Having spent several months as the butt of some very predictable piss taking from my fellow local bikers I decided it was time for me and the CZ125 to go our separate ways. It was my first bike, bought in total ignorance of the heap and nasty rep enjoyed by the bulk of Iron Curtain machinery, simply because it was the only bike I could afford and was desperate to get on the road. I was hooked on biking and, say what you will about East European bikes, my little CZ had opened up a whole new life style. But its main bearings were on the way out. I didn’t want a two stroke, I’d seen too many of them thrashed, suffering from erratic power delivery, dubious handling and constant re-bores hat seemed to typify the oil burners of the era. I fancied an A65 but knew my limitations as a mechanic and couldn’t afford a Bonnie or Honda 400/4.
A workmate had an old BSA C15 and we both went looking for a bigger machine. We spent hours checking out bike shops and answering adverts. I liked his bike and borrowed it several times - no good as a tourer but as a commuter with the potential for the occasional long journey the machine seemed perfect. One day I went to see an ex-police Triumph owned by some ape of a Grizzly Adams type greaser. The thing was a wreck but my eyes wandered towards a bog standard 1967 BSA C15 propped carelessly at the back of the garage. I paid £140 for it, which was a lot in those days for an old 250cc Brit, but it was in good nick with a genuine low mileage of only 9000 on the clock.
I'd intended to run the Beezer about until a suitable big bike came to light, one properly equipped for two-up riding and regular long runs, Trouble was, the more I rode the 250 the more I became addicted to it. I’d ride for the hell of it, any time of day or night, any weather. I was becoming a junkie for the predictable, easygoing nature of the little four stroke single. I thrived on speeding around the newly opened one-way system, convinced that the horrified disgusted looks I received from the street shoppers I was terrorising were glances of adulation. God, what a wally!
Handling was predictable and perfectly matched chunky power delivery. I could scrape the centre stand on any corner - this became my trade mark at night - I could not only roar around attracting the attention of my fellow bikers and sundry pub throw-outs, but I could also treat them to a spectacular light show when the stand grated on the tarmac, throwing up showers of sparks. Okay, fellow C15 owners weren't fooled, as they knew the centre stand spring was rather lax allowing the contraption to dangle dangerously beneath the sump. Seriously, the handling was good enough to allow removal of copious amounts of rubber from the tips of the foot pegs.
Rear tyres were a problem as try as I might to wear the sides down they always ended up square in cross-section which did have a nasty effect on stability. Mind you, when a new tyre was fitted it was an event for celebration by the application of mucho throttle and a bit of urban speedwaying. How I was never busted I'll never know. The law was still on Commandos then, so when I was pulled for the so-called spot checks instead of pulling my plug the gavvers would chat for ages about the merits of modern bikes versus the old ones. They’d let me off most things, like no brake lights, inoperative speedo and no full beam - full beam did work but its power consumption drained the battery. Once, a couple of bike cops even gave me a bump start, saying, don’t worry about lights just get home. Don’t get coppers like that nowadays.
The bike was suffering from some mechanical malaise (surprise, surprise) which manifested itself in a spectacular fashion one night. A pal and I had ditched the women for the night, setting out for a pub in the sticks and a game of darts and a beer or two. My machine started playing up so we turned back to my mate’s house as it was nearest. We doubled up on his Yamaha YCS3 - a wickedly unreliable little 200cc cat and went to the pub. Back at his house, I decided to nurse the BSA home and he followed on his Yam. Dad’s car was in the drive, the garage door open, straight in and turn the engine off. I looked back at Tony, expecting him to have followed but he was sitting on his bike a look of pure horror on his face. I became aware of an acrid burning smell, smoke was erupting all around me.
Shit, the bike was on fire - like, real flames from under the seat. The bike could have gone up in a big way as the fuel line was right in the firing line. I ripped off a side panel as fast as I could luckily, it was only secured by two large headed screws that required nothing more special that a coin to remove them. In typical bodging fashion I'd padded the battery into place by stuffing rags around it as the original wire holder had corroded through. Sure enough, there must have been a short at the battery and the oil laden rags had provided the perfect breeding ground for the flames. The bike was saved at the cost of a few melted wires.
