Aprilia SR50

I hadn't ridden a bike of any description since I finished Uni some fifteen years previously and, if I'm honest, hadn't expected to again. Even hanging out with a mate who was potty about scooters didn't stir the long submerged urges to get back on two wheels. He was the sort who was always buying 'bargain' projects: "I've got this 1964 Lambretta, a proper bargain... it only cost £800 and it just needs X doing". Unfortunately, X never did get done - on any of them - and his garage rapidly filled up with these wrecks.

One day I went round and he was rearranging the scrap; outside the garage amongst all the, er, classics stood the quintessential teenage scrote's moped; an Aprilia SR50. This modern, potentially useful, device stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the decrepit wrecks he usually bought. When I enquired about it, he told me he'd bought it for pennies as it was stolen recovered and had planned to do it up and sell for profit. Fat chance I thought, and I was right - he'd bought another prehistoric shitter and the Aprilia was about to be lobbed in the trailer and consigned to the tip in order to make room.

The same afternoon the Aprilia was in my garage under inspection, much to the consternation of my good lady. I assured her this was just something to keep me entertained on the cold winter evenings, and that I had no intention of riding such a device, which was actually the truth. Tea was brewed, and I took stock of what I had. The front fairing was smashed to bits and the ignition lock screwed as you would expect, and the wankers who stole it had, bizarrely, painted the headlamp black. The exhaust was in holes and the battery was dead.

Even with a fresh battery it refused to start, so I took the carb off to clean it. I discovered the inlet rubber was split and the carb full of 2-stroke oil. These scooters have a separate tank, and it must have leaked down while it had been standing. Carb duly cleaned, time for round two - nothing, save for a few puffs of white smoke as it turned over. Carb off again, and out with the plug, which was swimming in oil. The cylinder was awash in the stuff... there was no way I was taking the engine out in order to drain it, so I tied a rope through the rear wheel and hung the machine up on its nose from one of the joists in the garage, and there it stayed for a week.

Round three... and success! It fired up and ran, albeit not very well. Even an exploratory mission to the end of the driveway and back revealed an almost total absence of power. Out came the compression tester and lo, it was knackered. Time to spend some money then. The local scooter tuning shop were very helpful - they sold me a 70cc big bore kit for not much more than a straight replacement, also they had a slightly damaged Tecnigas exhaust available at a decent discount plus the necessary re-jet for the carb. I also picked up a stiffer spring for the rear clutch, which improved take off but reduced the throttle to an on-off switch.

I found replacement fairings on Gumtree, and a cheapo aftermarket headlight came from eBay. The latter claimed to be a 30% improvement on the stock item, well all I can say is the original headlamp must have been bad if that was true. It was hilariously over-braked with discs at both ends, pads were only a tenner so I treated it to new ones. I attacked the odd-coloured panels with rattle cans, resulting in a pleasing yellow and black livery. In reference to this and the horrible NEEEEEEEEEEEEEE sound emitted by the Tecnigas, my good lady christened it the Angry Wasp.

The job completed, I took it for an MOT, which it passed without incident. Job done! Thing is, the plan changed a little at that point... having seen how cheap the insurance was (£80) and tax at £15 gave me the idea that I should run it for a little. You know, just for old time's sake. Just to see that it was OK to sell. You know. And thus the journey down the slippery slope began.

I started using it for work, and was amazed by the fact that I no longer had to sit in the traffic on the ring road. Even though my top speed was 40mph, I was getting everywhere faster than I ever had in the car. It cost pennies to run, and was actually quite reliable. In truth, the worst thing about it was that bloody awful noise, and scrotes revving their engines next to me at the lights, trying to get me to race them.

Its worst feature (apart from the noise) was the 'You've Just Run Out Of Fuel' light, which used to come on an precisely the same time and the engine cut out. Helpful. Otherwise, it was actually quite good for what it was. The brakes and handling were better than the fifties I remember from my youth - the same chassis was used for the 125cc model (which would have been a useful upgrade, but there were no such engines available while I had it). The lights were just as grim as the six volt snotters I used to ride, though... definitely not recommended for night time use.

I rode around on this device for a year, at which point I put it through another test and decided to sell. Not in accordance with the original plan, mind, but to fund the purchase of a 125. Would I have another one? No - it was too slow to satisfactorily navigate the hills around here, and did I mention it made a terrible noise? I will always remember it fondly, though - it got me back in the saddle again, and here I am fifteen years on still riding. It went to a biker who bought it for his son's 16th birthday - a rather more befitting owner - and I went off in search of my next ride. Onwards and upwards!

Slacker

Tales of a Norbsa

It must be one of those fabled garage clear-outs by someone totally out of touch with current classic bike prices, I thought, when a girl in the office mentioned a bike being sold by a friend of her mum's whose late husband had owned the machine. The only info I could ascertain was that it was either a BSA or Norton 500 for £500. Got to be a Manx or a Goldie - I always was an optimist - better snap it up quick, run it for the summer then flog it for a couple of grand (this was 1982 before classic prices went completely through the roof).

I rang up the lady, who didn’t seem sure what model it was either. When we finally arrived, we spied what looked to be a Norton Dommie painted a hideous bright orange leant against the garage wall. The son of the household came out to start it for us. Not being a Norton buff, I didn’t notice anything unusual about the unit engine - which by definition couldn't be a Norton - until I spotted BSA engraved on the primary chaincase.

"What gives?" I asked pointing to the engine. "It’s a Norbsa A65, very rare. Quick too - dad said he’d had a ton twenty on the clock,” the son replied whilst attempting to start the thing and getting nowhere. "Been laid up for a while, but I had her running last Sunday.” At his insistence we heaved it to the local hotel and began pushing it up and down the car park, where it eventually fired up amid a cacophony of pops and bangs which brought an irate hotel manager out to request that we vacate his property like yesterday.

Impressed with the healthy Brit bike racket, I haggled the price down to £475 and gingerly rode home with a friend following on my Bonnie. I had my first taste of Featherbed frame handling on that ride through the twisty North Wales lanes and was well chuffed - it was when we hit the dual carriageway as we got back to Merseyside that one of the bike's bad points manifested itself.

Up until then, I'd been chugging along at 40-50mph with everything feeling fine, but now as I would the throttle open the vibes at the bars passed the pain barrier at anything over 50mph, so it was a leisurely trip back to Birkenhead, where I dumped the bike at a mechanic friend’s garage for him to check it out. This was early in my Brit bike career and I had practically no mechanical knowledge, but I soon learnt the hard way!

It was given a clean bill of health and as my Bonnie blew up more or less as soon as I got the Norbsa back, it was pressed into immediate service for the 50 mile trip to work. It was reasonably reliable and certainly never left me stranded miles from nowhere. As well as speed limited by the vibes there was also the problem of parking it safely as both stands were precarious in use. One night, after a booze up, we stopped off at a chippie and whilst ordering my pie and chips I glanced outside to see the Bonnie sitting on the pavement. A broken clutch lever and half the contents of the oil tank over the pavement (the next day I walked past the chippie where there were oily footprints all over the pavement). Oddly enough, I replaced it with a pattern Honda dogleg lever which fitted perfectly.

Because of its aversion to speed, I generally used it as a commuter hack and used the rebuilt Bonnie for long journeys. One day the Bonnie packed up when I had to do a 300 mile trip, so the Norton was pressed into service. The slower speed was made up for by nice weather, interesting A roads and a lack of traffic. We stopped at a pub in the middle of nowhere on the way south and had a couple of pints outside in the sunshine. A coach party of pensioners arrived and one old boy claimed to work at the Norton factory telling me that it had the wrong kickstart fitted - I didn’t have the heart to tell him about the engine. It took a few attempts to start and the old codger’s parting shot was, "It'll start better if you get the proper kickstart.”

