Do you recall the classic mania in 1987 and 1988? When it seemed like if you didn’t buy the bike that month, the next it would’ve doubled in price. At the very least! In this mood of desperate price escalation and misplaced nostalgia for something I had never known, being only 20 at the time, I found myself handing over three thousand notes for a 1967 BSA B44 Victor.
This splendid looking thumper had impressed me no end by the way it roared up the road, a joyous blend of exhaust note and sheer torque straining my senses. Having the gearchange on the wrong side after a few years of Japanese iron took a little getting used to - the change itself was heavy enough to require the most hefty pair of boots I could find. These clod hoppers were impossible to walk in and after a week of kick starting and gear changing fell apart.
That was to be the least of my expenses and worries. Almost immediately the shiny facade began to crack - arriving home I found the polished engine covered in oil. It happened every time I wrung the motor’s neck in third gear, hitting an indicated 90mph before doing a clutch-less change (or bloody great lurch if we are being truthful and literal) up to fourth, which was also top. It certainly didn’t need more than four gears, there was torque aplenty right through the rev range.
Top speed was an indicated 105mph. Surprisingly high for such a small bike of ancient design, I always thought. Stability was fine whatever the speed, the short wheelbase and light weight not affected by even tyres that were nearly bald. The only shortcoming was the quality of the ride - the springs were so hard that only the largest of pot-holes persuaded them to work. The re-covered seat was equally hard, my body given a wild massage on even the most smooth of roads.
Even a large front wheel failed to inhibit the way the bike could be chucked from side to side in the bends. Aided by a useful amount of feedback from the road and ever available power, the Victor was often victorious in dices with middle weight Japanese twins down the back roads.
Motorways were possible but not preferred. Beyond 80mph acceleration was slow and unpredictable, any number of minor factors conspiring to take the edge off available power. The bike twitched quite violently when caught in the wake of speeding artics or buses, needing a rapid dose of brake and backed off throttle. The latter provided manly engine braking that was in a class of its own. In more normal circumstances I could often control my speed quite adequately just by opening or backing off the throttle.
This picture of perfection was tainted by the insidious nature of the vibration from the single cylinder motor which lacked any form of balancer and thus increased its ferocity of vibration in line with engine revs. Luckily, come 7000 revs the engine had all but dissipated its power, so the really chronic, eyeball disjointing vibes that came thereafter were never to any degree endured.
The engine was never what you could call smooth at any revs, there certainly being no need for a tacho to know what was going down, but the most annoying patch started from 70mph upwards in top gear. 80mph was just about tolerable for half an hour, but no more. Any faster for any length of time resulted in bolts falling out, hands and feet going dead, and an intolerable ringing noise in my ears.
Short bursts past the ton were possible, but such speeds could not be held for any length of time. Straight from an old Jap crate I tended to ride on the throttle, much to the horror of the Barbour brigade who cautioned piously not to exceed four thousand revs under any circumstances - the greater good of British motorcycling came long before actually enjoying yourself, according to these chaps. They usually went to great lengths to keep their tyres from getting dirty, carrying their precious cargo on trailers or in the back of Transits.
This was not the picture painted by the glossy comics, according to them British bikes were so wonderful that they had to be ridden! I would be the first to admit that the Victor was a ball to ride... light, punchy and good handling it could acquit itself well down any series of country lanes. Never mind that the ride was body destroying and that the vibes kicked up enough of a frenzy to wreck most of the chassis!
Full of the visions conjured by the glossies in all my innocence I went out and rode the Victor as hard as conditions allowed. At classic events I was studied with both horror and contempt for such an avant garde attitude to the holy grail of British biking. Mind you, I did begin to wonder a bit when the bike needed a full service every 400 miles, including an oil change as it kept turning to this murky grey sludge, and why after every ride I had to spend a good hour going over the bike tightening down all the bolts that had come loose.
True revelation as to what I had let myself in for came after 1850 miles of abuse. About forty miles from home the engine ground to a stop with a large crunching noise that had been preceded by a knocking noise, itself emanating from a large clicking sound that I had ignored for a mile or so, hoping it was just passing through and would disappear if not pandered to. It had disappeared but not in the way I had hoped!
The AA took us home. The driver of the recovery vehicle was himself an old British bike fan who poured forth a long stream of expletives when I'd admitted how much dosh I'd paid for the bike. He reckoned the whole BSA factory wasn’t worth that much and that his general love of motorcycling had been ruined by his experiences of British motorcycles. Sobered by an hour's worth of hard facts on old British bikes I was near tears when the B44 was finally rolled into the garage.
