Copyright (c) 2008 GoodMotorcycles.com
After a slow, painful, recovery from a particularly nasty liason with the business end of a Mini van, I once more ventured forth upon the Queen's Highway. After successfully conning the authorities into awarding me with a full licence, aboard an Ariel Arrow this time, I continued for a short time astride a 1951 BSA B31.
This was a cooking version of the 350 DB32 Gold Star, the 500cc versions being the B33 and DB34 respectively. The much slower but less fussy B's had the same bottom ends, basically, but had heavier iron barrel and head with a separate, alloy pushrod tunnel. They also had a softer cam and much lower compression at 6.5:1, a smaller carb (a Monobloc instead of a temperamental GP) and valves. They also had a wider ratio gearbox and smaller, less efficient brakes without cooling fins.
The riding position was also much less sporting and, needless to say, more comfortable! Most of these differences apply to the later swinging arm models, whereas my trusty BSA had the, er, wonderful plunger rear suspension. It took a spectacular concave or convex abnormality in a Cornish road to make it work. The suspension had no oil dampers but two springs of different rates pushing against each other, which when they condescend to allow wheel movement are guided by a substantial tube. I soon learnt to stand on the footrests at the sight of any serious deviations in the road surface. A metallic clang signalled that the suspension was actually working, even if I did not believe it.
Fast this machine was most certainly not. It's handling and brakes matched its performance, but only just, not in the least helped by those bloody awful, square section Avon SM tyres. The standard single cylinder starting technique was best adhered to, least the kickstart performed an impromptu modification of the leg, commencing at the ankle and terminating at the back of the knee. This involved gently turning the engine over until compression was found, retarding the ignition, lifting the decompression lever and nudging the piston past top dead centre, releasing the decompression lever, returning the kickstart to the top of its travel and with a practised flourish, leap into the air and deliver a long, full swing on the kickstart...
If all was well the beasty would thud into life. If the ignition was not sufficiently retarded and/or the engine was kicked over wimpishly, then it would try to run backwards, lifting a still engaged kickstart back with it. You were either launched skywards spectacularly or the kickstart smashed its way up the inside of your lower leg. Men only need apply!
This was less severe on the 350 machines than on the larger 500s. The Goldies were particularly nasty, if one's technique was lacking. I took delight in getting the timing and carburation set up to perfection, so as to enable the tickover to be as slow as possible. You could count the four strokes between each ignition of the fuel, each Pom, Pom, Pom was a beautiful sound, which today's short stroke, oversquare singles can never match. The long stroke and heavy flywheels on the crankshaft combined with a manually adjusted advance/retard ignition meant the Beesa could pull strongly uphill at very low revs. The ignition was, of course, well retarded to do this, a technique exploited to good effect in trials events of the day.
The primary chaincase was of the good old pressed steel variety, held together around its periphery with numerous screws which, combined with a cork gasket, laughingly attempted to seal the lubricant within. Actually, to be fair, the gasket in question was well knackered and split and, as funds were restricted to components which had been involved in terminal copulation, was held together with an excess of Red Hermatite. With today's wonderful silicone sealants I would have been deprived of many a happy hour.
The engine shock absorber was an all steel ratchet like affair which only moved appreciably when the engine sprocket nut, holding it all together, came loose. The terrifying row, once heard, was not easily forgotten. Chaincase apart, the motor was comparatively oil tight and very reliable. It could not be easily thrashed by pubescent youths, such as myself, as it would never rev beyond a certain point, even when I was trying to keep up with my friend's Dominator.
I was given the B31 by my father, who being a lifelong motorcyclist to this day, had owned it for almost as long as I was old. He had bought it from a bloke who had smashed it up whilst on holiday. The frame was bent when I was riding it but in those days the bikes, in my price range, came twisted at no extra charge. I rebuilt the rolling chassis and repainted the frame with bronze Hamerite, the wheel rims (no chrome, just rust) silver Hamerite and the tanks and tool box with white Valspar gloss paint, with royal blue detailing.
It sounds, I know, an appalling mess, but bearing in mind cash was noticeable by its absence, I was painstaking in my efforts and the bike looked very smart. The Concours brigade will, by now, be in tears, but in 1970 British iron was two a penny and only the certifiably insane would spend a fortune on the bread and butter models.
My first bike had met with a particularly nasty end and the B31 was to be no exception! One afternoon, returning to Taunton where I was employed, I was overtaking a car and caravan when, without warning, the car swung hard right to enter a filling station. I opened up the side of the caravan like a tin opener and smashed into the side of the car. Conflicting accounts claimed that I ended up in the garage forecourt, the other that I was underneath the car.