It didn’t take long under the charm of the C15 before the urge to own a superbike disappeared, along with my girlfriend. I don’t blame her, on the few occasions I bothered to take her out she ended up with a sore bum (no, I wasn’t doing it wrong you dirty minded devils) as at anything over 55mph the pillion rider did suffer, although I never felt it - blinded by love for the beasty I suppose. I was no longer the clean young lad on the harmless little CZ that she'd originally fallen for. I was a scruffy 19 year old on a noisy, untrendy little sixties cast off. She didn’t mind the fact that my hair was actually some six inches longer than hers or that I virtually slept in my acid wrecked jeans and oily denim jacket. What upset her was that she’d been relegated to second place, and a very poor second at that. I barely noticed her slip from my life so besotted was I with my beloved C15.
Then one day, tragedy. A dickhead in an A40 pulled out in front of me. The BSA’s meagre front stopper worked overtime, the rear one locked up but to no avail. Over the top of the car I went, followed, according to witnesses, by the bike. Christ, I was lucky - a badly bruised thigh was my only injury but I’m afraid my steed was a goner with bent frame, forks curved back to wrap the front wheel around the frame down tubes. I cried in front of everyone, I swore, but tears, anger and frustration were too basic an emotion to properly give vent to my feelings. Small change that the A40 was as dead as my own vehicle. This could have been the end of the story but it’s not.
My bike was transported to a local dealer to await the insurance assessment. In the meantime, I managed to locate a frame and forks from a long defunct C15 trials bike. The friendly dealer offered to store the wreck until the insurance claim was settled, whereupon he would charge them a huge sum for storing it, causing them to tell him to keep it. It worked, I had the bike and the claim money. Months of spanner work resulted in my denim jacket becoming even more oil stained and myself gaining the reputation of a hermit as I spent every spare moment in my dads garage.
Eventually she was ready. Resplendent in her new metal flake green livery, Starfire headlamp and sporty alloy mudguards. First trip out I was pulled by the law (they were on Honda 200s and a little less sympathetic towards scruffy youngsters on Brit metal than the Norton boys). They wondered why I was going so slow - running in, I said, plus slippery roads and a new full face helmet I wasn’t used to (soon chucked in favour of my old open face job). The law followed me all the way to the pub and back home again after a pint, but didn’t stop me - just as well, as in my haste to try her out I hadn't insured or taxed the bike.
Just to show there were no hard feelings I even attended a bikers evening organised by the local Bill. I was awarded a prize for the best maintained machine despite having one side pane; missing since the accident. I shyly went up to collect the prize - a pair of gloves - to a chorus of police brutality from my fellow yobs which made me glow even more scarlet.
The C15 was by no means the sort of machine that could be simply ridden around with no thought given to maintenance between oil changes. Every Saturday morning it received the sort of attention usually reserved for a champion racehorse. First, the bike was washed gently, then just about every nut and bolt was checked, essential if the disappearance of essential components was to be avoided, chains, tappets, tyre pressures, oil levels - you name it - was probed, prodded and dealt with. Assuming all was well, out would come the wax polish and chrome cleaner. Then it was down to the town for a bit of posing and socialising with whoever else had recovered from their Friday night hangovers.
Trouble was, I was fast left out of the posing game no matter how dementedly I thrashed round corners or how much I tried to appear coo by sedately cruising past teenage girls, blipping the throttle as I changed down a gear or two, prior to a noisy drag start along the one way system. Everyone I knew was buying bigger bikes. OK, so many of the things they straddled were, as far as I was concerned, either fast, flashy and unreliable (Yam 350s) or sluggish, bland and unreliable (Suzuki GT380s).
