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Fuck Netanyahu and the murderous Israeli regime. Free Palestine!
Crunch, crunch, crunch. Shudders ran through the front of the bike. Whatever could the matter be? Don't scream, I told myself, it’s unmanly. When the debris of the chrome front guard was finally cleared the bike settled down to its normal poise. Not that directional stability ever approached legendary status. Infamous, more like, with lots of twitching and vagueness. Any bike with bars high enough to inspire fear in outlaws was never going to make the big time in the handling stakes.
One mudguard disintegrating in an afternoon I could put down to bad luck. But two? Deliberate built in obsolescence, to my mind. The rear broke under the seat, tried and faailed to lacerate Taiwan’s finest rubber then flew down the road. The attached rear light, something straight out of the sixties in design, went with it. By the time I sussed its demise a couple of cars had flattened whatever the rust hadn't destroyed. Three years old and falling apart under me!
Did I mention that both darkness and rain were threatening to fall? Life’s an adventure, ain't it? I love British weather and Taiwanese rubber (not dolls, boyo). The only way to compensate for the missing rear light was to wire both back indicators into the light’s circuit. Probably blew a few car drivers’ brains trying to work out what the hell was going down but we all have to make sacrifices. The GN has good guards, their disappearance turning the mild rain into a maelistrom which the pathetic front light did little to penetrate.
The tyres slid, my teeth chattered and the engine threatened to cut out but once again the old bugger got us home in one piece. Albeit a rather soggy one. If the GN feels like it weighs next to nothing most of the time, the need for insane countersteer measures to compensate for the naff tyres keeps my muscles up to scratch. The dicey handling revealed by the ease with which I picked up a pair of guards from the breakers for af iver. Some black gunge was brushed on to the undersides to keep the dreaded rust at bay.
The finish wasn't exactly inspiring in other areas. The wheels were more rust than.chrome and the exhaust was replaced after a mere three years (15000 miles). The GN has a singularly simple OHC thumper motor, a sort of grown up CB125. But it’s a fastidious one that produces lots of flat spots once the rust has eaten into the exhaust system. I christened the bike Lurch with rather a lack of affection when this trait was revealed. Cutting out at junctions was another joy but the electric starter saw that one off without any angst.
Another thrill was the time we ground to a halt. Felt like fuel starvation to me. The tank had rusted internally to the extent that there was a mass of sediment in the bottom and the reserve pipe was totally blocked up. I’d thought the tank was becoming a bit thin by the amount of give in the sides. By the time I'd finished the desiccation I was left with an empty tank and a large pile of gunge. Those of a sadistic nature might conclude that the half mile push was good exercise but my heart and back were close to agony.
After this little vexation I neglected the GN for six months until the tank gave way. The fountain of fuel over the still running engine failed to cause spontaneous combustion. Even when I threw a match at it from a safe distance. I performed this cowardly act with an eye on my TPF&T insurance and an awareness that the never touched valves were beginning to burn out. The solution to these woes was fifty quid to the local breaker/mechanic who fitted a one year old tank and a newish set of valves as well as giving the engine its first ever service. I'd been quite content with changing the engine oil when the gearbox became full of false neutrals. What the fuck!
What kinda piss artist’s going to expend lots of TLC on a motorcycle that feels like it’s falling apart on a rare day when it does 80mph? I know some sorry souls who try to keep them immaculate, but they rot just as quickly as when brutally neglected. One other misdemeanour showed up a couple of times. The power pulses never stuck me as being the stuff of legends, but then I'm a cynical old bastard. The drive chain didn’t share my total disregard for the power output, destroying itself in about 6000 miles. The way it broke whiplashed the chromed but rotting (there’s a surprise) chainguard into a trillion pieces. One of these ended up embedded in my leg!
Yes, I’m one of those wimps who faint at the sight of blood. Especially my own blood, a fountain gushing out when I removed the offending piece of metal. For a moment I thought I'd hit an artery but the flood died out with my animal screams. I had to strip down to my long-johns and tear up my shirt to use as a bandage. Some youths in a neon Fiasco found it all hilarious, but disappeared fast when | gave them the finger. Readers should be warned that tearing out a bit of rusty chrome and not seekIng subsequent medical attention is a quick way to lose a leg to gangrene. By the time I staggered into the hospital I needed strong enough antibiotics to make my hair fall out!
The second time the chain snapped it took out the crankcase rather than my leg, which was anyway safely enclosed in wader length leather boots. Way kinky, my man, and sent the ladies into a furore. Plastic metal was carefully applied to the hole (in the crankcase, please) but took three increasingly panicked attempts until it held. What can I say? Greasing and adjusting every week didn’t make much difference to neglecting it until the gearbox refused to work. I started changing it every 5000 miles!