Injuries sustained, only 18 months after recovery from multiple injuries in a previous mauling, were fractured upper arms, fratures in both hands, fractured ribs, dislocated and fractured left hip and my lower jaw was smashed in three places complete with the loss of four front teeth. I was badly concussed again and, because I was choking on blood and teeth, I was given an emergency tracheaostromy, which involves cutting open the throat to insert a tube into the windpipe. To say I was in deep shit again was no exaggeration!
With many thousands of miles behind me it was folly to overtake a car and caravan travelling slowly in the proximity of any right-hand turning. He was in the wrong in performing a sudden manoeuvre without rearward observation or signals, but that doesn't stop it hurting. The old maxim, treat everyone as an idiot and expect them to do the most ridiculous things, is a real life saver. I had to learn the hard way, don't you do the same.
Kevin Udy
From UMG 78
What I didn't like was the way the owner went all nasty after I handed over £1000 for the '58 BSA C12. What he basically said was piss off, don't come back if there are any problems and don't expect any advice or help from him any time down the line.
It was all my own fault that he was in a foul temper. The bike had been advertised as immaculate and original (surely a contradiction in terms for a machine nearly 40 years and 50,000 miles old?), priced to sell at £1950. After the usual test ride and examination I'd offered £900 and left my telephone number if he was interested.
A month later he'd accepted a grand with an amazing amount of bad grace. He lived in Bristol, myself in Southampton, so I'd have plenty of time to test out the 250cc, OHV thumper on the way home. At least it was June, hot enough to melt tarmac.
The engine was warm, she thumped into life on the first kick. I immediately thought that there was too little pressure on the lever but, what the hell, maybe I didn't know my own strength, these days. Clutch in, dab the gear lever. Nothing happened. A heavy boot, graunching noise, the whole bike jerking against the front brake, held on in case of clutch drag (sign of an old hand).
I felt like some spotty kid on his first ride when I let the clutch lever out with a bit of throttle. A series of small hops, enough driveline lash to make me think of disintegrating bearings. Finally the clutch was home, the bike growling up the road.
Approaching about four thousand revs acceleration - if that's the right word for our stately progress - diminished and vibration poured in through the bars, pegs, tank and saddle. Bloody hell, couldn't remember it being that bad on the test run. A massive fight with the gearbox to get her into second and then third. Didn't want to know about more than 50mph...all the excuse the cagers needed to sound their horns in frustration. I told myself it was all part of the bike's vintage charm.
Coming up behind some slow moving caravan, I looked behind (mirrors would've been shaken to pieces), saw it was clearish and stuck out my right hand to indicate what I was about to do (indicators would've gone the same way as the mirrors...). Up until then the handling hadn't appeared that bad, just needed a firm grip on the bars and a bit of muscle to get it to follow directions.
As the previous owner had said, it had suspension at both ends, not something enjoyed by all bikes from the fifties. As soon as I took my hand off the bars, the throttle slammed shut and the bars wobbled from side to side.
It was hard work grabbing hold of the wildly moving bars with my right hand. By the time I was back in control, speed was down to 30mph, the caravan was a speck in the distance and some cretin in a Sierra was trying to steal my numberplate with his front bumper. I opened the throttle in top, hoping to enjoy that famous thumper torque. Instead I had a head full of death rattles and the kind of acceleration that took me back to my moped days.
The car driver blasted past with about a millimetre to spare, his dear children giving me the finger. It was at this point in the saga that I found the gearbox had locked into top. It was open road for the next few miles, giving me time to chew over the dilemma. The only clue I had was the blast furnace heat coming off the engine!
I pulled into the next garage to look things over. Pulled off the inspection cap on the gearbox, couldn't see any oil in there. Bought some 20/50, let it trickle in until I thought there was enough (there's a level screw but I didn't know that then). The garage sold magazines so I bought Performance Bike for a laugh, flicked through it in less than fifteen minutes.
By then the gearbox had cooled down enough for the gear lever to work! Unfortunately, the cooler engine didn't want to start. The C12 weighs about 325lbs but felt twice that to me as I hurled it down the garage ramp, running alongside at about 10mph, throwing myself on to the saddle, bumping it and letting out the clutch. A great graunching sound that almost induced heart failure then she went burp-burp.