None of my mates could afford one of the superbikes of the time and plenty of envious heads would turn when Z1 Kawasaki or Triumph Trident (we knew no better then, of course) blasted past. About this time a guy, who I immediately labelled a bit of a prat, kept hassling me to sell him my trusty steed. He even found out where I lived and pounced upon me with boring regularity, seemingly every time I put my head out of the door. Well, I took a deep breath and flogged the bike to him, knowing deep down that it wasn’t going to a kind and loving home. I briefed him on the starting technique - turn on the petrol, depress the tickler on the crude Amal until petrol floods out, eighth throttle and a gentle swing (maybe two on a bad day) on the kickstart and bruuuuum.
Having made the break, next step was to find a bigger bike that suited my slightly eccentric needs - satisfied by the arrival of a ratty Triumph Daytona with a heart of gold but a shoddy, bodged up body. Not a superbike or mega machine but, with a few weeks cosmetic work and attention, I had a real bitch of a stylish ride and enough performance for my needs. Paint job, high bars, chrome guards and flashy, short mufflers snaking up like twin cobras to spit their crackly venom from beneath the pillion’s rider left thigh. The stuff dreams are made of, unless you happen to be a total Anglophobe or cafe racer,
The Daytona had long gone, replaced by a boring family car and marriage when I heard that my young brother-in-law had just bought a C15. I guess that biking never dies within one but slumbers dormant deep in the vitals - a bit like malaria awaiting to erupt - my heart leapt and I was around his place like a whippet. Guess what? Yep, it was my old Beezer, looking a bit sad but intact and running. Apparently, the gibbon I'd sold it to had never had much luck with it. Couldn’t start it very well and certainly couldn’t keep it running. Eventually, he bounced it up a high kerb, buckling the front wheel and never rode it again. My brother-in-law made a brave attempt at doing the bike up but was never over the moon due to a recurring electrical fault.
He sold it to me for an exorbitant amount and I proceeded to spend even more cash on a complete 12V conversion. A wiring loom from a later Starfire model served perfectly well despite the fact that there were a few extra connectors left over, thanks to that machine’s extra electrical components. A red respray, new wheel rims, flat bars, new small end bush and I was away. She was a real eye-catcher, classic lines, good lights and totally reliable. Purists might argue that I should have restored the bike to its original condition but, to be honest, I think that had all C15s looked like mine then the rather awkward styling of the Starfire and Barracuda would never have been introduced in 1967. I think there was a sort of factory produced mongrel between the two in the form of the Fleetstar - created, no doubt, to use up the last of the C15 parts following the demise of its nine year production run,
For the technically minded, assuming anyone’s interested, the C15 was BSA’s first unit engine machine, a single cylinder four stroke with a claimed top speed of 70mph and up to 100mpg. The latter figure was certainly attainable under running in conditions, 45mph cruising and gentle acceleration, whilst the claimed top speed could actually be bettered, under favourable conditions, such as a steep hill or strong following wind, by 5 or 10mph. A Sports version was available, capable of a claimed 80mph and blowing up very quickly.
A particular problem of many old singles is big end collapse and the C15 was no exception, but my bike, being one of the later ones, was fitted with a stronger bottom end that didn’t suffer so badly from this trait. It withstood a frightful combination of high speed drag starts and, in later days, daily commuting of 30 miles a day. Whereas the later BSA 250s oozed a sort of macho cobbyness or boasted pseudo trials styling, the C15 emanated a sort of violence towards its owner, repaying care with reliability and abuse with equal reliability until followed by swift retribution.
Lifestyles change, and my bike eventually ended up in the garden shed, well greased and covered by a dust sheet. It hurt not to see her in use every day and every time I fetched a spade or hammer from the tool rack I would run my hand over the chrome flanked tank or even, if I knew I was unobserved, straddle the hibernating metalwork.
The bike went to a good home. I sold it to a brash young hippy, someone who I know will appreciate her easy to live with ways, an eccentric in a bland world. He reminded me of myself all those years ago.
Kev