I arrived on the back of a 1957 G3L Matchless single my BSA awaiting patiently for a long overdue engine rebuild. I’d reluctantly decided to take the BSA off the road, fearing that the noisy engine might change into a big bang, rather than go out with a whimper far from home.
We were fully prepared to argue our case if anyone so much as looked like demanding entry monies from our persons. The substance of which would run along the lines that we’d arrived on a fully authenticated British classic, not in a Ford Sierra, on a Honda Gold Wing or dragged the Matchless through the gates on a trailer pulled by a Range Rover. But I fully expected such sentiments to fall on hard, cold economic ground.
As it happened, recourse to such grovelling and general wringing of hands, were not necessary. We rode boldly through the main gates, rode confidently past the acres of tin boxes (carefully averting our gaze), and strode into the autojumble. The gods had deliberated, delivered their verdict, justice was done. Happy that our cause had been vindicated by celestial intervention, I entered the massive enclosure determined to enjoy myself.
First feeling was one of panic as I realised how quickly I'd have to move if I was to negotiate all the stalls before closing time. My colleague set off to do the same for his Matchless. Dimly, I became aware of a kind of brain fever which gripped me as my body involuntarily propelled itself from one pile of metal to another. I heard myself repeating a strange incantation - any bits for an A65?
The stallholders smiled in a knowing, sympathetic sort of way: They had seen many weary pilgrims come and go. My eyes took on that glazed expression of fellow pilgrims whose ambition in life had been reduced to the single overpowering wish of acquiring some obscure relic from that distant, dimly remembered world of motorcycling arcadia. A world where men were men, or they couldn’t kick over a Goldie 500.
Seek, and ye shall find, says the Good Book. Well, I sought and sought, and sought again. The feeling that long cherished objects of desire were so near, yet so far, shot the adrenalin around my trembling frame, quickening my respiration to the level of a Soho voyeur sounds almost sexual, doesn’t it? Perhaps, as Freud said, all human activity can be understood in terms of frustrated sexual desire. My frustration was such that I charged past rows and rows of gleaming concours motorcycles, much in the same way as I ignored the sea of tin boxes on the way in. Besides, I hadn’t come to ogle someone else’s plinth bound investment, I wanted to breathe new fire into my own pride and joy. It gets to sound even more sexual, doesn’t it?
Vaguely, as I negotiated a price for a genuine BSA A65 camshaft, I heard an announcement over the PA system regarding the final judgement of the concours awards. The announcement might as well have come from the bottom of the sea for all the effect it had on fellow searchers. My mind was drunk with exquisite joy as I took possession of what I thought to be one new, genuine BSA A65 camshaft for a mere pittance.
However, if life teaches nothing else, it teaches that the paranoia which afflicts many motorcyclists, myself included, is well justified. A combination of Al Capone style dealers, vindictive government and hostile public has conspired to create within the more astute of us, a sixth or seventh sense. Thus it was, despite my willingness to believe, my faith was necessarily riddled with doubt. Inscribed in bold letters on the outside of the careful packaging were the letters A65; inside revealed one new, genuine BSA camshaft that would have perfectly fitted an A10 engine. The stallholder offered his apologies and returned my money.
At another stall I was offered a secondhand camshaft with more ridges on its lobe than in a potato field - just needs a bit of light stoning, mate. It wasn’t the only thing that needed stoning. Yet another offered a pattern replacement - never had any complaints, yet. The thought occurred that such itinerant existences as these people led were not conductive to the. consumer process of complaint.
And so it went on, and on, and on. I could have rebuilt an A10 engine from new but parts for A65s were as rare as crow’s teeth. In fairness, it was my first autojumble and J might have done better to arrive a little earlier. But, I didn’t leave completely empty handed - one new primary tensioner blade, which unlike the pattern item, actually fitted, and one new fork top nut, Total outlay - £3.50. Now isn’t that a coincidence?
Gerald Sturdy