The engine came out of the frame with remarkable ease... well, two engine bolts had already gone missing! It proved impossible to do much more than remove the cylinder head and case covers, the rest of the motor gave every appearance of having turned into one solid lump of iron and alloy. An experienced mechanic came over, took one look at the way the piston had melted into the bore and told me to start looking for a new engine.
I soon found out that 440cc BSA singles are extremely rare and expensive items. I was beaten to the door for a CCM 500cc version by minutes. That might have been something. Eventually, a B25 unit was acquired for £400. This was heard running and made pretty much the same gruff noise as the bigger single so I thought it would be OK. After a bit of hassle with the engine plates, the motor was fitted into the still pristine chassis.
To say that performance was disappointing would be the understatement of the year. Despite its smaller capacity the engine rattled and vibrated to a much greater degree and yet was only able to push the Victor up to 75mph, down a steep hill with the kind of frenzied vibes that made it difficult to see the road ahead. I thought I had bought a bad one, but careful cross examining of some owners at the next classic event I attended suggested that they were all that bad. One eventually admitted that he liked the looks of his B25 but had filled the engine with grease to stop the motor leaking oil and never started her up - it vibrated so badly the bike had started to fall apart when just ticking over!
I could understand the point about the oil leaks. I would have been better off filling the petrol tank up with oil and the oil compartment with petrol, so voracious was the oil consumption. By the way, the B44 regularly gave 70-75mpg whilst the B25 could not manage 60mpg. The first long ride I did, forty miles into the trip the bike ground to a halt. It was a gradual demise just like when the petrol runs out, but there was plenty of that left.
No, the points had decided to fall apart. Much amusement followed trying to put them back together. I did succeed but the devious device was to repeat this trick every so often. A 100 mile ride meant spending ten minutes checking out all the likely bolts... a 250 mile ride meant readjusting the valves, resetting the timing and turning the carb jets back in.
A 500 mile ride meant a major engine rebuild. A gross exaggeration... well, after 520 miles mine needed a rebore and new set of rockers. The gearbox kept making horrible crunching noises but became no worse and looked so complex in the workshop manual that I left well alone. It only took 770 miles for the rebuilt motor to seize solid. I admit, I was caning it mercilessly but it was the kind of engine that had no torque to speak of and not much power anywhere in the rev range.
I had been frantically searching for a B44 motor but to no avail. The only one | actually saw had a split crankcase and was probably internally in a worse state than my own. I had no intention of wasting time and money trying to rebuild the B25. A mate said he had an old BSA motor in the back of his garage that was salvaged from a crashed bike.
Turned out to be a C15, the early version of the B25. Given the way they drop their oil it was surprising that it was still filled to piston level with the black stuff. This was a troublesome beast to fit into the frame but a bit of welding and hammer work soon sorted it. What can I tell you about this one? It was just as much a slug as the B25 but didn’t vibrate half as much. Fuel was around 80mpg, once I'd modified my riding style a bit to suit the venerable nature of the motor... surely antique status?
Oil leakage was on a par with the B44, about a pint every 100 miles. Passably competent at 60mph, by the time 70mph was up it felt like it was trying to bust its gut. 75mph was achieved on the odd occasion when I forgot my new, mature riding style. This is the one motor that has been vaguely reliable, doing 11000 miles in the last 18 months with nothing more than the odd bit of attention to valves, points and oil.
The chassis is superb as ever. I forgot to mention the brakes before because they have not caused the least bit of trauma. A front TLS drum is coupled with a SLS rear, both sensitive and powerful. Totally controllable in the wet they have saved me several times from eating tarmac. The shoes have not required replacement... that is one thing about these old Brits, consumables just don’t seem to wear in the same way as Jap stuff. I wonder what the secret is?
I love the buzz from riding an old Brit. I hate their rotten engine designs. Even in C15 form I have had many stimulating adventures. Wherever I stop, however remote and desolate, usually someone appears out of the woodwork with a story to tell of their own adventures. I am sometimes cruel by relating how bad British bikes can be but it doesn’t seem to get into their heads. Their grip on nostalgia is too firm. I think it’s more down to how they felt when they were young, and how motorcycling used to represent their freedom than anything else.
For myself, I have the choice of moving on to something Japanese and using the BSA as a second bike or to keep searching for a decent engine, there must be one out there somewhere. There is no way I will ever get my money back but, to tell the truth, I don’t give a damn. It has been one hell of an experience; one I would not have missed...
Clive Peters