We chugged along and everything was cool until we got to Banbury when the back of the silencer fell off and the baffle came out. We retrieved both and noticed the hole where it was mounted had widened out, presumably from the vibes. With it all bolted together the bike ran for 30 miles until the same thing happened again. We arrived in time to enjoy a party and a brilliant time - we were the only bikers there but the old Norbsa proved a good conversation point with the yuppie cagers.

Sunday morning we set off fairly early and I let my friend take the controls as I was knackered and hung over. In his eagerness to get home in the later stages of the journey (after many exhaust rebuilding stops until a huge jubilee clip was pressed into service) he screwed the beast up to 70mph amid an enormous din, defying any mechanical sympathy he may have once have possessed. Amazingly, the bike kept going and when we stopped to swap positions I asked how he'd coped with the pain and if it maybe smoothed out at 70mph, but he said no, it just gets worse and worse. We eventually returned home at 11pm totally knackered.

As I mentioned before, my mechanical knowledge at this stage of the game was limited, so I decided to have the thing serviced by a guy around the corner who did bike repairs at his home. When it was returned, I took it for a blast on the motorway to see what I could wring out of it. I wound it on way past the pain barrier and saw 75mph on the clock before it went bang in a big way, locking the back wheel up. Luckily, the amount of noise had prompted me to ride with my hand on the clutch just in case, so the slide was only momentary before I pulled in the clutch and freewheeled to a halt - it was still pretty hairy, though!

I waited for twenty minutes debating whether to call the RAC or push it a couple of miles home, then decided to kick it over to see if it had freed itself after cooling down. It reluctantly limped home on one cylinder. Only when I was safely back home did I examine the motor and notice the gaping hole where the right-hand con-rod had exited the crankcase - one written off motor!

I swapped the rolling chassis for a complete A65 in bits, keeping the knackered engine for spares. When I eventually got it on the road it vibrated much less than the Norbsa and 85mph was attained without undue pain, so I can only assume the A65 motor didn’t suit the Featherbed frame or maybe the lack of a cylinder head steady on the Norbsa caused the vibes. Whatever the reason, I certainly won't be buying another.

Dave Pearson

BSA A7

This story begins around another bike, a 1951 350cc Velocette MAC, which I bought from a scrapyard for £5. Finished in battleship grey with an Ariel silencer, I thought it was the business. On getting the Velo home a long, long push) I attempted to start it. Several hours later, after much cursing and kicking it roared into life; surprising how easy it was to start once I'd been taught the drill.

The fact that I'd brought to life a previously dead machine elevated my mechanical standing in the local bikers community, and I was erroneously assumed to be some kind of ace mechanic. This assumption was further bolstered by the fact that having discovered that the Velo had only one gear, I proceeded to strip down the infamous clutch and gearbox without the aid of a manual. Unknown to anyone but myself, this was entirely due to poverty stricken necessity rather than mechanical ingenuity.

Having reassembled the gearbox and ultimately the clutch, I then found I had three gears and on odd occasions four; my reputation was further enhanced. It was due to these episodes that an old friend I'd not seen since leaving school some twelve months earlier got in touch regarding a BSA A7 he'd bought. I was amazed he'd even considered a motorbike as he'd always been a scooter fan at school.

We passed the usual pleasantries, then he explained how he'd bought the A7, and had it running once, before it had expired on him; neither he nor his equally mechanically inept father could get the thing going again, He told me the bike had cost him £15, a small fortune to me then, and I agreed to have a look at it the next night.

Black and chrome, with plunger suspension, envy was in my eyes. No sparks were traced to no points gap and no fuel to an empty petrol tank - not bad going, huh? After borrowing some petrol from someone's car, the bike roared into life on the fourth kick. I smiled at the observers whilst I blipped the throttle like a true  professional. It was then that I noticed a change of expression on their faces, they were now wide-eyed and staring, the smiles changed from joy to slack jawed disbelief.

I glanced down, first thought that the lights were on, then realised that it was flames. BSA in their wisdom had placed the actively sparking magneto directly underneath the carb which was leaking petrol faster than a Scot closes his wallet. There was a growing bonfire under the tank, the gearbox area and my right leg were ablaze. Being a true hero, I leapt off and the bike fell on the floor, whereupon the petrol cap fell out, thus allowing all the petrol to fan the flames very nicely indeed.

Panic ensued with everyone gathering handfuls of dirt and cinders, except for myself. I was too busy trying to put out the fire on my jeans. The bike was blazing well, the futile fire fighting attempts all but abandoned, when someone shouted "the tank's going to go up". Within seconds we were watching the inferno from a much greater distance. Fortunately, someone in a nearby house had phoned the fire brigade and within minutes they arrived and the fire was put out.

My mate was a bit put out, too. As the firemen and rubber-neckers departed we looked sadly at the once again dead BSA. After a few minutes silence we all helped push the bike to the side of the lock up, offered our condolences to the dejected owner and headed home, stopping on the way only to recount the incident in exaggerated animation and piss ourselves with laughter.

A couple of months later I had a fit of remorse and called at my school-mate’s house. There under the back window was the BSA in the same state as I'd last saw it. It transpired that he was going to university in a months time and was strict orders from his father to get rid of the burned wreckage and that it was worth £2 for scrap. Naturally, I offered £2 and the bike was mine.

I pushed the BSA three miles home leaving a trail of burnt rubber and wiring harness, whilst disturbing the peace with the pound of two bare wheel rims rattling along the road. On inspecting the bike it seemed that the damage was confined mainly to the carb/mag area and the back end. The front tyre had burned away when the petrol cap came off, but apart from that very little other damage to the front end. The carb was completely melted and was replaced with a scrap one of unknown origin, which appeared similar to the one originally fitted, jets and settings played about without too much finesse. The magneto was cleaned up, new HT leads fitted it produced a healthy spark.

The rear of the bike was treated to a used rear wheel and tyre, the seat recovered by myself in bottle-green pseudo leather robbed from an old three-piece suite. The wiring was replaced by cutting the harness in half under the tank and fitting new wires from that point, insulation tape and strip connectors being the order of the day. The oil and petrol tanks were swilled out and the oil pipes renewed. After the bike was painted in black enamel, it responded by starting after three kicks, shaking the walls of the garage with the racket from its silencer-less pipes. The finishing touches were a pair of alloy guards and megaphones from Pride & Clarke. The silencers were about as effective as a motorcycle ashtray.

Within a month of purchase it was on the road, having passed its MOT without any trouble (mind you, the guy who did the MOT used to test them from his shop window if it was raining). It soon became my regular transport due to the Velo shearing all the teeth on its fibre mag pinion (the cost of a new one the same as the original cost of the Velo).

I used the A7 for over a year and did occasional week-end trips from Bolton to North Wales, as well as a two week camping holiday fully laden, two up. I never worked out its petrol consumption or top speed due to a wildly erratic speedo but I estimated them at about 50mpg and 65mph due to the nondescript carb. Apart from the usual problems with punctures and oil leaks, the A7 never let me down. It was the kind of bike you could go out on at any time and in any weather, and it'd start within three kicks.

