l should have known better, after my cousin's George's experience with Velocettes, than to sink myself up to my neck in debt by buying a 1962 Venom. Mind you, his MSS (that’s the cooking version of the 500 Venom) had its good points.
George had originally meant to buy a Gold Star but went for the Velo when he found that the insurance was going to cost more than he was willing to spend on the bike itself. Low down grunt on the MSS was immense. It gave the original meaning to the fire at every lamp-post ride, seeming to give you a punch up the backside at each stroke as you accelerated from 0 to 30mph in about 5 bangs. The handling was of the think it round the corner variety and, of course, the sound was lovely.
This still applied even after the fishtail end of the silencer had been sawn off, following a kickback which blew most of it away. When you were close behind this gave you a sensation of being constantly slapped in the face, since the exhaust, being slightly upturned, was directed straight at the following rider.
So much for the good side, what about the snags? Well, the famous starting ritual wasn't one of them. Many bets were won challenging people to start it first kick, but given the correct knack (of which more anon) it was easy to do. I overcame this difficulty whenever I borrowed it — we lived on a hill and bump starting in the time honoured fashion was fun and great for the macho image.
The number one snag was the clutch. Not for nothing did the handbook devote two full pages to its adjustment. This had to be done in at least three places but the most critical of them was the slip ring holding the 16 small clutch springs. A special Velocette tool could be purchased to assist this process, or alternatively a nail accompanied by a hammer and chisel did the job for George.
On the outside of the clutch was the final drive sprocket held on by one nut. Excellent for racing because you could alter ratios in a moment. There were snags to this arrangement, however, as I discovered once when yet again I had the bike on loan for the weekend. Incidentally, you may wonder why it came into my possession so often - one reason was the chronic lack of reliability of my Norton Terminator, the other was that George preferred to spend his weekends dressed in his best suit consuming amber liquid, for which a motorcycle wasn't strictly necessary.
So there I was full of the joys of spring, approaching one of those nasty bends which go left under a bridge and then right again as they come out. The whole route lined by solid stone walls. As I braked as hard as the MSS SLS brake allowed, I changed rapidly down the box to take full advantage of the engine braking. This suddenly ceased to exist and the stone wall approached much faster than expected. Sweat popping out of my brow and elsewhere I laid it over as far as it would go, freewheeling around the corner and stopped, badly shaken, the engine ticking over but no drive. Examination revealed that the nut holding the final drive sprocket had come loose.
George finally sold the bike when it literally became piston-broke. The last I heard it had been ridden home 90 miles from Scarborough road races by the next owner, with a broken front down tube. He thought it was handling a bit strange. which just shows that some people have the sensitivity of a half brick when it comes to riding a motorcycle.
So why, then, did I buy a Velo? Well, I had ruined my Norton Dominator 99, a superb machine not to be confused with my previous Navigator, by fitting a device known as a Wal Phillips fuel injector. This was supposed to vastly improve acceleration, which it did. Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of myself and friendly dealer (who raced an outfit with one on) it was impossible to achieve clean carburation. It would tick over OK and run above half throttle but in between there was nothing.
Subsequent events had an air of inevitability about them. Faced with a sharp uphill bend, I had a choice of either shutting off and chugging round, or full throttle and roaring around. Being in those days made of the stuff of heroes I opted for the latter. Halfway round the corner I saw a damp patch right on my line. Knowing what was coming was the worst part, and l was already relaxed when I hit the ground, so didn't sustain any injury. My passenger was less well prepared and I’m afraid I was a little brutal as l hauled him to his feet, to help me pull the wrecked bike out of the hedge.
Looking for a replacement, I read a report in The Motorcycle, which assured me that Velos were the next best thing to a BMW. Quality engineering they said. British craftsmanship, they said. Nothing like the hearty thump of a big single, they said. After starting my almost new prize, I rode off into the gathering gloom. That's when I noticed a strange phenomenon. The faster I went the dimmer the lights became. Not a totally satisfactory state of affairs.
After riding home slowly I discovered the problem -- Mr Millers famous dynamo was of course belt driven and the belt was slipping. Incidentally, it was necessary on this model to remove the silly plastic side panels to get at the engine and dynamo. This I later found was typical of Velos. It always seemed that to get at any component you had to first remove at least two others. For instance, there were no less than eight bolts holding on the cylinder head. This on a simple single.
I found that the Venom did not have the punch of the MSS. It seemed to start to buzz at about 65mph and levelled out at just over 90mph. Average consumption was around 70mpg. It wasn't a patch on my Norton for acceleration or top speed. About the same, on reflection as my present 300 MZ. l was disappointed.
I did, however, learn the famous starting ritual. First petrol on. Second choke closed. Now comes the clever bit - tickle carb until petrol trickles out, then slowly depress (not kick) starter twice to draw mixture into cylinder. Next deliver the traditional long, swinging kick using all your weight. A first kick start results. I still use this technique on my MZ and it works. The trouble is that a lot of people reared on electric starts don’t kick the pedal, they only push at it.
My disappointment with the Velocette increased when I discovered its thirst for oil. Its first long trip was to the Dragon Rally, a journey of around 150 miles each way. The weather was fairly mild that year but even so I wasn't thrashing it. My surprise was great therefore to discover that at the halfway mark (Chester) it needed a pint of oil. In all it used four pints for the 300 odd mile trip. Friends made remarks about calling at the garage for a pint of petrol and a gallon of oil!
This was a motor with only 12000 miles on the clock. The final straw came when the gearbox developed four neutrals. This in itself was not too bad but with it came a habit of drifting out of gear on the overrun. This meant that you shut off for a corner and then as you put the power back on nothing happened. Recognising that I had neither the engineering degree required to fix it myself nor the bank balance to pay for others to do it, I took it back.
Most of my riding was being done by then on a £30 Norton which I had bought to keep the Velo company. The finance company were only too keen to sell the Velo off and leave me with the balance to pay off, and for the next two years I was paying for a bike I no longer owned. Needless to say, that since then I have never bought on HP again. At least Shylock only wanted his pound of flesh, not the blood as well.
W J Bartlo