Oh you little bugger, thought I. Actually, what I said would not be published in a family magazine, or any other sort for that matter. The Bouncing Pig had once again oiled its plugs, causing the machine to lose what little momentum it had managed to achieve.
The Pig was a 1979 Jawa 350 twin which some maniac had gone around the clock on and then insisted I take off his hands. At the time, three years ago, it seemed a whole lot better than running after buses and the like. Little did I know!
I kicked the machine, whacked in my spare plugs and spent the next twenty minutes persuading the reluctant Pig back into life. It sulked when sworn at! Choking on the cloud of poisonous fumes emitted from what was left of the original silencers (I kid thee not), I clambered back on. The suspension was also original. Or sort of. Each time the springs had sagged the previous owner had added some washers. By the time I'd acquired the machine there were so many washers that the only movement left would not have absorbed the bumps on a billiard smooth motorway. As top speed was only 45mph the Jawa never, but never, ventured anywhere near one of those.
I had what amounted to a rigid framed machine that held its line only by mistake. The frame's impersonation of an veteran bike was in line with the two stroke motor’s engineering. Power had long since disappeared, everything was so loose I always wondered how (if not why) it started up and the rattling din emitted was enough to dim the rotted exhaust grunting.
Trying to scream the Jawa through the gears emitted a sound not unlike a squealing pig about to be slaughtered whilst a troupe of monkeys threw nails around in dustbins. The tired old engine absolutely refused to rev beyond a certain point. I doubted if riding the Bouncing Pig down the side of a cliff in first gear would get the engine to turn over at higher revs. The bilious cloud of noxious pollutants was a useful way of dissuading cars from sitting on your tail, but waiting at traffic lights with the wind blowing in the wrong direction often enveloped the rider as well. A few seconds of that was enough to reduce me to a coughing, spluttering ancient. It was always better to turn the engine off and risk having to bump start her when the GP race began.
Oh, and the brakes. SLS shoes at each end that might once have been adequate for a quiet Czech country stroll but were now undermined by oval drums, worn out shoes and nastily gouged linings. In short, they were crap. Engine braking was also minimal. Just as well that power was so poor, given the go in something like a CG125 I would’ve been in serious trouble. Being burnt off by C90s neatly puts this wreck into perspective. Had it not been a freebie I would have consigned the Jawa to the scrap heap long ago but now feel honour bound to keep riding the damnable thing until final extinction (hopefully the machine’s and not mine).
Even when the clutch finally started slipping so badly that no power made it out of the engine, I fitted a spare set of plates rather than scrap her. Her? Sickening isn’t it how these machines get to you. She now has only two reliable gears - second and fourth. The others can be engaged, from time to time, but I am dissuaded from trusting them by the way they slip out of gear leaving me stranded with the bike going nowhere fast and often refusing to engage another gear until you've stamped up and down the box for a few minutes. On anything approaching a fast road, the Jawa and I are always slowing down traffic. Some jerks think that merely by speeding up behind us at twice our speed they can make us disappear!
This lack of speed does not mean that the bike is cheap to run. That would be too much to ask for! Petrol is drunk at 45mpg and it needs a bit of oil mixed in to stop seizure. I don't bother with new tyres, other people’s cast-offs are good enough. I usually get them free and spend many a faithful hour denting the Jawa's rims when fitting them. The same goes for chains, why pay out for new when there's lots of usable secondhand stuff available for next to nothing? Being on the dole most of the time does not give me much choice.
The Pig’s appearance is as terrible as its performance. There's little point in doing up an old heap that at any moment could wreck its engine. The cycle parts are a unique mixture of faded paint, rust and grime, although a lot of the bits are still original. Nothing tends to fall off, either, it’s all corroded into one lump. A friendly dealer hands out an MOT certificate every year, muttering something about getting the brakes fixed. Quite right, too.
I have managed quite a few crashes. About once a month. Usually down to the lack of brakes. Most car drivers are quite understanding. My appearance mirrors the bike's so they often take pity on me. The worst (or best?) crash ended with the bike almost cutting through a Fiat Panda. When she was pulled free everyone was amazed at the lack of damage to the Jawa. The car driver had piss dribbling down his leg from the shock of having his car written off with him sitting in it!
Other crashes were less dramatic. Being thrown into ditches usually hurt me rather than the machine which gave every indication of being indestructible. I had occasion to whack it a few times with a huge spanner in retribution... the bloody spanner exploded into a zillion pieces; the Jawa remained unmarked! | have often come home with a dose of gravel rash, the Czech iron running along as badly as ever.
The electrics are a real disaster story. Everything from points falling off to the battery exploding! The latter was very amusing as I was drenched in battery acid, my clothes dissolving before my eyes and my skin burning with the kind of ferocity that would give a Nazi a hard on. I threw myself in a nearby river, much to the amusement of the locals. The temptation to do the same to the bike was high. I never did clean the battery acid off the chassis, so maybe the frame will dissolve eventually.
Another amusing incident occurred when the battery lead came off. There was a nice conflagration under the seat, I was all for letting the thing explode when some concerned householder rushed out and threw a bucket of cold water over the hulk. I knew it was cold because about half of it went over me. I didn’t know if I should thump him or thank him! Damage was only cosmetic, unfortunately.
The bike can’t be ridden at night because the minimal lights keep exploding. I mean explode, voltage surges are so great they go up in one big bang! One time it happened a policeman loitering on a corner hit the deck thinking he was being shot at. I didn't stay around to explain the idiosyncrasies of communist electrical engineering.
I have rewired most of the bike, but not in one go, just when necessary to maintain a running machine. My colour coding is completely random so when something goes wrong | just tend to tear out all the wires in sight and to replace them with another lot. A whole coil of wire is always carried on the machine for emergencies. | have simplified the circuit by removing horn, indicators and ignition switch (you pull off an HT lead to stop the engine), which helps matters a lot.
Every journey is a great adventure. There is no way of telling what will happen. The worst days are those when I have an accident then break down whilst still screaming abuse at the machine for daring to injure my body. I mean, bloody hell.
On one occasion I broke down three times and had two accidents, the second, admittedly, caused by one of the breakdowns. Quite often, when the machine rolls down the road a vital wire comes loose which causes the later breakdown. I have nightmares about being plunged into a vicious cycle of crashes and breakdowns, each leading to the other until something terminal occurs.
Quite often, though, the Jawa will do 20 to 30 miles in a day with no problems. Arriving home with a sense of achievement after such outings is, I think, what keeps me running the machine. I glory in its toughness, like myself it’s a bit of an old bastard, but a survivor all the same. Surely, the Bouncing Pig is one of the greats!
Richard Engarth