society and technology has moved on - why bother? The new Yam was a dream ride in every way. Save that it was still too heavy, wide and lacking in frugality for the daily commute. More riding on the Ajay after the enchantment with the new bike wore off.
The British thumper didn’t like being neglected. Even though we'd found it a nice warm corner in the back room! Refused to start until serviced with a new set of points and spark plug. Even then it was grumpy as hell until given a blast to clear its lungs. Culture shock, coming from the smooth Jap to the rough old Brit. The sheer heaviness of the controls quickly tiring my muscles. I can almost hear dad sneering!
Two weeks later, I came out of work to find a large puddle of oil under the bike. The oil tank had split open. I'd been late for work, hadn't taken much note of the bike when I'd got off. I was left half a garage full of spares, as well. Just a matter of cadging a lift home, picking up oil, tank and spanners. It did bring home to me the harshness of riding a 35 year old classic every day. But, then again, if the bike ended up in a museum or collector's garage, dad would come back to haunt me. It’s there to be used, lad!
My own son’s sixteen. That’s my out, pass it on to someone else. As it comes well within the 34hp rule, almost comes within the 15hp band, he can pass his test and enjoy! He can already start it better than me. And he comes back from his illegal blasts down the lane with a wild grin. Youthful enthusiasm. It brings it all back to me. The cycle continues.
As to the AJS. It’s up to the modern warfare called commuting. It's more economical than most other bikes on the road. It’s narrow, comfortable and secure. It has enough presence to deter cagers from attacking. It’s as charismatic as a Harley. Pity the good ones are so expensive, £3000 up. Forget fast A-roads or motorways. But a deserted bit of the English countryside, that’s another matter. It's a bike that deserves respect. One that repays a little tender loving care. Enjoy!
F.T.P.