The only time it never got me home was when a myopic car driver hit me head-on, knocking the front wheel into the engine. As I lay in the road cursing the Ford Motor Co I could hear the bike still ticking over on its side. Two months later I received a cheque for £40 for the A7 and also got to keep the wreckage, which I sold to a mate who attempted to fit the engine into a Royal Enfield frame. Of all the British bikes I’ve owned, the A7 stands out as the most reliable and enjoyable I've ever owned. No speed machine, no frills, no dramas, and as far as my other bikes were concerned, no contest.

Len Morgan

Solo Cycle Slut

The wax jacket was borrowed, smelling of a Labrador called Baz, who used it as a blanket in the back of the car. "Look dear," the boyfriend said, "I don't care whether you think the blue Frank Thomas boots look more becoming, the Derris will keep ft feet warm.” My dad lent me is thermals, a man in a motorcycle shop gave me a £10 discount on the crash hat and with the gloves someone had left behind in a cycle parts warehouse, I was all set.

The first run. Founders Day on the bum pad of a 1938 side-valve Sunbeam Lion. It was a beautiful day and although the sun shone, he was right, it was colder than I had thought. They let us lead because our bike was the most recently acquired and not really tested - they had visions of us being left behind stranded, a pile of black metal spewing out vast ae of black liquid.

Their fears were allayed and we arrived happy and elated at Stamford Hall. It was on this first run that I'd learnt exactly what was required of the motorcyclist’s girlfriend. I was to wear the rucksack containing the loads of Whitworth spanners, the coffee and the snacks (it was me who put them there in the first place , it being obvious that forgetfulness in this respect would come pretty high up on the list of terrible crimes of the 20th century).

And it was me who got to carry the rear stand for the New Hudson he got at an autojumble. "He doesn’t so much need a girlfriend as a pack horse," observed Pete, as he watched me staggering around with this great weight on my shoulders, already overburdened with all the jackets, waterproofs, vests, jumpers and shirts I was wearing in an attempt to keep warm. I suddenly realised why women on the back of motorbikes seem to be so diminutive with big bottoms - it’s compression. The mass of the crash hat combined with the jockey position of the legs, concentrates everything on the one place - her bum, in my case on that pad.

Founders Day was a day for the ladies, as it turned out; surreptitiously I picked up an application for the Womens' International Motorcycling Association. It seems in my mind, at the back of it at least, I'd already decided I was going to have a go at this motorcycling business on my own.

The Bucket & Spade, a VMCC run from Leominster Bus Garage to the seaside at Aberearon and back in a day, confirmed my secret ambition. There was a particular moment on the Drovers Road when I looked over my shoulder and saw behind me, coursing round the gorgeous slopes and bends in wonderfully scenic countryside, a line of thirty or so bikes; it was the bikes that stirred me. At that moment (looking at Pete on his big old Sunbeam, Bill on his all bollocks Yamaha, Bob on his 1921 Triumph) I was seduced by the vision. Seduced and persuaded. I desperately wanted to ride bikes not just sit on the back of them.

The season on the bikes passed by all too quickly and was completely finished by some person of unreliable parentage stealing my entire motorcycling kit, including my dad‘’s thermals. This depressed me utterly, for several days. I'd given Baz his jacket back and had gradually got my kit together from various autojumbles. It was easier to do than I'd expected because the men were too busy searching for obscure bits of metal to bother with clothes, even clothes to wear on bikes.

Watching them, up to their armpits in bits of metal, reminded me of cherubic, smiling babies in a bubble bath. I'd purchased a wonderful Belstaff suit for £20 and now some slab-of-soil-held-together-by-the-roots-of-grass had stolen it. I was mad at the thief, at the weather for becoming so uncharitable and at everyone who didn’t appreciate why I was so upset every single woman I knew and 98% of all the men.

Like in Yank elections, if the polls are against you there's only one thing to do. Fight back. Bill lent me some spare kit, including a crash hat that would have been large enough for me even if I'd still been wearing the old one. The new owner of the rear stand phoned Starider after we'd established that learning to ride in Safeway’s car park, on one of those very wet and misty-cold Sunday mornings was not going to be successful: "I’m not angry," he screamed, "I'm not angry, it’s just that if you keep doing that, you’re going to damage the bike,” and I had the feeling he was going to damage me if I wasn’t careful.

One advantage of learning to ride bikes in November is that not many other people want to, and so one cold day I turned up at Armoury (what you probably need with me about) Road, Birmingham for the first part of my training. John (the man who drew the short straw and was going to teach me) wore earrings and had the same problem as me with his crash hat. He had his hair cropped short at the front, like a Marine and left long at the back, right down to his shoulders. He had tattoos on all his fingers and wore a beautiful scarf that my great aunt would've given her eye teeth for if she had been able to get her hands on it.

He was obviously a man who could stand anomalies. He didn’t seem to think a woman learning to ride was odd, even if the workmen at Starider did. They rushed down during their coffee break, gathered in an unruly group, shouting "Come on darling, take it off... let's have a look at you." I only wish the helmet constrained a volumes of blonde hair that could've tumbled out down to my waist. I did my best, all they said was, "bleedin’ hell," and walked off.

John was polite and charming, and if he preferred teaching Craigs and Darrens he didn't express it. He had the disarming bit of saying "I must stress" as a preface to anything he said that should’ve been totally obvious even to a quarter wit like me. For example, "I must stress that you must disengage the clutch before changing gear," and "I must stress that engaging the clutch and applying the brakes will be more effective in controlling the bike, than giving her quite that much throttle." This, after I'd shot through the barricade of cones screaming, "Help, help," at the top of my voice.

The UMG has much to answer for. Recently a spate of articles on the Honda C90 have appeared, each confirming that while mega short on image credibility, the bike would probably prove invincible to the entire missile stockpile in Red Square. They are, in short, bomb proof. Thus, the boyfriend said (having been reading these articles in the toilet, where for some reason he always goes with bike mags, getting inside now becoming increasingly difficult because of the detritus of matter silting up the corner behind the door), "I think I've found a good bike for you to learn on." I foolishly didn’t take any notice, he’s always spotting good bikes, which is why the garage is full of them and the car sits in the driveway. "It’s a Honda," he said tentatively. "It’s a what?" I replied askance - all summer with the vintage club being hypnotised by old British bikes, being told endlessly, ad infinitum, that Brit bikes were the only truly desirable bikes on the whole planet worth owning... and now this?

I bought the C90. A nice man sold it to me who'd used it to travel to work and back, a round trip of 9 miles. For the money (hardly any) he threw in a Rukka suit, a top box, a cover and a crash hat that would have been big enough if I'd been planning to wear the old one and Bill's. "You'll be alright on a C90, dear," he said. "I want a C15," I muttered under my breath. One thing I have learnt is to keep quiet when men are allowing you into one of their treasured, long held, secret joys of the universe... and, to be ostentatiously grateful. Thus I've drunk some of the best beers in the Midlands, been sailing and finally penetrated the mysteries of motorcycling, while other women sit at home, misguidedly thinking motorbikes are dirty, noisy a crude, and the men that ride them about the same.

The C90 lurches like a drunk into second gear and it’s possible to stall if you're not careful (I'm the same sometimes on Sarah Hughes Ruby Mild at the Beacon Hotel, Sedgley). The only other bike I’ve seen with a worse paint job was a Laverda. The C90 is a most lurid shade of blue. I’ve christened her Mable, after my great aunt who's 90.

The foot work involved with the gearchange is more intricate than the rock and roll steps I learnt at the Railway in Pitsea when I used to go dancing to Summertime Blues and Jailhouse Rock. It’s not as much fun either. But start her up and she goes, and, surprisingly, she keeps up with the aristocracy of British bikes she goes out with; a bit naff but loads of fun.

