Tiger Cub Traumas

It seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. A 1962 Tiger Cub for £45. The engine was alive and well, while the rest of the bike was tatty but original. A quick strip down and a new coat of paint would have it looking like new. There was even a spare, partially dismantled, engine for no extra cost. My test ride revealed that the quaint handling quirks of the Cub were present and correct, while the motor chugged along with all the noise and vibration of some thunderous beast, although, in reality, it was hard pressed to make more than ten horsepower. The bike had been stored for a few years, the owner evidently figuring that I was a sucker to pay so much for such an ancient wreck, so out of touch was he with the true value, however ridiculous, of British classics. Money changed hands, the spare motor placed in a box that was secured to the seat with some elastics. And I was ready to go.

I didn't get very far. Struggling with the imprecise and far from docile front end, the bike stalled. This was a more efficient method of stopping than trying to use the brakes, which were the kind of half width drum brakes found on heavyweight pushbikes. Leaping on the kick start a few times resulted in that dead kind of sound engines make when they are not going to start. Switching on the lights revealed that there wasn’t any power. Smirking with superior knowledge, I turned the ignition switch to the emergency position - wrecked batteries from excessive vibes were so common back in the bad old days that most manufacturers designed their electrical systems to run with a dead battery - self congratulation was soon forgotten when the bike still refused to start. Even rushing down a hill failed to help.
 
Cursing and swearing, I pushed the bike home. Funny how steep hills suddenly appear when motorbikes fail. Pushing a British bike a couple of miles is a good way of meeting people. Old men said they don't make them like that any more, and, while I was rolling about the floor in hysterical laughter, reminisced on how good the times were when.they had little to worry over and Britannia ruled the waves. I was stopped by a young girl who admitted to actually owning a Cub. She didn't seem surprised that I was pushing rather than riding, and she didn't offer to kick it into life. That would have been.embarrassing. An old school friend suddenly appeared on a Honda 750, made some sarcastic comments and shot off into the night. I was tempted by an offer of fifty quid, but hoped that there wasn't too bad a mechanical malaise. I staggered back to my home, dumping the Triumph in a corner of the garage, full of loathing and disgust.
 
When I finally delved into the problems of the bike, it turned out to be a combination of incorrect wiring and a dead battery. Removing the ancient black thing that was supposed to hold an electrical charge, it was thrown at next door's cat, who had a strong inclination to use motorcycles as urinals. Disconnecting the horrible mess of wiring, I rewired the Cub, using a capacitor instead of the battery. Some fool had reversed the connections to the coil, making it surprising that the bike had run at all. Ten kicks later, the Cub rumbled into life, the cats ran for their lives and I grinned in triumph. Switching on the lights stalled the engine. Joining the leads from the alternator, to keep all the coils producing power all the time, helped solve that problem. I just had to remember not to use the horn when the lights were on.

The engine made some tinny noises from the top end that could have been the small end on the way out, or could just be part of the clattery background naturally emitted by British.engines. Revving the engine made matters no worse. As a representative of the small British single, the Cub is no better and no worse than many other bikes. Cheap materials, poor design (pushrods with that kind of vibration!) and doubtful performance do not inspire too much admiration in the cold glare of ownership.
 
Intent on limiting the financial damage, I decided to sell the engine to a breaker who specialised in British bikes. To show myself as a true believer, I rode the Cub without too many incidents to the shop. It's the kind of place that's guarded by a vicious Alsatian, with ancient hacks parked outside and a few dubious characters lounging around. I figured the combination of a Triumph and a ten-year-old leather would bestow enough street credibility to escape unscathed. After all, I was the editor of an increasingly successful motorcycle magazine (this is a joke in bad taste).

Avoiding the attentions of the dog, I managed to dump the box full of Tiger Cub engine bits onto an upturned door that could optimistically be described as a desk. The man in charge was one of those characters who hide behind out of control beards and nod their heads just like their canine pets. He informed me that the main bearings were shot, but he would give me fifteen quid anyway. The bottom end of the engine had felt quite sound when I'd checked the motor over. I mentioned this. He pulled at the conrod, sure enough the engine made a knocking noise. I tried, but it didn't move or make a sound. He repeated his action and looked at me as if I was an idiot. Then I realised that he had one hand under the table; it wasn't the engine that was knocking but his ring finger. I was going to point this out, but figured I could do without a face full of knuckles. Some people can be so unreasonable. I picked up the box, intent on departing.
 
As I reached the door, he offered twenty quid. I suggested thirty, we split the difference. After I'd pocketed the money, I pointed out how little the bike and engine had cost. His face was not amused. My amusement ended pretty quickly. The Cub refused to start. The Alsatian had started to take an interest in my perspiring form. The four guys were standing by the doorway, doubtless making jokes about my inability to start such a small bike. On the tenth kick, the engine caught then failed. A huge flame spat out of the carb on my next try. The engine finally fired, huge clouds of white smoke covering the shopfront. I revved the motor to clear it out of the engine. I glanced over my shoulder to see coughing forms through the dense smog. I'd just knocked the gear lever into first when I was aware of the dog trying to take a bite out of my boot. I kicked the dog in the mouth, while letting out the clutch. I cursed the slow acceleration of the Cub as the dog tried to take a bite out of my leg. Weaving across the road in an attempt to whack the brute in the head with the back wheel I nearly collided with a transit van. The van swerved, hitting the dog. I hurried off through a series of side streets, I was sure that I could hear the roar of real Triumphs in pursuit.
 
Too intent on making sure that there wasn't anyone behind, I suddenly realised that the bike was about to rush right across a main road. Slamming on the brakes, rushing down the gearbox and throttling back didn't have the desired effect, the bike rushing straight through the gaps in heavy traffic. Recovering, I figured that at least I must have lost them. By then, I'd become used to the bike's disinclination to travel in a straight line, lack of any real brakes and suspension that didn't absorb any bumps but was so worn out with old age that it didn't do much to control the machinations of either wheel. True Grit stuff.

Deciding that I'd better get rid of the bike before it did me any serious harm or brought retribution down upon my head, I removed the engine, stripped down the chassis, performed a quick respray and had it all back together in a week and a half. I only wanted a hundred quid for it. One guy who came to see it wanted to take the cylinder head off. When I declined, he seemed most surprised. Another said the engine was about to expire and offered fifty quid. I just laughed. There were no complaints about the handling or brakes, which as they were homicidal I found very surprising. There was even a policeman, who I managed to dissuade. I didn't need that kind of hassle. Eventually, some chap turned up on a Honda 175 twin. He offered fifty quid plus the Honda. As I would have given him fifty quid and the Cub for the Honda, I wasn't going to haggle.

Bill Fowler