I can recall the day, six months ago, that I bought the BSA C11. It was
one of those marvellous English summer afternoons - bright blue sky, burning
sun and the delightful aroma of greenery as the 249cc thumper boomed through
the countryside. Soon was added a burning smell from the clutch. I reduced
speed from a thumping 60mph - rubber mounting and balance shafts were not
technologies that BSA knew anything about in the late forties. At 40mph
the smell went away and I just had to make sure I wasn't run over by some
caged lunatic.
Entering Sheffield, home in sight, ped's and car drivers turned curiously
to look at the loud, earth shaking apparition that was a C11 wobbling through
town. They seemed quite disturbed by the sight. It wasn't concours and I
wasn't some old codger. The exhaust was rusted through, the rest of the
machine coated in road grime. Its past owner some ancient hippy more interested
in weed than maintaining or even cleaning what many consider a classic motorcycle.
I still had to pay £750 for the old heap, though.
Back home, the weak clutch turned out to be nothing more than loose spring
nuts. In fact, most of the nuts and bolts on the bike were a touch loose.
I later found that, despite using Loctite on the threads, a fifty mile ride
would have everything coming apart! I solved the worst of this by wiring
in all the important nuts and bolts!
Didn't make any difference to the vibration. In theory, the engine made
12 horses and could put 70mph on the clock. In reality, more than 60mph
resulted in a huge outpouring of vibration from the ancient OHV engine.
I once - and, only once - held on tightly, with a following wind, overtook
a mate on a CD175 who reckoned I must've been doing 75mph. The clock was
so blurred and my eyesight so out of it that I couldn't read the speedo!
This took place on a long, straight B road that me and my mates always
use for the odd bit of speed testing. There aren't any turn-offs, so no
loitering cop cars. Its one downside is the presence of lots of small bumps.
On anything made since 1960 these are hardly noticed but on a bike with
girder front forks and rigid rear end, I was almost shaken off the sprung
saddle. The CD owner thought I was playing silly buggers when I weaved in
front of him - I had no way of controlling the bike accurately.
It wasn't that bad when on smooth roads - I'd owned an old style chopper
that was much heavier going. The firmness of the suspension gave it a unique
feel of sure-footedness on good roads but the slightest bump in a bend had
me backing off rapidly. The C11 runs quite a heavy flywheel, slamming the
throttle shut can have the wheel reacting against the bump. Depending on
the angle of lean, severity of the bump and degree of velocity this can
be mildly amusing or a near death experience. If, like me, your licence
is near extinction the lack of speed and interesting handling keeps the
boredom at bay.
12hp is restricted 125cc territory, except that the BSA is always full
of blood and guts, demanding a certain amount of tenderness on the gearchange
lever and throttle to achieve usable forward motion. Put a complete learner
on one of these machines, the chances are they will either fall off or quickly
give up in disgust. Even the kickstarting requires a hefty lurch that bears
no relationship to the minimal power and small capacity.
Its origins were totally pre-war and limited by metal rationing after
we'd beaten the Germans to a pulp but though slow it was reliable and long-lived
- the BSA singles only became dire, like the twins, when they were increased
in capacity and tuned to silly limits. I soon became used to the thumping
vibration, finding modern, small capacity Japs quite insipid in comparison.
In contrast, their riders got off the BSA, after a quick blast, complaining
of dead fingers, numbed feet and painful teeth! Definitely an acquired taste.
As were the brakes. Pitifully small SLS drums that needed a death-grip
before they showed signs of working. The exhaust noise and disturbing vibration
always made cagers and ped's aware of my imminent arrival (from half a block
away, I've been told!). The rest of the survival routine was planning well
ahead. This era of BSA's don't change direction rapidly, being large of
wheel, but the well triangulated girder forks don't easily bend in crashes
- cagers seemed to appreciate this, somehow, didn't throw themselves across
my path very often. Wearing an old Barbour jacket over several layers of
clothes bulked me out to an aggressive extent. I must've looked quite frightening
from the seat of a car!
The rigid rear end of the bike meant the sprung saddle took rather a
battering from the usual ruined road surfaces. We hear tales of sperm count
being cut in half over the past few decades but judging by the way the front
of the saddle slammed into my groin, the oldsters couldn't have been very
well endowed. The worn springs allowed a bit of lateral movement that would've
had me all over the place had I not gripped the tank firmly between my legs.
As the tank vibrated quite fiercely this didn't really add to the comfort.
50 miles in one go was more than enough for me. Maybe I'm a wimp, or something,
but some classic nutters have claimed to do 150 miles in one sitting in
their youth! Ouch!
There were some good points about the ancient hack. It was absurdly cheap
to run. 70-80mpg, chains, brake shoes and tyres that didn't seem to wear
at all. Although the engine required quite a lot of fiddling, it never seemed
to wear seriously - I added 4500 miles to whatever it had already done (maybe
a quarter of a million miles, who knows?) in less than six months.
I also cleaned it up - the old alloy and paint responding remarkably
well to some serious effort. Only the silencer was so far gone that it developed
big holes and made starting increasingly difficult. An old BSA A65 can went
straight on as if it was designed for the job, sounded almost as fruity
and made starting a second kick affair from cold. From hot, it just needed
one almighty kick. As far as I could tell the bike was standard, just minor
patching up where necessary. I could well believe that it had passed through
the hands of a series of serious motorcyclists who had revelled in its outrageous
practicality. A modern equivalent, albeit one with suspension and brakes
that worked, would be an Indian Enfield.
Towards the end of my ownership I fell for a young lady who demanded
the plush perch of a more modern steed - the little bit of rubber I'd attached
to the rear mudguard didn't go down too well. I was tempted to keep the
C11 as a second bike but someone offered me £1500 for the shining
relic. They ain't worth that much but I'm not going to complain, am I?
Duncan North