Wendy Oldfield-Austin

Small Ads Blues

You can get an odd class of advert in the classifieds of MCN, “Active rider wanted to share in flat..." was the sole occupier of the accommodation section. Normally the only time they fire up the accommodation department is coming up to the TT and other events of its ilk, advertising B&Bs, hotels, campsites, water tanks, gas chambers, old attics, into which a human or biker can conceivably be compressed; like a refugee camp except you have to pay for it.

Looking for a flat in London can be one of life's more depressing experiences, after which you start developing a perverse envy for people in concentration camps; at least they had accommodation. But this ad seemed the most promising yet so I zapped off a reply without delay, stressing my keenness on bikes.

These were the days before the Forces Of Darkness took root in the land (November ’74 to be unusually exact) and I had just left home, a bog in Paddistan, Ireland, chugging down from Holyhead on a '54 Ariel 350 to get in on the bountiful harvest. Like many before me, I stayed at a friend's third floor bedsit which also harboured his rotund bint.

Those with a more oblique sense of humour than mine might find amusing the prospect of sharing a bathroom with a couple whose relationship had advanced to the point where drunken yells and obscenities constituted the norm, and a dog whose speciality was his ornate arrangement of worms which decorated his turds scattered around the floor between piss pools and vomit mounds. Living there was like running into day one of Operation Barbarossa from the Forces Of Grime. So, just like Joe Stalin, I had to retreat and I sure wasn’t too worried about where the hell I was running.

A few days later a reply was delivered by hand through the letterbox. It invited me to meet him at a bar on Maiden Lane. This, the letter informed me, was the evening meeting place for MSC members and added 'wear your leathers'. "Gadzooks," I thought "this guy is some sort of ultra heavy hard core biker: hope I can make the scene, man." (I used to think like that in those days.) I hadn’t a clue what the MSC was but it was obviously some sort of bike club and the reference to wearing leathers I took to mean, turn up on a bike - or else.

I was rather worried that my old 350 bought for £17.50 in a Dublin scrapyard just would not make the right impression with these MSC chaps. I thought that anything under 650 wouldn't even register with them and that they probably spoke to each other in part numbers and had pistons for tea - just like Velocette owners. On the appointed evening I tried to get as leathery as possible - at least to show willing. This meant donning a pair of flying boots and a leather jacket - apart from gloves, that was my entire leather ensemble; deprived background, you see. Off I bopped on the ol’ smokin’ Ariel (fine machine, incidentally) trying to look like I used a 350 only for journeys of less than ten miles.

I had been half expecting howls of derision on my arrival as I joined the long ranks of gleaming two wheeled inter-galactic mega-blasters, but as the smoke cleared, a battered 1971 Triumph 650 and a collapsed Honda 90 were revealed as my only competition. Talking to some chap who'd claimed to have come on the back of a Honda 305, he revealed that something had gone wrong with the front wheel - he didn’t know what, saying he liked riding bikes but didn’t want to get his hands dirty. An ultra flash Hillman Avenger with white vinyl roof pulled up and discharged two guys dressed from head to foot in black leather, sporting black leather caps - they disappeared inside. I was puzzled - I could only assume they had come straight from the office and didn’t have time to collect their bikes.

I was fiddling with the bike, when a voice behind me asked if I was having trouble. Turning, I beheld a bit of a wreck, dressed in the same black leather uniform. He was the chap with the ad. We disappeared to join the crowd behind the green door.

We were in the basement, expecting to find the place almost empty with so few bikes outside, I was surprised to find it already half full. Weird. Women were conspicuous by their total absence. I felt that something funny was going on, I could feel it in the air. Had I stumbled upon some fundamentalist motorcycling sect?

My contact told me he had also advertised in an acting paper: strange, I asked him what type of bike he owned and he said he didn’t have one, but he used to own a BSA 250 and was thinking about buying a Honda 175 which he had recently ridden. I asked him what type of Honda 175 he rode - he didn’t know, so I asked if it was a twin or single carb model, he didn’t know that either. This affected the level of technical conversation somewhat, as we continued by identifying machines from colour alone: very satisfying.

We were then joined by a flat hunter who was responding to the ad in the acting paper. He did not own a bike either. When I said I thought the MSC was supposed to be a bike club he informed me, condescendingly, that it stood for Motor Sport Club. Well, you live on and learn.

On enquiring of the club’s activities I was informed that they went to rallies, races and other outings related to bikes or cars. It all sounded a bit weedy to me. I mean what was I supposed to be wearing all this leather for? To add to the weed image, when I told the ad man that my beer looked like piss (because it did), he said, "Yes, it does look er... what you called it." Cor blimey almighty, the man couldn’t bring himself to say piss.

As the evening progressed the bar filled up with other leather clad drinkers and yet there were only about four or five helmets to be seen; and still not a woman in the place. Most peculiar, mama, strange days indeed. I continued to observe the scene. Yet more chaps of a leathery persuasion arrived and greeted their fellows with... er, some type of gentleman's tender loving kiss arrangement. The penny finally dropped, I was in the wrong opera. Finally, late in the day, Caesar learns through Labienus... that he got on the wrong train. Suddenly, remembering an urgent appointment with the dentist, I tip-toed out, trying to keep my back to the wall. Back out on the street I noticed that the number of parked bikes had gone from three to a massive four.

A few weeks afterwards, by one of those daft coincidences that dog my life, one of the chaps at work had a copy of Gay News. Its centre page feature was about none other than your friend and mine, the Motor Sport Club. A spokesperson claimed it was the largest leather club in the world, no less. He also proudly boasted that all of one quarter of its members had bikes - it must have been guest night when I was there.

Word of this spread to my home town after I wrote a letter to a friend recounting my experiences. They were always misinterpreting the bible in the bog - no wonder the Vatican has to do it for them. They found it particularly amusing that this leader of men and packs used to own a BSA 250 and was thinking about buying a 175.

I described all this and a lot more and instructed my friend to hand the letter to my mother after he'd finished, as I couldn’t be bothered to write it all out a second time and certainly couldn't afford carbon paper. Two days later I got a letter from the great woman: "Dear Stephen," it began, "thank god you have not fallen into bad company..."

Stephen Kearney

Fighting Back: How to Get Legal Redress

A lot of motorcyclists view the law in a bad light, their experiences confined to the use of the criminal law against them. The criminal law is just one aspect of the a system and if you can use the civil part correctly you'll find it can be a handy tool if you buy a dog of a bike.

On buying a bike both seller and buyer enter into a legal relationship called a contract... an obvious but important point, as it’s from this relationship that the rights and obligations of both parties flow. It is necessary to show a breach of this contractual relationship to exercise your rights. The current legal position is arrived at through the court’s interpretation of several acts of parliament, depending upon whether the purchase was either private or from a dealer.

Your rights are restricted in a private purchase. The law only requires the bike to be "as described," in a roadworthy condition and that the seller has legal title to the bike, with no-one else having a legal claim over it.

Just to make things complicated, not all statements me part of the contract... some are non-contractual representations. If a false statement induces you to enter into the contract it is known as a misrepresentation, which if made negligently gives the wronged party the right to treat the contract as if it never existed - you get your money back. If made fraudulently you can, in addition, sue for damages in deceit. As it is often difficult to say whether a statement is a misrepresentation or a breach of descriptive condition can have a go under both headings.

The seller of a stolen bike has no legal title and can't pass on any better title, so the true owner can come along and take it back... you can sue the seller for breach of contract for all your money back - if you can find him. Alternatively, if the police prosecute the thief you can ask them to apply for a Compensation Order if he’s convicted.