In the fourth year of ownership, with some 15000 miles done, I rode the bike harder than ever before, adding 14000 miles to the clock. I’d changed jobs, had to commute across London. The pace was so frenetic that I was only achieving 55mpg instead of the more usual 70mpg. If that sounds impressive remember that the performance wasn’t that much better than a GS125 which does 100mpg. A set of cheap Michelin tyres stopped much of the skidding on the greasy road surfaces and a newish front end much improved the braking which, via a single disc, had gone rather vague. A combination of warped disc and seizing caliper.
As the spokes were almost rusted through it seemed like a good moment to put in a better wheel! Indeed, a couple of months later I had the weird experience of the back wheel breaking up. Ever sat on a bike that was disintegrating under you? Loadsa fun! I stopped before any terminal damage was done to myself; the egg shaped wheel was something that should only be encountered on an LSD trip! Luck was on my side, a King’s Cross breaker was just 100 yards away and had a replacement on offer. We had a good laugh over the build quality of commuter Japs, the prime exhibit being a five year old C50 with a rear subframe that'd cracked in half.
After that exhibition of poor quality there wasn’t much left to fail in the chassis, apart from the frame which I'd at least kept touching up - you can only take neglect so far and I'd been suspicious of Jap frames ever since my mate's GS550's top frame tube cracked up. The GN has a barely adequate trellis that rust could easily turn to rat shit.
As strange as it might appear, despite these hassles, I'd actually grown quite fond of the ageing heap. We had some close scrapes together in London traffic. Call it a bonding process. The GN reacted well to my instinctive survival manoeuvres, a reflection of its lightness and wide handlebars. I’m naturally muscular, fear and adrenaline adding to the effectiveness with which the GN could be snapped around offending cagers. Twice, even this combination failed.
God, these cagers are as stupid as they are arrogant. Shooting out of nowhere, doing mad U-turns and just not thinking before they act. Once I hit a cage hard enough to snap off the forks and end up thrown over the bars. I landed on the roof of the cage, leaving a large enough dent to write off the car. I laughed at the cager when he demanded insurance details; just boasted that I'd fix the bike for less than a hundred.
The other time I ended up sideways in speedway style, screaming until the tyres lost their grip. My leg suffered more than the Suzuki, which took most of the damage on the engine bars. I hobbled over to the a cager, head-butted him into oblivion and leapt onto the GN before I had to pay for my sins. Divine justice I'd call it,
It'd be easy to dismiss bikes like the GN250 as a pile of crap, fit only for a hacking role, but the thumper engine has its share of character and the rest of it’s tolerable. They are cheap to run, repair and renovate, their biggest flaw the rate at which they rust when neglected or used in the winter.
The bike went dead just as I was about to pull off from the junction. The big 500cc thumper just went clack-clack-clack. A sound full of contempt for my reluctance to keep the mill turning over at 3000 revs.
The brutality of the combustion process was so evident in the Goldie that high revs threw all my senses into overload. Not that the venerable single could ever be said to vibrate. Lord no! The pegs and bars jumping about were merely a manifestation of the engine working out.
Who needs tachos when each and every pulse of power is all too apparent in the chassis? Such an outlook is just as well as the rev counter kept breaking down with such monotonous regularity that I eventually dumped it and blanked off the gear drive in the engine. The speedo went the same way but that was more important because despite its age the Goldie would still thud along at the ton.
When it wasn’t stalling at junctions. The problem with a dead motor was getting it to fire up again. The kickstart was geared for gorillas and humping the motor over compression was in itself hard work. The variable timing syndrome that could affect Goldies made for vile kickbacks that could shoot the unwary rider high in the air. Alternatives to this painful demise were a fireball out of the carb or a loud detonation that caused OAPs to keel over and canines to go berserk. After a while, after a few bruised limbs, these character building defects become part of the motorcycling experience and a perfect first kick start akin to the holy grail. But rarely achieved.
The Goldie still looks butch, when stalled at junctions a large crowd gathers, all the encouragement it needs to refuse to start. Starting from the saddle is difficult, it's usually best to put her on the stand. A huge queue of cars often forms, adding further chaos to the traffic congestion. Few are willing to help push the heap into life. Perhaps fearing the fireballs and loud farting.
Just as exhaustion sets in it usually roars into life. Awkward in bad weather as the protective clothing generates quite a sweat. Stock Goldies run incredibly tall gearing but my own bike has been modded so that city riding is relatively easy. The clutch is still heavy and violent, also short-lived as it owes its inspiration to the B31... watch out when buying used Gold Stars, it’s not unknown for owners to bodge in weaker parts from the B31/33 range. They can explode or crack up under the much more powerful regime from what's basically a refugee from the race track.