Funnily enough, I wasn't that pissed off, felt a sense of achievement at having fixed the machine! If it had been a modern Jap I would have been cursing and swearing. Having said that, once back in the comfortable saddle, ensconced in the laid back riding position, there was nothing to disguise the fact that this was one slow and vibratory old sow!
More progress was made. Just getting used to its gruff nature, when the sonorous beat bleated a couple of times and then went dead. We coasted a little way until somewhere to park off the main road was found.
Sounded like fuel starvation to my well trained mind. Sort of, the carb had detached itself from the cylinder head, only stopped going walkies by its cable! The carb was held on by two pieces of non-standard (metric thread it later turned out!) studding; the nuts nowhere in sight. Being resourceful, I cannibalized two nuts from the bike and forced them on, chewing up both sets of threads in the process. It was better than walking!
At this point I was becoming nervous. Progress was much slower than anticipated and I had another 40 miles to go, which might well mean riding in the night on desperately inadequate lighting. If indeed, there were any bulbs left after all the vibration the old girl was churning out. Just to be on the safe side, I added some more oil to both the gearbox and the oil tank.
The next little item of annoyance was the front mudguard starting to bounce around on its stays. The bit where the paint had rubbed off against the forks revealed that the guard was, in fact, not the heavyduty steel item as specified by BSA but one of those flimsy alloy jobs.
Where it had been riveted to its stays, the steel rivets had worn oval holes in the aluminium guard. Once a little bit of movement was gained it went into self-destruct mode. I cursed the previous owner and took the whole thing off, nailed it down on the pillion with a couple of bungee cords.
For some reason, at this point, I formed the idea that I was riding along on an old dog that was falling apart under me. 25 miles left to do, according to my reckoning; not inspired by the disappearing sun and darkening sky. I wasn't going to tempt fate by turning on the lights just yet.
I upped the ante to all of 55mph, hung on for dear life and hoped my shot nerves wouldn't leave me scarred for life. Apart from the useless guard falling off without me knowing about it until I got home, the old slugger actually made it to my house with seconds to spare before I would've been forced to tempt electrical self-immolation by turning the lights on (they actually work fine as the whole system had been overhauled and upgraded to 12V).
Another sad tale of a crap old Brit single? No, more of a bodging previous owner out to make a financial killing. Once I fitted the correct carb, proper engine bolts (the originals were too small), done the gearbox oil properly and put in new steering head bearings, I had a rather splendid old plodder, that handled fine, topped out at 75mph and regularly did 75mpg.
I really enjoy my C12, these days. If I'd judged it solely on that first ride I would've bunged it into the nearest canal or sold on quicky. It's a great alternative to modern motorcycles but, please, tread very carefully when hunting for British bikes.
Adam Griffiths
£2500 for a 1959 BSA B33 seemed an awful lot of money but then the prices of British classics have always been on another planet. I was fifty years old, on the lookout for an interesting classic. The dealer had a shop full but the B33 was one of the few that was under £3000 and looked like it could be ridden out of the showroom. No chance of a test ride, the dealer seemed reluctant to even let me hear the engine running. He half-heartedly pushed the bike out into the street where he nearly collapsed with the effort of starting the 500cc single.
What a glorious noise she made, memories came flooding back. I was sold, just like that! He wouldn't budge on the price, wouldn't take a cheque and wouldn't offer a guarantee. The only time he smiled was when I turned up with a bundle of fifties. He didn't offer to help push the bike into the street and left me to work out the starting procedure. Flood the carb, get the piston just past compression and lunge. Repeat until the motor starts or I expired from exhaustion.
I was exhilarated when she finally growled into life. Even after I'd got the starting down to five kicks the procedure was vicious enough to ruin a pair of motorcycle boots every month! Riding home that first time everything felt new and fresh, as if it was my first motorcycle ride. The big single was extremely slow revving, due to a heavy flywheel and a flat torque curve. The B33 develops all of 24hp at 5500rpm. The gearbox of the type where the maximum use of this torque and power had to be made - get into fourth as soon as possible, slowly open the throttle and count the explosions as the BSA gained speed. In its own way, it was immensely enjoyable.
The machine was quite compact, with a 53 inch wheelbase and a mass of about 360lbs but you wouldn't know that from sitting at the controls. The steering felt really heavy, more like a Jap 750 than anything else. It was quite stable on smooth roads but would wallow like a worn out CD175 on bumpy country lanes. It never became really wicked and within the limits of its performance was adequate.
