BSA M20

Over the years I have owned and ridden many British bikes, but the one that I had the greatest affection for was a BSA M20. It was an ex-army bike and when I bought it for the princely sum of £30, it was covered in khaki paint. This was back in ’57. After stripping the paint down to bare metal, I repainted it midnight blue and gave it a tune up.

Without doubt the M20 must have been the most reliable bike that BSA ever built. During the two years that I rode it, and the countless miles it covered, I never had the slightest trouble. It chugged away over hill and dale, never missing a beat. No GPz, I grant you, but when a lot of other fancy bikes of that era broke down, the M20 chugged majestically on, and on.

It wasn’t that I gave it a lot of attention, the bike was built like a tank and was built to last in the true tradition of British engineering, circa 1930. A friend, with more money than sense, bought a brand new BSA B31 and used to change the oil every 1000 miles. I collected his old oil, strained it and used it in my machine - every time he changed his oil my bike had an oil change. If the M20 was fed on new oil I think it would have indigestion.

My friend also had a bucket of grease and graphite - once a fortnight we made a fire on a bit of waste ground and, after first washing the drive chains in paraffin, we boiled them in the grease and graphite mixture, accompanied by appropriate chants and invocations, naturally. The result was that during the time I owned the bike I never changed the chain or sprockets. I was forced to adopt these measures because my finances were restricted and cash flow had to be strictly monitored. I was forced to evolve into a first class bodger.

Even in later years, when my finances improved, I found that I could not escape from bodging - I would go to any lengths to avoid buying a new part, filing, cutting or bending something to do the job instead. It was with this in mind that I recently went looking for someone to pass on my vast bodging theories to. About a year ago I met a chap at my local and the conversation turned to motorcycles, naturally. I used to go around to his house and spend hours explaining the minor points of my art to him. For some reason, his wife did not seem a bit interested in our long discussions and sometimes called him outside - I could never hear much of the dialogue between them but could hear her loudly saying: "For God’s Sake" and "Boring Old Fart." I often wondered what she was on about. I sometimes thought that she didn’t like me.

He had been a biker, but sold his Honda Superdream three years previously, to buy an engagement ring for his fair bride to be. He wanted to get back on the road but due to the cash situation and his wife’s demands, he could not afford a bike. But he decided on a loan - telling me not to mention it to anyone, especially his wife; he wanted it to be a surprise. Mums the word, I said.

The criteria was that the bike would be British, reliable and cheap to run. He decided on an M20, mainly because I had sung its praises often and loud; with my past experience repairs would be a doddle. The problem was to find one that was reasonably priced. We finally found one advertised on a farm about 50 miles outside Windsor. It had been stored in a barn for many years, and, as the ad said, was ideal for restoration.

Over the phone the owner claimed that he had never ridden it himself, but that it was such a shame to waste such a grand machine and that it was,bound to be a good investment for the future. This statement fired my friend’s fevered imagination to ever greater heights.

That night, in the pub we plotted with a mutual acquaintance who owned a Transit van to see the bike the next day. The three of us set forth, suffering from monumental hangovers from a night of boozing inspired by talk of the machoness of M20s. We arrived at the farm around noon, greeted by the farmer who offered us a drink of his home made wine. Not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, we readily accepted his hospitality. After several glasses of the concoction, which in retrospect must have had a second use as high grade aviation fuel, the farmer led the way to the barn.

At first sight, even I was taken aback. The bike was lying on its side on a bed of straw liberally coated with chicken shit. However, nothing could dampen my friend’s lust for the M20. "It only needs a clean up," added the farmer, "it’s all in one piece and if I knew anything about bikes myself, I would restore it and make a handsome profit. However, if you chaps purchase this fine machine you'll have to sign this bill of sale Sold As Seen, that is my condition because there are many more people coming to view the bike and if you don’t buy it, someone else will." This statement panicked Percy and he agreed to the price without any further ado.