The Goldie won many races in its time. The reflected glory of riding one on the road is often submerged beneath the plain hard work of keeping it running. As well as stalled engines, the thing often oils up its spark plug, giving performance like an aged stroker. The series of resulting lurches are near spine dislocating. The tremors running through the chassis providing interesting moments, like when the seat fell off and the headlamp exploded.
The latter happened at night down some wondrously curving country lanes. The light was an upgraded 12V halogen conversion, worth its weight in gold up to 80mph, whereafter it failed from the vibes. One time I was plodding along at 75mph when the sudden darkness fell and the Goldie ran right off the road. For the time, the forks were beefy but not strong enough to take a battering through a rutted field. As an example of the forces involved, the front brake lever snapped off and several spokes broke up. The superb alloy rim was mangled way out of shape. The RAC did the rescue quite rapidly, for once.
A steel rimmed wheel was fitted for a while, which meant vintage events had to be avoided. The old chaps were enraged by any sign of non-standard issue, giving me the same kind of hassle as I got for not cutting my lawn every week in good old suburbia. The old dears babbled on but I just turned up my Walkman and nodded regally at them. Most of the Goldies at classic meetings were taken there on a trailer, so valuable had they become.
Understandable, but a bit of pity because once on the pace, on a nice bit of fast A-road, the bike became fun. The kind of fun that took some time and effort to fully appreciate, but well worth taking the minor irritants. Power flows in hard from 3000 revs up, the end of the surge not really known as the clocks begin wobble into oblivion as the revs go past 6000, and by seven grand, when it’s still accelerating hard, it's difficult to hold on to the clip-ons.
The bike feels better under acceleration than at a constant cruising speed. The thrust forward taking my mind off the riding position, which is straight off a race-track. Town riding is as thrilling as being kicked in the kidneys by a skinhead. The bars making the clutch and throttle seem even heavier and more difficult than they are in reality. Too much town work turns me into a hunchback until after 15 minutes of muttering, I’ve managed to snap my muscles back into an upright position. Many modern replicas are just as bad, so the answer seems to be to buy a BSA Bantam for town work.
One of the great deals with the Goldie is going on a run with my mates. The big thumper holds it own against 500 and 650 twins, though no-one tried to do more than the ton in deference to the bike's age and sometimes indifferent rebuilds. There are usually some minor problems that call for a roadside stop and thinking session but we've never had to call for the rescue services. What a glorious noise the bikes make when they thunder through the countryside or brick villages, where the sound reverberates off the stone walls. Heads turn in fury but when they see it’s a pack of British bikes inevitably some old guys give us the thumbs up. It’s nice to be liked!
The engine, rather than the chassis, gives the most cause for disliking the Goldie. Everything or anything can blow if it’s thrashed but because mine ain't it’s mostly down to the primary chain (I’m tempted by a belt conversion), the valves burning away (poorer quality replacements, maybe), leaking cylinder head gasket (just bad design), quick wear rockers (er.....?). and a piston/bore life of no more than 10000 miles.
The points aren't crap but give some moments of diversion, usually when I’m running late. The engine often cuts in and out in the wet, a large thump of torque twitching the rear tyre in a death dance - change of underwear time. The clutch is crap and the gearbox as primitive as that in a Ural but probably a touch less likely to disintegrate.
I’ve done 18000 miles on a 95000 mile engine that’d been comprehensively rebuilt by a genuine character who lounged around in an ancient Barbour jacket that had an inch layer of grease, grime and oil. Useful for taking palm prints. The most onerous task I had to do was rip the top end apart for a rebore. The engine was easy to work on but spares are heart breaking in their expense. I had to lie to the wife (lucky that she considers the UMG as undesirable as my skin mags).
The Goldie looks like a classic, except for the third world seat (it’s long enough to take an extended family) and the quick rust silencer (a pattern item, admittedly). It certainly sounds like a classic, with the kind of blat that bounces windows in their frames and had people looking for the runaway road roller. Performance is what you'd expect from a tuned thumper and handling just about matches it, more than likely due to low mass and good geometry than any particular attributes of the somewhat basic tubular frame.
The overall experience is somehow rather more than the mere sum of the parts, rather more exciting than the litany of complaints I've felt that have been my duty to pass on. The Goldie isn’t an easy ride but the daily challenge of getting the better of the swine is rather invigorating, blasts away the cobwebs and gets the blood flowing.
It all depends on where you're coming from and where you're going. Many will find the Goldie a device straight from hell and laugh at the prices demanded for the ancient classic but to me it’s well worth the money. I’d buy two if I could afford it.