HP and conditional sale are different as the law... gasp... protects the buyer who buys a bike in good faith and without knowledge of the HP or conditional sale agreement, by letting the buyer get a good title - you become the legal owner.

The finance company has no right to repossess the bike, but beware, if there’s any doubt as to whether you knew of the bike being subject to such an agreement you'll have the police around. They'll probably be around, anyway, saying the finance company have the right to get the bike back. The finance company may also appear and ask you to sign a form saying they've called - "just for our office's use.” Sign nothing at all, and ignore the coppers as in my experience most of them have no idea of this particular area of civil law - quote Part 3 of the Hire Purchase Act 1964 incorporated into the Consumer Credit Act 1974 at them if they turn nasty.

If a buyer's cheque bounces, this is a breach of contract - failure to pay for the bike, and you can recover the money by suing. It may also be covered by theft, so try threatening police action if the buyer tries this nasty little trick.

The criminal law requires a bike to be in a roadworthy condition whether sold privately or through a shop - it’s a criminal offence to supply one that isn’t. So if you buy a bike with a bent frame or no brakes, it’s worth remembering and, perhaps, making a veiled reference to the fact that the police or local trading standards office may be interested.

There is is no concept of value for money recognised in contract law, whether in private or trade sale and no legislation stating how much a bike should cost... it’s left purely to the parties to the contract to decide.

A bike trader is not confined to shops with "Zen's Motorcycle Emporium" painted above the showroom window. It also includes a bike sold by a government dept., local or public authority, as well as someone who as part of their business or profession sells a bike - i.e. a despatch rider selling his work bike! It would include a car trader who sells just one bike and an apparently private seller who regularly sells bikes. This can be hard to prove as trading standards departments an eye on the level of cars sold by "private sellers" but rarely do the same with bikes.

Sales from a trader are covered by one of three acts. Cash sales, personal loans, part exchange, conditional sale, credit cards and credit sales are covered by the Sale of Goods Act 1979. Swaps (barter) by the Supply of Goods & Services Act 1983, HP by the Supply of Goods Act 1973. The reason for different acts covering the contracts is due to a technical legal rule which is irrelevant here as your rights are similar under all the acts.

These are known as your statutory rights and it’s important to distinguish between these and any protection you may get from a guarantee which is something you get on top of your statutory rights - in practice, often the guarantee gives you nothing extra. It can’t however remove or reduce your statutory rights. So if the seller tells you it’s not covered by the guarantee make it clear that you're not claiming under the guarantee but under your statutory rights.

When buying from a trader your statutory rights consist of not only the already discussed conditions (of being as described, roadworthy, and not nicked or owned by a finance company but also that the bike should be of merchantable quality and fit for its purpose.

The law says a bike is of merchantable quality if it’s fit for its purpose for which bikes of that sort are commonly bought or is as reasonable to expect, having regard to any description, price (if relevant) and any other circumstances. So a Goldwing shouldn't need a retune every 100 miles.

There are two provisos to the above - you can’t complain about a dodgy clutch if the trader told you about it and if you examine the bike you can’t complain about any defects you should have reasonably noticed. And if the bike was sold very cheaply you can't expect it to be A1. If you want a two up tourer and rely on the dealers knowledge to select an AR50, you can try a claim here. To illustrate how the above two cross over, a bike with faulty brakes is neither fit for its purpose nor of merchantable quality.

The next step is to decide against who to exercise the above rights. In a pure cash sale or swap the shop is liable. In the case of HP, conditional sale and credit sale, the shop sells the bike not to you but to a finance company. With credit sale the finance company immediately sells the bike to you, with a HP or conditional sale the finance company remains the owner until you make the last payment - the strict legal result is that it’s the finance company who'll be liable and not the shop.

If you use a credit card or obtain credit in the shop through a pre-existing arrangement the shop with a finance company that can only be used with a particular bike, then the shops sells the bike to you and the credit card or finance company advances the credit but you can exercise your statutory rights against both shop and credit company. This is due to the very wonderful Consumer Credit Act 1974 section 75. The ability to sue the credit company is very handy if the shop goes bust. This does not apply to cash advances from a card or to a personal bank loan even if the bank will only let you spend the money in one particular shop - in law, these are cash sales and the shop is liable.

You only have rights against the seller if a fault was present at the time of purchase, thus putting him in breach of contract, circumstances in which you can reject a bike and get a refund are very limited as a pretty major fault has to occur very rapidly - the owner of a new car was unable to reject his car when the engine seized after only three weeks and 142 miles. Your usual claim will be for the cost of a repair. In a cash sale direct your efforts at the shop.

Where credit is involved start at the shop but if it looks dodgy, write recorded delivery, keeping a copy of the letter to the finance or credit card company, explaining the problem. Include details a your credit agreement or card number... failure to contact the finance company may totally ruin your claim.

If the shop won't do anything, write recorded delivery to them, giving a time limit in which to get their spanners in action. If you phone, back it up with a letter. It’s normally not a good idea to stop payments as as this puts you in breach of contract when ideally you want the trader to be the only one in the wrong.

It’s occasionally worth stopping payments if you have a particularly intransigent trader and letting him sue you so that you can counter claim. The law allows you to stop payment on HP and conditional sales if the condition of merchantable quality is breached - but it'll need to be a very serious fault before you can reject it. There will be some kind of financial juggling by the court whereby they may allow you to recover some of the payments but you often get little.

If the dealer agrees to a repair, make your acceptance conditional on a successful repair, otherwise you'll end up going round in circles. If everyone tells you to go away, you'll have to obtain an independent mechanical report (AA, RAC or auto assessor, name from your local Trading Standards Dept). If you've got nothing else, a report from the person who did the repair may be OK, but it’s not truly independent.

Send the trader a copy of the report (it may not say that the fault was present at the time of purchase, so bluff) with a deadline for action. If there’s still no action then there's only one legal way to end it (not suicide and murder is still illegal), the Small Claims Court - an informal place for settling claims under £500, where solicitors are rare (as their costs can’t be recovered) and you'd be lumbered with a maximum cost of £37 if you lose.

You are suing for damages (money) for breach of contract but the court will never allow you to come out too high (you can’t get the cost of a new crank for a 3 year old bike), but, that said, it’s better to put in a high claim as the court will reduce a claim if too large but can’t increase an unduly low one. Cost, or estimate, of repairs plus that independent report will be needed.

Further guidance can be gained from the consumer department of our County's Trading Standards Dept., Citizens Advice Bureau (more sympathetic than legally correct advice) or a solicitor (for a £5 fixed fee or free interview). That then is your alternative to scratching the tank on Honest Henry's showroom FZR1000 on the way out of the shop. The golden rule is don’t let the bastards grind you down - if more people use the law less dealers will try it on and everyone will be better off.

Mick Dixon

Truncheon wielders have feelings too...

 

The Dubious Delights of the Dragon Rally

In the beginning there were eight, gradually the excuses appeared and there were just three left. Doing the Dragon seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. We'd read reports in other mags and decided to have a go. So, we assembled at the arranged hour only to find that the Triumph didn’t want to go. This cowardice was eventually traced to a faulty fuse; an hour behind schedule we set off.

We found ourselves a free site for Friday night as camping was only available on Saturday at the rally itself. Not only did we lack water and toilets, but were in the shadow of a huge power station. From the size of it, we guessed it powered the whole of North Wales. It was at this site that we had our first taste of camping in Wales - all three of us got bogged down in the field and, of course, I dropped my bike. I would never have thought that 550lbs of metal could be so heavy. The Triumph managed to shrug it off with few problems.