The bill of sale was signed, the money changed hands and bold Percy wheeled the bike out of the barn, and we loaded it into the transit. With a mixture of excitement and uneasiness we headed for home, discussing which department we would investigate the next morning. That night we got completely smashed on cider and rum - well, it’s not every day you become the proud owner of an M20. The next day I crawled out of bed feeling in a terminal state, and slowly walked to Percy’s house.

Percy had spent several hours after the pub shut, talking to God on the big white phone; well, that’s what his wife told me: "Listen you old fool, he had his head down the toilet bowl until 3am this morning groaning and moaning, he kept me awake with his ‘oh my god, I’m going to die’ calls." She also wanted to know where he was on the previous day and who owned the filthy heap of rubbish in the garage. At this remark Percy turned ashen and rushed back to the toilet, to speak to God once more. When he finally emerged he looked awful, his eyes looked like stainless glass windows in a very old church.

We spent the morning cleaning the bike before giving it a close examination. Once cleaned up it didn’t look too bad and our spirits lifted. The bike was intact, the tyres were usable, but I wouldn’t have liked to chance them at any speeds over 40mph. Even the chain and sprockets, after a clean and grease, were OK. We emptied the sludge that might once have been oil, flushed out the engine and filled the oil tank with fresh oil.

"Now," he said, "let’s try and, start the bugger." I must add, at this point, for the benefit of the purists, that we had cleaned out the petrol tank, dismantled the carb and checked the cables and magneto. Percy kicked the engine over several times but it showed no signs of life. We then checked that it was getting petrol and a spark. There seemed to be no reason why it shouldn’t start.

I then kicked it over myself and was surprised at the compression. We kicked it, we pushed it, we cursed it and we prayed to no avail. We then decided to strip down the engine the following day. That night we had a moderate drink as we needed a clear head for an early Sunday morning strip of the engine.

Next day, we removed the cylinder head - when the last nut was removed, the cylinder head flew skywards and came down on his neighbours new greenhouse, prematurely ending the lives of two trays of cabbage, not to mention the two broken panes of glass it smashed on entry. Red faced, Percy approached the now furious neighbour. After promising to pay for the damage the head was handed over. The reason for the great engine compression was that the top half of the piston had been sawn off and a very powerful spring inserted. We had been well and truly duped. ss

That night we got well and truly blotto. However, in the following weeks we managed to get new parts and an engine rebuild was started. Eventually the bike was ready and Percy’s wife was living full time at home again, although, funnily enough, she never spoke to me again and always seemed to have gone shopping or visiting when I arrived. If I live to be a hundred, I'll never understand women - even my own wife gives me strange looks at times.

At the fourth kick the M20 burst into life, much to my relief and confirmation of my bodging techniques. It was the first time in many weeks that Percy smiled. Percy wouldn’t ride the bike without tax, MOT and insurance, despite my assurances that it wouldn’t make one iota of difference to the performance. I had to ride with him on the pillion.

As soon as we hit the back roads my spirits soared and I was so filled with past visions of M20 ownership that I threw caution to the wind and opened her up. What I forgot was that the M20 has a rigid frame and the back roads were full of potholes. I didn’t see the first one, my sprung saddle soaked up most of the shock, but the pillion must have taken a battering akin to a large boot up the backside. He screamed for me to stop, but before I’d done that I had hit a second, larger pothole. He staggered off the bike, lying down on the grass verge, moaning and groaning, "My back, my back," eventually emerging into coherence and telling me his back had gone and to get his mate with the transit van to take him home.

When we all arrived at his home, his wife greeted us with a fit of hysterics, so after taking him upstairs, I had no option but to continue with the test ride. I returned to tell him that all was well but could get no answer. I left the M20 in the garage. A week later I called around but still no answer. The next thing I knew there was a sold sign on the house and I heard later that he’d sold the M20 at a knock-down price. Not even a thank you or goodbye. Can’t understand this, but there’s a chap I met in the pub who’s just bought a Ural...

Wally Bodger