And for reasons I find hard to comprehend no-one else would lend me their precious piece of classic machinery... so I'd had to creep up to the National Motorcycle Museum hoping no-one would recognize me (now you know just why you never see a picture of the editorial mug in these, er, hallowed pages) and everything was going pretty well until I saw some fellow I once had the misfortune to work with when I actually had to work for a living. After accusing me of industrial espionage (that's what working for a large company does to long term employee's brains - or was it just riding that BSA for so long, John?) he went on in terms too crude to be reproduced in print but which I would normally have merely laughed at for its absurdity; unfortunately, this tended to draw a crowd of curious Barbour clad chappies and I began to get a little nervous.
I was sure there were some Trident badges in there (and I'm still getting irate letters from Trident owners after Malone's piece in issue 4 - and, no, we don't have any back issues) and I could just imagine being tied between a couple of those big triples and being dragged off down the road. I mean telling the truth about British bikes, just not on old chap. I deflected further verbal abuse by pointing to a BSA A10, suggesting that surely the clutch cable was the wrong colour and routed incorrectly. This caused a huge argument as excited experts cluttered around the BSA. Fortunately, the Museum is large enough to lose oneself in and I wandered off to another hall.
The museum consists of four halls displaying all the best and worst of British iron. Ranging from the early twentieth century vintage curiosities right up to the last gasps of our dying industry, there's bound to be something to interest someone who has suffered or exulted at the hands of British, er, craftsmen. It's possible to rush through the four halls in about ten minutes or spend hours lingering over some past (it) glory, either marvelling or laughing at the way they used to make motorcycles. It soon became apparent that judging these bikes on looks alone defined the zenith of British engineering as occurring in the late fifties and early sixties. Previous to that period engineering technology was unable to economically produce items like tanks, side panels and even frames that were visually acceptable.
Later bikes looked exactly what they were, the products of committees rather than individuals, their lines further wrecked by silly things like indicators. The essential simplicity of the BSA A10 Norton 99SS or Triumph TL showed up the earlier or later stuff as lacking in clarity of vision and correctness of proportion. If their prices were not so high, and if I didn't so distrust their engines, I might have let my enthusiasm for their lines overwhelm my disinclination to spend money.
My first knowledge of the National Motorcycle Museum came in a rather unfortunate manner several years ago. I was minding my own business wandering around the halls of some depressingly predictable motorcycle show when I was approached by some leather-clad hoodlum who demanded that I should buy a raffle ticket to help set up the Museum. Naturally, I refused, being more inclined to favour reviving the motorcycle industry than reliving its often deranged past, but had we been out in the street rather than in the civilised atmosphere of a motorcycle show (you know the kind of thing, half naked models and drunken journo's) I had the distinct impression that I would have received fist in the face for my impudence.
Thus, after paying £2.50 to get in and £1.50 for a catalogue, I was somewhat shocked to find another raffle ticket seller attempting to part me from my money, but at least he wasn't threatening and seemed quite happy to get back to polishing a Brough Superior after my abrupt refusal (the money's actually needed to help expand the museum).
The most interesting machine I saw in the Museum was a 1965 Norton P10. A 800cc DOHC vertical twin using a chassis that was later converted for use on the Commando, it was a good engineering concept let down by many small details that made engineering durability and performance rather inadequate. The most amusing concept was the use of pushrod tubes to contain the camchain, making it impossible to use a chain tensioner with fairly obvious consequences (especially if you've owned certain Hondas). Despite this and the continued use of a dry sump engine, the P10 was at least a nod in the right direction. As were the Bandit and Fury from the combined BSA/Triumph group. Using a new DOHC engine, designed by Edward Turner, these were the only vaguely modern bikes to emerge from the British industry throughout the seventies. Unfortunately, this neat 350cc vertical twin never made it into production, abandoned at the last moment when its manufacturers were struck by terminal financial angst and a lack vision. Funnily enough, the Bandit would probably fit much better into today's depressed market than the wild old early seventies.
Perhaps Hall 4 is the most interesting, containing a line up of past racing machines in all their glory. Time and time again people reply to my criticisms of British bikes with a string of racing successes, conveniently forgetting that these machines were put together by the best mechanics using the best engine components; their relationship to the street bikes becoming only a vague similarity in engine concept. The essential brutality of an AJS 7R, Norton Inter or Vincent Black Lightning is still so strong that they make modern racing and road bikes look damn silly, even if (or perhaps because) they will shake you apart if you're silly enough to actually try to ride them.
Much more practical, though, are the stripped down trial bikes using those hefty 350 or 500cc pre-unit singles from once precocious manufacturers like AJS and Royal Enfield. As with all the better British bikes the sheer functional nature of the beast makes it a timeless piece of nostalgia that will grab attention away from the latest high tech stuff.
Being far from a British bike fan, I have to admit to being impressed by the sheer range of machines on display but in the end this wallowing in our past does no-one any good, although a visit to Birmingham could easily subvert good sense because it's just so easy to become enamoured of these old British bikes, especially if you've never owned one of the damn things.
Bill Fowler