The next morning we set off full of high spirits to find the control caravan in deepest Wales. It was only supposed to be 40 miles away, but what miles; a cold, damp misery made the road go on for ever. Eventually, though, I succumbed to the magnificent scenery and playing the hard man to the curious locals. We started to see more and more bikes, which helped cheer us up, especially as I was beginning to think we were lost. We decided to follow some bikers but ended up deep in a one way system when they decided to stop for a pint.

A few miles down the road the inevitable happened. It start raining (hands up everyone who expected to read that the Triumph broke down). Well, it was Wales. Whilst we were donning waterproofs an elderly woman came out of her house to chat to me. This highlighted the difference between England and Wales, wherever we went in Wales that weekend, we met nothing but friendliness - from old boys who wanted to know more about the rally to a cafe owner who didn’t mind three very muddy bikers in her establishment.

Eventually, the rain became too much for us and the Triumph’s electrics, so we stopped in a pub which had a few bikes outside. After the usual questions we found that the owners of the bikes were rallyists and were joined by an owner. The poor old landlord couldn't understand the camaraderie that bound a bunch of complete strangers so strongly. He eventually gave up and invited us to us to stay in his barn. We refused his offer, but I bet I wasn't the only one to wish that we hadn't.

The pub, as it turned out, was only a few miles from the rally caravan. The formalities completed, we got to the site. It was still raining as we erected the tent, then took it down and put it up properly, utilising a dry stone wall to hold the madly flapping canvas down. Then it was down to the marquee for badges, beer and warmth. This didn’t last long, as a sodden marquee full of sodden bikers wasn’t much fun compared to the warmth of a pub - the landlord wasn’t too happy having his pub taken over, but soon made the best of it by letting out rooms at £20 a night for people who had their tent collapse. Anyone who still imagines that bikers are an unintelligent lot would have been surprised at the cross section of people that night - from artists to supermarket managers.

On the way back to the tent, I noticed that the rain had stopped but the wind was getting up. The people who had camped on a small hill to escape the all pervading mud were now in a worse situation than those of us down at ground (or mud) level. Later that night, I felt sure that at any moment the tent was about to take off.

The arrival of the morning was heralded by anxious owners making sure their pride and joy would start. Despite all the rain, few people had any problems. The array of bikes was quite interesting. There were loads of BMWs but these were dwarfed a number of MZs. Two wankels made an interesting comparison to a Norton Commander. There were a few chops, a lot of old and new Brits, and of course, any number of Jap bikes. The Wop contingent consisted largely of Guzzis.

Apart from electrical problems, the morning saw another problem - mud. In some placed over a foot deep. Not as bad as last year, apparently, but bad enough to make people help each other to push the bikes out of the field. Perhaps it should be called the Wellington Rally. The combos were either towed or exited on full throttle, grass track style. How the trike towing a caravan managed I didn’t stay around to find out. The trailsters annoyed every one by whizzing over the mud as if it didn’t exist.

Damp and cold, the lure of home and a hot bath made us change our plans and try to cover the distance home in one day. I felt sorry for a group of frogs rumoured to have come over on mopeds! Riding away from the field I recalled a comment I'd heard earlier - We'd paid six quid to come and camp in a muddy field, we must be mad.

The run back home didn’t go without incident. The AA were called out for the Triumph near Chepstow. They found a loose we that we missed. The Triumph owner eventually beat the remaining pair back home, passing my stricken bike as we were waiting for the RAC near Bristol. A flat tyre saw me getting back home on a large recovery vehicle. Of course, the only member of our party not to have AA or RAC membership didn’t need them, though his clutch gave out a couple miles from home.

That night, nursing a badly bruised thumb, I thought back to the comment made earlier. It sums up the Dragon, really, but don't let that stop you going - all three of us will definitely be there next year.

Tim Fernand

MZ TS250/1

I had wanted a Honda RS250, but when I saw the cost of spares (one exhaust pipe and silencer cost 20% of a new bike) I started looking elsewhere - namely, a then three year old, 12000 mile TS in excellent condition for £240, about a third of what I'd been prepared to pay for the Honda. Once you accept the limitations of its staid looks, marginal front brake and awful tyres, you can appreciate its plus points. The engine is smooth, very smooth at 60 to 70mph and produces torque in a flat curve with no sharp peaks.

The rear wheel is actually QD, the handling and roadholding are excellent, particularly on decent rubber. A huge fuel tank permits a 240 mile range at a cruising y ap of 65-70mph. What more do you want for £240? However, let’s not get carried away. After about 5000 miles the gear change return spring broke. A known fault with the original component but fixed with a spring of Italian extraction available through the MZ Riders Club, but it takes an engine strip to get inside the gearbox. Whilst on the subject of known faults, the days of the dodgy main bearings appear to be past.

From wheeling the bike into the workshop to lifting the engine onto the bench was an amazing twenty minutes, including a coffee. Once the head, barrel and piston were removed, my attention focused on the primary drive. The clutch is a delight to behold, it is solid and built to last. It's mounted on the crankshaft on a taper with no drive key so absolute cleanliness on assembly and correct torque on the retaining nut are essential if the crankshaft is not to be damaged by a loose clutch centre. The clutch drives the gearbox via a gear, the whole assembly running in the same oil as the gearbox.

An hour later I had the crankcases split, the errant spring replaced and the engine was being reassembled. A quick look at the five speed gear cluster showed it to be robust, or agricultural, depending on your viewpoint, but definitely no worse than a BMW boxer cluster which I've also seen. Perhaps, this explains why both bikes have relate slow and clonky changes - something I'm willing to accept in my cheapo MZ, but if I was paying BMW prices...

I have also a had a brief honeymoon with a four speed ETS250 of 1973 vintage. This model is now quite collectable among MZ aficionados with its huge five gallon tank, but I was unimpressed. It never started as easily as the TS, vibes were much worse, the gearbox even clonkier and you had to rev the tail off it in third gear before changing up.

As I approached my 40th birthday a couple of years ago I decided I had to do something to prove I wasn't over the hill. I'd had a hankering to ride in the Motor Cycle Club classic long distance trials for some time since spectating. All I needed was a machine. I looked at the MZ and decided what the hell, at least it wouldn’t bring me to the edge of bankruptcy if I wasted it.

Modifications to the bike consisted of removal of the rev counter drive, the indicators, the narrow road bars and the rear number plate then the fitting of wider bars, an alloy sump bash plate and small trials number plate. As I was entered in Class A - road bikes on road tyres -  I just replaced the worn out tyres with the cheapest, chunkiest road tyres I could find. Handling and roadholding would have to be sacrificed in the search for grip. A security bolt for the rear tyre completed the picture.

MCC trials consist of between 300 and 500 road and track miles, overnight, interspersed with off road sections ranging from easy if conditions are good to nigh on impossible if they are bad. Each competitor is competing against the hill, the clerk of the course and himself. There is no winner as in one day trialling, only the satisfaction or frustration of climbing a hill clean or otherwise. I completed my first trail on time with only a few failures and was extremely impressed with the performance of the MZ. In fact it never missed a beat, started first kick every time and got me a finishers certificate, of which I am very proud. Subsequent trials have shown an improvement with 1st and 3rd class awards...

In between trials my trusty workhorse has transported me the 32 miles to and from work with the minimum of maintenance and no complaint. Admittedly, it is starting to show its age now, but then so am I. The only difference is that with the minimum of effort and cash the MZ can be back to its youthful self; I wish I could say the same.

