The worst bike (using that term loosely) I ever owned was definitely the NSU Quickly, even if it came equipped with a three speed (twist grip operated) gearbox and a dual seat, both rare back in the early seventies. The highest moment of ownership was rushing across a busy junction at 45mph (as in totally flat out), not looking where I was going, instead peering backwards to see if my mate on a Puch moped was going to take me. I can't recall the model, it was all bright yellow and chrome, similarly geared and equal to the Quickly's dismal performance... though it all felt pretty damn mad back then, especially as the helmet law was a few months away!
Not surprisingly, ten-tenth's operation of the throttle -no other way to go to my sixteen year-old mind - soon seized the mill up. Combined with my own lack of mechanical ability, aided and abetted by so-called expert friends who decreed that the package Kellog's Cornflakes came in was a decent gasket substitute (I'm not making this up!), the NSU never really recovered from that trauma. In the end, I tried to offtoad the rebuilt heap on the village idiot, but even he found something suspicious in the need for a half mile pedalling session before she fired up!
Whilst it was still running, some old codger had come up to me and waxed lyrically about the NSU's abilities. I muttered something about the bike's inherent need to run straight on in corners, giving me even more street credibility in the process - kudos gained from playing chicken with oncoming cagers. Nothing compared to what some other louts got up to on much faster bikes, but nevertheless mildly amusing. The NSU was eventually sold to a breaker, though I should've done the decent thing and put a match in the petrol tank.
Almost as bad was a Triumph Tiger Cub, but I'd bought it cheap on the off-chance of making a minor profit. After doing the electrics, she fired up, vibrated merrily and had handling almost as dire as the NSU. To be honest, it was such an obvious horror that I never really took it far from the back lanes. A quick spray job and clean up, the Cub didn't look half bad in a classic British kind of way. The first ride of note, she stalled dead and needed a long push home! Just the electrics falling apart. The engine vibrated fiercely - knocks, pinging, rattles - you name it - the bike veered to the right with a strange devotion, and I didn't think it would last for ten miles. Still, some enthusiasts of the breed turned up and I sold it at a profit.
Not so lucky with a Triton. Pre-unit Bonnie engine, Slimline frame, clip-ons, the business to my eighteen year-old mind. The problems started when I tried to insure it, no-one wanted to know. The handling was good, the motor an old vibratory horror that spat off non-essential bits. Basically needed stripping right down and a loving rebuild... of course, no chance of that! Old British twins in that kind of state are real bastards. Tried to off-load it too many times but only had silly offers (this was when Tritons weren't considered serious classics), ended up losing half the money I'd paid out for the thing (that equated to about six months worth of Saturday work).
In the end, lessons learnt, experience counts and the next bikes, all Japanese but far from new, were comparative bliss. If a magazine like the UMG had been around then would've avoided the worst of it but I suppose these tribulations are character forming, at least I didn't keep on making the same mistakes (something which can't be said for other areas of my life)!
Bill Fowler