It all started in a service station half-way along the M8. The rain trickled down the back of my neck and uncured my vision. Because I was in a hurry, my 400/4 was playing its favourite game. First it pretended it was a Jota (firing on three), then a Bonnie (firing on two) and finally a Velocette. To add to the fun it always cut out just as l was passing a lorry. So, it was into the services, out with the WD40, off with the tank — a job designed by Mr. Honda to skin frozen knuckles — and spray the coils while fiddling around with any wires that came to hand. Eventually it fired on two and could be sort of revved until it returned to its original, happy state as a Jap four.
Then the idea came. I needed a big ploddy twin with a fairing for the winter. It would be nice if it was big enough for my six foot four height. Before I knew it, I had decided on an ex-police BMW. Three days later I was at an auction. Bidding for bikes is really exciting stuff, and could become addictive if I was richer. Although I find a 2 hour engine and gearbox guarantee far from reassuring.
I bid a mere £460 for a white 1979 R75/7, but was told the reserve was £500. I had to phone back the next day to see if the owner would sell it for that money - I had to point out the oil leaks and the dodgy swinging arm before he finally gave in.
When I went to collect the bike I almost dropped it. I'd only ridden a faired bike once before, and it certainly wasn't a re-inforced concrete and lead Avon - once these things start moving downwards...
The choke was a bit stiff but there was plenty of power in the massive battery - which was just as well as there wasn't a kickstart. Once running the beast sounded like guerrilla warfare in a foundry. Hmmm, tappets, I thought. I put it into first.. I put it int first... l put it into first and it finally stayed. I let out the clutch. Nothing happened. The auctioneer, kind enough to stay late so that I could collect the bike, looked at me expectantly. Very slowly, like a Bantam in treacle, my magnificent BMW crept forward. Ah, oil on the clutch plates, I hoped. It took three attempts to get the bike the two foot ramp out of the shed.
At the first corner I tried to indicate right but found that the right hand switch had no central groove - it took half a dozen attempts to get it to work.
I went to my mate's flat for a cup of tea and bag of chips. It took us twenty minutes of combined intellect, force and four letter words, after I'd decided to check the fuel level before leaving. I won't describe the correct technique (hint - the cap works backwards), because it will deprive new BM owners of hours of fun. On the motorway, going home, the bike ran along at eighty with four grand on the clock, unable to go faster because of clutch slip. I sat behind the fairing, nice and warm, pretending to be in "Zen and the Art" hoping I was inconspicuous. No tax. no MOT, no speedo...
It failed the MOT on the speedo and rear wheel bearing. The latter were a little loose because I hadn't re-shimmed a new set I'd fitted. Shims cost 80p each, which can work out expensive as the correct clearance is achieved by trial and error, and they won't exchange them unless you're very nice to the dealer. As for the speedo - "Needs a new one, sir, seventy quid please" - investigation proved that the brass bush where the cable entered the housing needed a squirt of oil. Ten pounds bought a new cable and I had a bike with a MOT.
Getting tired of being blown off by enthusiastic cyclists, I decided I had to fix the clutch. It took two days and the fabrication of several special tools to take the gearbox apart. There was an oil leak and the clutch plate was worn down to the metal. Being a courier, I was a bit annoyed that it took so long, but most of the time was spent making suitable tools. A new clutch plate cost £40, which I had to pay because I couldn't find out which car plate is supposed to be interchangeable (it isn't a VW Beetle). I also had to spend £20 on a crankshaft end seal. I destroyed this trying to fit it (i hope no-one I know reads this) and refitted the old one with plenty of Hermatite - it worked perfectly. While in the bowels of the engine, I also replaced a 20p oil pump cover gasket.
I now had some power, which may have been my downfall. The rear drive bevel is mounted on a bearing clad steel shaft. An oil leak from the rear bevel housing was traced to the fact that this shaft had snapped. Don't believe the Haynes manual where they say "the Bevel Drive Housing is not Owner Serviceable" — it just needs lots of luck and an extra big hammer.
I had owned the bike for a month and not used it in anger. The big one, I figured, Edinburgh to London by lunchtime. I started out at 4am on a beautiful, moonlit morning, riding the curvy A68 over the hills to England. By 8am I was In Ponteland with a dead cylinder. I took out the plug to clean It, and crossed the thread in the incredibly soft alloy refitting It. I caught the train to London.
The mileage was nearly 100 grand. Luckily, I had written off my 400/4. I had the 400 back on the road for £15, leaving enough over from the insurance to really fix the BM. A local shop quoted £300 for a rebore, new exhaust valves and Boyer electronic ignition, done in a fortnight. The idea of a working BMW got me all excited and I agreed. I picked it up six weeks and £454 later. I ran it in very carefully, and had it set up properly at 600 miles by the excellent AP in Edinburgh. After 2000 miles, I started to really use the motor, finding that it could shift; the Boyer had transformed the bike.
With the motor renovated, the bike felt light and fast. The speed was sufficient, although not by comparison with a Jap 750. I saw an indicated 120mph on a piece of Scottish Autobahn, but to get smooth performance the carbs have to be spot-on. This means adjustment every 1000 miles. Taking the barn door, sorry, fairing off the front end made it feel more like a Featherbed. The handling was good but always needed some muscle to throw it about. Enthusiasm in the twisty bits produced satisfying grinding noises, but the long wheelbase made huge shifts of bodyweight a bit too .necessary when really moving.
I found the shaft drive almost unnoticeable, while the stronger fork springs fitted by the police helped play down the usual fork dive BMW characteristic. Only the clunky gearchange slowed things down.
The single front disc felt vague, but combined with the rear drum made for secure and rapid stopping. Wet weather disc lag was about three and a half weeks. Pads last between ten and fifteen grand, rear brake shoes somewhat longer. Just as well - they're expensive.
The thirst was quite moderate at around 50mpg, dropping down to around forty if I spent the day chasing the red line. Rear tyres last for a good ten grand,while the front seems to go on for ever, despite my riding style. Electrics were good, but ancient, with occasional bits of switchgear disintegrating. Altogether, a very competent motorcycle.
In the end, I decided to sell it because it was only competent. I only rode it about twice when I didn't have to. It lacked sparkle. There is something about some bikes that, however ratty, make you glad you own them. The BM didn't cut it, even after I'd adjusted to all its quirks. I sold it for £150 more than I paid for it. The cost of all my repairs was tax deductible, so I didn't lose out.
Ex-police bikes are very difficult to sell, even though I've heard of them going for £1200. Don't pay that much, £600 is more than enough for any ex-police bike, even if restored. More than that will buy you a nice straight bike that still has a bit of life left.
Owning mine was interesting, and certainly removed any desire to own a BM from my system. I don't think I'd buy another bike from an auction. I had to replace every item on that bike that could wear out, including all the rubber because of the previous owner's neglect — he left it in a shed for a year. As you can see, spares are expensive and you pay for the name.
The final reassurance that I'd done the right thing in selling the bike came two hours after I'd stashed the cash and waved off the new owner. His voice, halfway to Durham, came over the telephone, "Ralf, how do you open the petrol cap?"
Ralf St Clair