Classic
crock
Before I get on
to the main theme of this fortnight's column, I'd like to mention we passed
the 100th column mark recently. I only mention that as this could be the last
Travels, assuming the classic cogniscenti ever track me down.
Now, where were we? Oh yes, classics. This is universally accepted as describing
old and unreliable kit. Take the Lemmings MC for example. Of the four members,
I'm the only one who has so far failed to buy a Norton Commando. Why? Well gird
your loins goils and boils, cos Uncle Guido is gonna take you for a toddle through
classic motorcycling.
Triumph's twin-cylinder Meriden product is generally regarded as a desirable
classic twin-cylinder motorbicycle. More than two cylinders and it's a car,
mate - just look at it, and it probably has a lekky starter too. Wot sort of
mudderboike is that? Real men ride vertical twins and kick them - a lot.
I've ridden a few examples of Meriden's product and, every time I recall the
experience, get a strong urge to fly to England, buy a shovel, and dig up the
remains of whoever ran the marketing department. Squire (maybe plural), you
were a genius. The big twins - particularly the 750s - were universally awful.
But anyone who can sell an unreliable jackhammer with a wheel at each end, and
get away with it thousands of times, and develop a whole following of people
with poor taste in headwear (actually there's a few folk in Milwaukee who also
deserve a visit) that swear it's godzone in motorcycling is a genius.
Before you drop around to hang me upside-down from the rafters, go out and ride
your Meriden Bonneville and tell me I'm wrong. And I mean ride it above 2000
rpm for more than five minutes. Get it up near the red bit on the tacho, and
try holding it there for a while.
Since we're on a roll, is this a good time to mention Shovel Harleys, which
are also considered classics these days? Their only saving grace is that they
didn't run long enough to hurt anyone.
But before I get onto Norton Commandos, I'll share this experience with you
- which is a few trips to the local British Rally, run by the spooky and well-organised
BSA fan club. One thing I like about the event is there's no chance of getting
lost. The trip from Melbourne to the venue is about a tank of fuel and there's
a wealth of markers. That's because the roadside is littered with grown men
on the verge of tears kneeling beside their Bonneville/Commando/Sunbeam/Velocette/Whatever,
blubbering things like, "But I only fixed it yesterday - it should run..."
Of course it should bloody run. Otherwise it would be a bleeding pot-plant holder
or roadside ornament, wouldn't it? Or a classic effing bike.
One thing that has really got up my nose over the years is the tripe that classic
and other weirdo folk try to promote: which is that if the motorcycle doesn't
start, it's your fault because you don't understand it. Eh? I'm sorry, you built
a machine for me to ride and it's my fault it doesn't start? Get rooted.
That is classic computer-geek thinking. (Now there's an irony.) It's not the
machine's fault, it's just you don't understand it. Ho, ho, ho...and another
ho. Listen, Tappethead, the whole point behind this machine business is that
it serves me - really. Not the other way around.
Note to anyone else planning to build a motorcycle: I buy it to do what I want
it to. I do not buy it to have it make me do what it wants me to. Not only that,
but I expect it to start every (yep, every, thrillseekers) morning at the first
attempt. Call me anal-retentive, but that's why I bought the sodding thing -
to ride it.
This is a fundamental lesson in design: humans come first, machines second.
I'll accept having to acquire some skills, but will not be held to ransom by
some flaky wally who's imbibed too much giggle juice in a design department
on the other side of the planet. (Which the folk who came up with car-inspired
power-assist linked braking on motorcycles might want to take note of.)
A variation is the crushingly boring - take the BSA C15 and earlier series for
example. What the hell were they thinking of? For those of you yet to experience
it, think of knitting a particularly large jumper while holding a set of handlebars,
then try to calm down a bit. And take a valium. You're still a bit over-excited...
That of course brings us to Norton Commandos, which three out of four Lemmings
own. Call me a conrod and throw me to the mechanics, but I can't help but notice
that - at the time of writing - none of three are actually running at the moment.
They're all being fettled, apparently. I'm told the fettling ends (so does tax,
I'm told, with similar results) and then I'll be sorry unless I buy a T160 (more
suitable for my manly girth, apparently) immediately and duff along the road
with the rest of the sorry gang.
Morley, who is one of the Commando owners, thankfully came to my defense during
a recent lunch at the official noodle palace. His theory is that if I bought
one, I'd only crack the shits and throw it over the back fence within 24 hours.
Some people are designed to own classics and I'm not one of them.
Guy "Guido" Allen
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