Have you ever noticed, on a fine evening, as the sun sets, how the further it sinks the rosier it becomes? I suppose that’s what happens as we look back at things we’ve loved, even more so with old motorbikes.
The article by Simon Carter about the Norton Dominator awoke fond memories in me as I owned a 99 from ’64 to ’66. It was purchased from a friend for £50, a loan from my dad when he cashed in his Post War Credits (anyone remember them, an extra tax paid during the war which was to be paid back after the war, but no—one mentioned that it would take twenty years for repayment). The bike was sound if a bit scruffy, with both silencers held together with Gum-Gum bandage.
This was the best bike I’d ever owned and I quickly came to appreciate the virtues of the Dommie. It had a followed a string of lesser machines, starting with, don‘t laugh, an NSU Quickly (join the club - Ed) which wasn’t much use, a G9 Matchless which went like the clappers but never for long between major bottom end rebuilds (I eventually replaced the engine with a Triumph), an Ariel Red Hunter with and without Sidecar, a BSA B31, etc., etc.
However, back to the Dominator, I found it superb. It went well, with that gutsy pull of a big parallel twin, had excellent handling and roadholding plus reasonable drum brakes.
One occasion in particular sticks in my memory, one wet and miserable day I was navigating a roundabout and gave it a big fistful. In true horror movie fashion it all happened in slow motion, the rear end slid gracefully around until it was level with the front, with the inevitable horrible mess unfolding in my fevered imagination. I closed the throttle more in hope than expectation - miracle of miracles, the rear wheel slid back into line and I continued on my way with nothing more than a doubled heart rate to show for my lack of thought.
A gradual improvement program was embarked upon, during winter it was all stripped, painted all black with umpteen coats of Belco, an SS camshaft with flat base followers fitted together with a double start worm drive for the oil pump, siamesed exhaust pipes and the ubiquitous Gold Star straight through silencer. On the comfort and convenience side, my mum sewed up a vinyl seat cover that allowed me to fit a longer, thicker bit of foam to cushion my delicate bum and provide more room for a pillion passenger, whilst pannier frames and a top box were also fitted.
In this form it gave excellent service - holidays, rides to work and trips to road races, etc and never once let me down on the road. Preventative maintenance was the name of the game, the appalling mishaps that had befallen my previous steeds had taught me that. Sure, it had the odd hold up, the odd duff plug or puncture but that was all.
Talking of punctures reminds me of the time I came very close to coming off without actually doing so. My girlfriend was on the back and we’d had a puncture earlier in the day which had been mended - or so I thought. We were going uphill around a gentle curve at about 60mph when the rear tyre went pop - the bike went from lock to lock more times than I could count, until eventually with speed down to walking pace the front tyre clipped the curb and as we came to a halt I got a kick on the calf - but we didn’t fall off.
Contrary to the impression given above, I have actually fallen off; boy, have I fallen off. You bet I have. In fact, when I think about it, I must be a monument to the resilience of the human body. For instance there was the time on our way to a race meeting, scooting along our favourite twisty roads, when the surface suddenly turned nasty because the council had left the remnants of their winter gritting program on the road. I had time to think that it looked slippery and then we were down. However, little damage done save for the usual clutch and footrest scars. Human carnage was restricted to a hole in my new leather jeans and a hole in my passenger's ski pants and the knee underneath it. We picked ourselves up and continued to a nearby pub (where else?) where we were able to cadge a plaster for the offending knee.
Apart from keeping up with maintenance in general, I discovered a few wrinkles. For example, after struggling interminably to juggle four pushrods onto their respective rocker arms, I found that the easiest way to do the job was to remove the exhaust rockers, fit all four pushrods, fit the head locating the inlet pushrods, then it each exhaust rocker in turn. Believe me, it’s quicker that way. To fix the notorious chaincase all you need is Red Hermetite and PATIENCE. First, clean off all the old gasket goo and oil, them liberally coat the inner chaincase face, fit the rubber sealing ring and coat this with goo - then carefully fit the outer case, making sure not to over tighten it. Now comes the clever bit, leave it overnight without any oil, or even longer if possible, and you’ll have an oil tight chaincase.
Performance was pretty good by the standards of the day. I was able to take the top box and panniers off to go sprinting and the 1957 Norton would turn in 15.5 sec standing quarters with a terminal speed of 85mph. Perhaps not much by today’s standard, but we had lots of fun - the times we had and characters we met could fill a book on their own.
One Sunday, on the way to church, with my brother on the back, we were almost all finished off when a thoughtful gent decided to do a sudden U turn right in front of me. All I could do was slam on the brakes and put the bike sideways, clouting a two tone Hillman Minx, bouncing off and going down under the bike which promptly burst into flames. My brother did his Superman bit and in spite of having a broken wrist threw the bike off me. The bike was a write off, my brother had a broken wrist and I had four broken ribs, a contused kidney and various cuts and bruises.
I vowed never to ride on the road again. I rebuilt the Norton and used it as a sprinter. Everything not really needed was dumped in the search for lightness and the engine was tuned up as cheaply as possible, with the result that I cut a second off my times. It eventually blew up and some kid came around to the paddock with the twisted remains of a con-rod, saying that it had been red hot when he picked it up.
It wasn’t until ’82 that I got back into motorcycling with a Yamaha 200 and then a GSX250 Suzi, which I’m not riding at the moment as I broke my leg when spectating at Cadwell park.
Alex Lee