Tony Bishop

MZ TS125

I bought a brand new TS125 Alpine and wobbled away from the dealers (I was new to the game) and just about made it home alive. I found the MZ ideal for a novice - the clutch is light, there's no power band and only four gears to worry about. I was impressed by the overall quality of the construction, it looked and felt tough and durable, all metal no flimsy plastic.

The TS coped with the 50 mile grind, never doing anything unpredictable - just as well, I wouldn't have been able to cope with speed wobbles or slides. After running in, it would only do 60mph. I found out how slow it was when I borrowed a friend's Suzi A100, but the MZ handled better and was much more comfortable.

Finish was excellent - after two years the paint and alloy came up like new even though it had been left outside every day and it was used for racing the lads as well as commuting and touring. As a tourer it’s adequate as long as you keep away from motorways - the one time I tried was terrifying, everything on wheels goes faster than an MZ125 loaded down with camping gear. Using B roads and stopping to look at things is much more fun, otherwise the mind numbing tedium of crawling along at 50mph will send you to sleep. I managed 250 miles in a day which coincided with running out of fuel and a character building five mile push.

If you want to race fast bikes, do it on curvy, single lane roads; the only problem is the tractors. You can even take the bike off road, thanks to the long travel suspension and the low speed torque, I could even race trail bikes. As a general day to day hack, the MZ is as good as any of the Jap offerings. Reliability is no problem and the bike's big enough to strap on heavy loads (for instance, three bags of coal).

All was going well until some blind car driver did the usual trick - the MZ survived a lot better than my poor foot which was rather bloody. The side panel and kickstart both straightened out after a little work with a big hammer and the car driver paid up some substantial compensation, although the plod refused to prosecute; didn’t want the extra paper work, I suppose.

The tyres were alright in the dry but appalling in the wet, the gearbox needs a slow, deliberate action to avoid false neutrals, the speedo was very inaccurate and the open plan fuse box a rust collector recognizable when the lights dimmed to nothing. I didn’t mind these faults but someone who’s used to the latest Japs would go crazy.

In two years and 15000 miles I never needed to change the enclosed chain, brake shoes or front tyre (the rear lasted 13000 miles). Petroil consumption was between 70-90mpg and I changed the gearbox oil every 3000 miles. Used prices range from £300 for a two year old example from a dealer to around £50 for a bike over four years old bought privately with a lot of life still left in it. Cheap enough to buy, take your test and throw away or keep as a second bike.

A. R. Everett

Ural 650

I always had a strange curiosity for Eastern block motorcycles, especially the big four stroke flat twins. Why, you may ask? Because all most people in the bike world do is take the piss and make ill-founded remarks about these bikes - since owning one I've found that all the slagging off and mickey taking must've been done by those who never owned, rode or worked on one.

I test rode a solo Ural 650 at Neval on Humberside in the summer of 1987 and bought one there and then. The first thing that struck me about the machine was that everything was so big and tough - the Soviets obviously compensated for the poor materials available by increasing the size. The frame, wheels, guards and switches are big and sturdy, a big improvement from the Japs I'd owned previously.

For a basic price of £895 I got a new 650cc bike with a tool and spares kit to shame any Jap machine costing five times that. Apart from all the usual spanners, a tyre pump, grease gun, tyre pressure gauge, tyre levers, spark plugs and even piston rings were included - to name a few of the bits.

Neval did offer some a extras at additional cost, like British electronic ignition, Amal carbs and a choice of either twin saddles or single seat unit. I opted for stock save for a chrome carrier. I have since realised why Amals are offered, because the original carbs are awful and spoil the whole bike. They leak petrol and are impossible to adjust accurately. They should be thrown at next door's dog at the first opportunity and replaced with Amal or Mikuni, which transform the characteristics of the motor and also make it easier to start and smoother.

When new, the engine was very tight and ran hot even at the recommended max speed of 40mph for the first 500 miles. Servicing is very important and regular oil changes at 1200 miles are a must to avoid engine problems. At 8000 miles I’ve had none, with oil consumption virtually nil. Some other Ural owners I have spoken with, say their bikes use a lot of oil, so my 650 must be a good one. As the miles were clocked up, the engine became smoother and ran cooler. It also starts first kick with Amals fitted.

The Ural sounds like a real motorbike and it’s nice to ride a bike that you can feel working and pulling without the vibration becoming either uncomfortable or unpleasant. Sure, at low revs the mirrors are useless, but smooth out as speeds increase. The stock legshields may look naff but they deflect all the crap from the front wheel away from the rider's legs and feet, which is especially useful in winter. Chromed crash bars are also stock and came into use when I drop the bike off its stand.

Speaking of chrome, the stuff is not of particularly good quality and the rear shocks had the stuff peeling off within a few months. The paint on the stands is also pretty poor, although the frame actually got a red oxide undercoat with a good thick gloss top coat. Japan take note.

The four speed gearbox is a bit tractor like, but with the rocker type change lever a stamp with a heel on the rear pointing bit is sufficient to change up. However, the engine has bags of torque and frantic cog swapping is not necessary. The shaft drive is a bonus on the maintenance side and needs no attention apart from oil changes and the occasional grease up.

The wheels and brakes are identical at each end and can be swapped over to make the most of the tyres (or with a sidecar fitted, a spare can be carried). The tyres are adequate for 36hp, are of a semi knobbly pattern and cost £15 new. In the wet they do slip and slide a bit, so British tyres will be fitted when they do eventually wear out. Recently, a left-hander left me sitting in the road, but there was more damage to the road than the bike. Ideal for hunting down Volvo drivers.

The electrics work and are 12 volts these ore a big improvement over earlier 6V efforts. The indicators flash at different speeds and have a mind of their own. The regulator/rectifier unit went through a period of refusing to charge the battery, thanks to a chafed wire under the petrol tank. The twin saddles are original and surprisingly better than more normal seats. They are mounted on adjustable rubber blocks which give a shock absorbing ride, especially as the suspension does a good imitation of riding a pushbike. The suspension is designed for use with a sidecar and only moves when hitting huge pot-holes.

Top s is quoted as 85mph with 50-60mph cruising which makes motorways boring. Winding A roads are better with the wide bars giving a very upright riding position. The Ural is the ideal winter hack and I use mine every day around the city. With minimal maintenance and regular oil changes, it has served well as a cheap, reliable form of transport that is different. The overall look of the bike is an acquired taste, but on traditional lines. Many people have approached me in the street and asked if it’s a '55 or '56 model. It’s a shock for them to then look at the registration plate.

It has been designed with owner maintenance in mind with no dealer only areas. Simplicity and ruggedness make for a practical bike, which is something the Japanese big four seem to getting further away from. The Ural won’t do 164mph or make young women pant with lust when you approach, but it is very usable and doesn’t cost the earth to buy and run. Provided you junk the original carbs and don’t want to tear around like a maniac then the Ural might be for you.

Whatever the criticisms, you should remember the purchase price is less than a new Jap 125 and the bike is a lot more practical for every day use in the real world. It’s built tough and will last for years with a little maintenance.

Greg Archer

Cossack 650

The Cossack looked every inch the friendly dinosaur it proved to be. The owner had skilfully fitted Keihin carbs, Honda 50 silencers and a Z250 seat. A gentle prod of the unusually positioned kickstart had the docile beast grumbling into life, and off we went at a nice casual pace. The square section Speedmasters could easily be tested to the limits of handling down a country road... at first, I expected a loud bang followed by smouldering engine parts being cast into the road, but my worries were unfounded and we usually made it back to base.