Perhaps it was the passing of time, the dimming of my memories, but I seem to recall the old BSA's I'd owned in the distant past were much more fleet of foot. Perhaps I'd been spoilt by modern bikes. Changing over from my Revere to the BSA made the British machine seem all the more basic with a very rough running motor that didn't like to be taken much above 3500 revs.
In theory these old singles had a top speed of about 85mph but in reality cruising at more than 60mph was a waste of time as the vibration churned out made more than five minutes a very painful experience. Even on the first ride, when I wasn't pushing things, a mudguard stay had come loose, ground along the tarmac until the front wheel tore it off, leaving a mangled bit of metal. At the time I assumed the dealer hadn't done a good job of checking the bike over but I soon learnt that the BSA would try to throw off everything not welded to the frame; at times it seemed even the welds were going to crack.
I hadn't gone to any great lengths to find this bike, just went into the dealers and fell in love with it. After a month, though, the restoration work claimed for it turned out to be rather superficial. Paint fell off the frame and oil tank, revealing rust beneath it. The fuel tank started leaking petrol from its underside, turning out to have been patched up with GRP. Both mudguards were rather moth-eaten on their undersides, not far off breaking up.
The primary chaincase had no oil, when I added some, the lubricant dripped out rapidly. The mating surfaces of the chaincase were pitted and warped. Instead of 0.03 inch valve clearances they were about ten times too large. The camshaft drive gears were missing teeth and there was a large crack in the carb bowl which had been filled.
I ended up getting a BSA expert to go over the engine for me. He tut-tutted at its state but after giving him £200 for parts and labour it was back together; the crank and bore were okay. I sorted out the chassis myself, being quite able to fit alloy mudguards, a restored tank and do some cleaning and painting.
The engine ran discernibly better, able to thud along at 65 to 70mph without too much vibration. Going any faster brought in the gut churning vibes again. There seemed no way around dealing with the lack of primary balance from the long stroke engine.
We loped along for a couple of months like this, quite happy to enjoy its contented burble. Then the clutch started playing up with a lot of slip and grinding noises. I took the chaincase off expecting the worst but it was only a couple of retaining screws that were loose; a trick they repeated every 2000 miles. The clutch action was very heavy but I usually tried to ride everywhere in fourth gear so it wasn't that bad.
One of the joys of riding old Brits is having people come up to you, exchange reminiscences and wonder where the hell the industry went so wrong. On the Revere everyone thinks I'm an idiot; on the BSA I was a human being. One guy insisted I come around to his house where he had an immaculate Rocket Gold Star, along with elaborate security arrangements that included a couple of snarling Dobberman dogs that strained on their chains when I arrived. He was completely paranoid about thieves raiding his garage and wouldn't even think about riding the bike on the open road.
After visiting him I was infected with his concerns, watching out for cars and vans that suddenly seemed to be following me. Took about a week to shake off the idea that I was being tracked. On one trek when I arrived home the numberplate had disappeared. I felt sure someone had pinched it, although in reality it was probably the vibes that'd loosened it off.
The oil tank cap also jumped off, the bared filler hole was perfectly placed to throw the oil out over my leg. The first I knew of it was lubricant seeping through my trousers. By the time I was able to pull over one trouser leg was completely soaked in oil. After ramming an old rag in the hole I had to spend a very uncomfortable half hour before I reached home. I stunk of oil for days afterwards.
After about 4500 miles, the SLS drum brakes began to be plagued with fade, the front end shuddering every time I tried to stop. I bought some shoes but the drums had gone slightly oval. I had to have them machined and relined. When I went to pick up the wheels, I was in for a shock. All that was left of them was the drums. The engineer showed me the rims, which were so rusted on the inside that it was amazing they hadn't collapsed. A new set of alloy rims fitted, I was £160 poorer but they did a lot for the appearance of the bike.
Nothing much seemed to wear on the consumable front. Tyres and chain lasted for ages. The lights were only 6 volts, glowed in a minimal way, and, once, the guts of the coil fell out. That stranded me half a mile from home with the result that I did my back in pushing the wretched thing all the way there. It didn't seem worth the hassle of getting someone to collect me.
When I decided to sell the bike I was astonished at the kind of prices they were selling for. The original dealer spent ten minutes trying to convince me the market had collapsed and he was doing me a favour by taking it off my hands for £475. I put it in the paper for £1500, then £1250, then £975, which had a few people coming for a look. I finally got £925. I can afford to take that kind of loss once in a while. If you can't, beware!
K.L.T.