One memorable ride the Cossack gave me was two-up with my brother to Tan Hill inn, the highest pub in Britain. We took the farm track route across the moors and covered some pretty difficult ground which the Cossack handled well. The plodding low compression motor gives excellent traction and will pull through almost anything. We even offered to tow a scooter rider whose machine had finally given up the ghost after a fully laden ride all the way from the Kent coast, but I think his pride as a mod disallowed the indignity of seeing his Lambretta being pulled by a Cossack.

After a quick clean the bike looked as good as before. I advertised it a while later for £195 and was amazed. when someone gave me £150 for it (I'd paid £95), although I later regretted not having the Cossack tucked away in the the garage.

The regret wasn't quite so strong, when I spoke to the buyer a while later. Somehow the engine had blown, but he had since replaced it and must still have liked the bike because he refused my offer to buy it back. I'd like another, but even Cossacks are hard to come by for less than three figures nowadays!

Simon de Burton

CZ250 Twin

It all started when a friend said he had a CZ250 going cheap. £50 poorer (well, he did promise a van load of spares) I was soon scratching round the lanes of Berkshire on the original and almost unworn Barum tyres - fortunately for Scottish Widows, it was dry. Seven years of only being ridden when the weather was truly vile had blemished the pride of the Czechoslovak Soviet Socialist Republic so I stripped off the six years of hand-painted Dulux black and plastered on some equally horrific red brush cellulose; much more to my perverted aesthetic taste. Bit of grey Hammerite on the remains of the wheel rims and spokes and it really didn’t look that bad, if you sort of squinted a bit and intoned, "only fifty notes, a real bargain." And since then I’ve never looked back (the mirrors were missing). I just keep my helmet on and the revs up when I'm talking to one of my diminishing circle of friends.

Viewed objectively as a vehicle, the CZ isn’t too bad. The TLS front brake works well, the handling is good and at least it doesn’t vibrate like my BSA Bantam (a collector's item until you come to try to sell it). It isn’t perfect (but then neither am I according to my friends). For instance the gearbox works on the same principle as (the so-called) slickshift on fifties Triumphs, and likewise linking up the clutch to the gear change fouls up the change, making it impossible to change gear cleanly.

On the relatively sweet Triumph box you got a series of lurches, with the CZ’s agricultural item the effect is similar to that produced by alternatively grabbing the front brake lever and releasing it, only in reverse. After a few months of commuting and riding for pleasure (honest), I was beginning to get the hang of things. It is a bit better without the clutch lever, only now I keep trying to change gear on the A10 in the same way.

Another CZ speciality, the gear lever doubles as a kickstart (would I lie to you, my son?) and its on the left-hand side of the power unit, so don’t stall it at the lights unless you're a left-footed Olympic gymnast who isn’t easily embarrassed in public.

Speaking of drawing attention from the hoi polloi, the exhaust note ain’t bad, but the bike produces copious clouds of blue smoke even on its meagre 3% petroil mixture. Perhaps the engine is burning gearbox oil, but most of the other CZs (both of them) that I’ve seen were also making more smoke than a battleship under attack. Still, it keeps Volvo drivers well clear of your rear number plate.

One minor problem cropped up when I decided that the L78 spark plugs were a little on the optimistic side for anything so snail like, so I tried to buy softer NGKs. Sorry, we don’t acknowledge CZs, only MZ ("they are different, sir?), but by looking it up in the Champion book and spending a few minutes cracking the NGK secret code whilst my wife walked out of Halfords in a fit of sheer boredom, I fitted B7HS and they seem to be fine.

The ride seems pretty comfortable - if you're used to riding Brit dinosaurs with two inches of suspension travel a road drill would seem luxurious - and even the old dragon says the pillion’s OK, though I don't think she’s fond a the clouds of blue smoke at traffic lights.

It’s the social side that’s the problem. You have to be adept at fighting off endless jibes about the thing. Have you seen the comedy sketch where three men of progressively lower physical height and social status berate each other? Well, the most vitriolic comments come from MZ owners, presumably they don’t have anyone else to look down on (Tomos moped riders, Neval Cossack fanatics?). Fortunately, I've had years of experience of this verbal combat because I drive a Skoda. Nuff said, chaps?

Chris Washington

MZ 250

I had been using a trail bike for a year and somehow ended up using it more for touring than off road work. Of course, it was totally impractical. What I needed was something that could cruise the A and B roads roads at 60-70mph, be reliable, long range and comfortable. The trouble was it had to be for £250. So I got a MZ instead. Though to be fair it did fulfil all of those functions, though not all at the same time.

It was a four speed model in better than new condition. I was quite impressed at first, more than can be said for the Cortina owner when I first found out it was true what they say about MZ front brakes. Still, I did get it home in one piece and immediately pulled the thing apart. It’s something that I’ve always done. I like to know my way around my bikes and it also uncovers daft bodges.

One of the drawbacks of owning an MZ is other MZ owners. I found out about them very early on when I went along to a MZ Owners Club meeting. They met Sunday lunchtime in a pub that didn’t normally serve bikers. There were a couple of low mileage MZs amidst the sea of BMWs. I didn’t stay long after one of them told me off for having a pint; they were all on halves...

The other type of MZ owner a totally over the top eccentric - one I know spent ages producing an MZ with CZ tank, Ariel tank badges, cowhorn bars, car electrics, a plastic Viking (Eric) on the headlamp and an office chair complete with backrest. It looked like a sick bucket and handled like an office chair, though it did pass an MOT - I don’t know how.

The four speed MZ had 16" wheels and handled like most death traps. The front brake was such in name only and the back brake actuated through the longest foot pedal in the known universe, made slides a good way of forgetting the handling and anything else that might be you. The forks had very long travel and were sponge like in their softness while the shocks were brilliant and the electrics adequate.

Thicker fork oil transforms the handling when used in conjunction with Continental tyres, the original tyres should be given or thrown at enemies or CZ owners. The only cure for the back brake is not to use it, which is handy cos the drum can be fitted in the front wheel where its longer lever goes a long way to transforming the front braking.

Gear changing is even more clunky than the 5 speeder thanks to a heavy clutch assembly on my bike which can be thrown away and replaced by the five speeder’s neat alloy clutch. Barrels, pistons, cylinder head and carbs can also be swapped to good effect, as the five speeder develops more power. In fact, most parts on are interchangeable - first on the list, are forks and 18" wheels to get the handling well sorted.

Most of the faults with the early 250s were cured with the ETZ, but then that’s not a cheap bike. Petrol consumption’s in the fifties and you have to mess around mixing oil into the petrol, which if its simple is also easy to forget.

My MZ did 38000 miles in a year. It broke down twice, once was the condenser, replaced with one from a car that I picked up at the nearest car dealer. The second time the clutch retaining nut worked loose on the way to Devon from Milton Keynes. I took off the clutch cover and. borrowed a large chisel and hammer to tighten it up. It rattled and shook for the next 800 miles until I was home again - where I found that the crank was wrecked. It was cheaper to buy an engine from a breaker than replace the crank.

Other MZ faults are the voltage regulator which has points inside it, these vintage things are a real problem but can be replaced with an electronic job from a Jap bike (breakers again) or a car. The brake lamp switch is a joke and should be replaced with anything that comes to hand. Most things last for ever - including the frightening stock tyres, the enclosed chain and the inefficient brake shoes.

The thing about running a MZ is not to try to look cool as you ride down the High Street with the exhaust going Ping, Ping, Ping, but to play at being eccentric. No-one will take the piss on account that they will be afraid to come within talking distance of you in case you start ranting and raving on and on and on about MZZZZs.

Stephen Bergman