TALES FROMTHE SHED
There comes a point when even the most awkward motorcycle simply must agree to run. hopefully...
There comes a point when even the most awkward motorcycle simply must agree to run. Hopefully… Frank Westworth kicks back
Sparks are mysterious things. And I’ve never really understood why ignition systems spark the spark plug. I can recite the theory, but it never makes sense to me. This is because when they taught fizzicks I always fell asleep and because I am very dim. Unlike the sparks generated by Mr Lucas’s finest on the B25SS.
I mentioned last time how irritating it was that when I retarded the ignition the sparks went away, then when I advanced it they returned. There’s an obvious explanation for this. It’s because Mr Lucas hates me personally from beyond the grave. It’s also possible that there’s a short between the live and earth sides of the LT circuit. Apart from… I can’t see any contact. There is no visible short to drain away the vital sparkstuff. The clearance between the connector at the end of the LT lead and the casing is the same. Clean the points again. This should make no difference. The sparks return. This is very mysterious indeed.
So, we have sparks and we have fuel. It should run. How often have you told yourself that exact same thing? I have a new strategy. As soon as I confirm that the spark at the plug is big and bright and regular, I switch everything off and go do something else. There is no reason why this strategy should work. There was no reason why the ignition refused to spark before. It’s a battle of wills between the BSA and me. You may laugh … but I’ve read Stephen King novels. I know engines are alive.
So. Remember the sidestand? I failed to stretch its return spring anything like enough to actually hook it up. In the end, I removed the stand, connected the spring to both stand and its lug on the frame and used the stand as a lever to stretch the spring. It wasn’t hard to get the stand’s part of the clevis joint (like Gaul, a clevis joint is in three parts; the tang on the frame, the clevis itself at the end of the stand leg and the clevis pin, the pin which holds them together) started on the tang. In fact, it was easy, not least because the parts had all been recently powder-coated, so the
fit between tank and clevis was very tight – interference, almost, which made it simplicity itself to apply a little vigour from Thor, King of Hammers, to drift the stand until all three holes lined up. Simple.
There is enormous satisfaction in operating a mechanism which you’ve just made work for the first time, and for several days every trip to The Shed involved operating the sidestand. No non-fettler can understand this.
The centrestand, however… that also refused to accept its spring, and I fell to pondering whether the same technique – I laughingly describe a bit of heave and hammering as a technique, you’ll note – would work on the centrestand. Why would it not? So I dropped out the two bolts on which the centrestand pivots, connected up the spring, and repeated the process. It worked a treat. The centrestand now has a spring. Huge thanks also to everyone who wrote in offering suggestions about how to fit the spring. Appreciated, every one. The BSA now has two stands, probably for the first time in its entire existence.
There is of course a strangeness. When the bike is on its sidestand it is almost upright. The old, original stand was pretty bent, so the bike leaned over at an accommodating angle. The new one is straight. For how long, I wonder…
Meanwhile, as the stands were now operational, it was plainly time to connect up the battery once more and go searching for the spark. Which is a reference to a song. First person to identify the song gets a secret prize.
But… rather than do this the logical and correct way, let us instead try the alternative comedy way. Turn on fuel. Tickle. Kick, kick. Turn on ignition. Kick and step back in wonder as the engine fires up at once. Where there was no spark there is now a spark. This is the way of cats and motorcycles; unexpected behaviour at every possible opportunity. It is plainly A Sign, possibly that cats are motorcycles in disguise or the other way around. I stood there, gripping the grip, letting the engine warm through while holding the revs steady. The exhaust is quite loud, considering the vastness of the silencer. The engine is rattly, too, but it is all alloy and therefore allowed. I gaze once again into the oil filler hole, observing that although there is little visible oil, it appears to be moving around, so either the vibes are worse than they feel, in some mysterious way, or oil is in fact returning. Is it a reasonable assumption that if oil is returning it has first been fed to its bearings? Who knows?
I keep the engine running for quite a while. It warms up, it leaks no oil and it blows no smoke. Very under-rated engine, BSA singles. Oh yes. It refuses to tick over and it produces spectacular flame-illuminated backfires at the joint between the exhaust header pipe and the vast silencer. No idea why – although it could simply be a poor joint between the exhaust port and the pipe. I will not be taking it apart to check and reseal. No. Because it is plainly time to go for a ride. Which would be a challenge, given that the primary chaincase outer isn’t fitted and neither are the footrests, and the rear brake is disconnected too. Everyone deserves a challenge. Challenge is good. There is also stupidity to consider.
Engine off. Fuel off. Hoist bike back into the air atop its excellent bench. Consider the primary chain. Tensioned correctly. The endlessly rebuilt clutch. Working correctly. A dilemma. The old gasket was entirely and comprehensively destroyed when I removed the casing last time. I have only a single new gasket. The primary chain runs on a slipper tensioner, and they never work well without at least a little lubrication. Think about that for a single second and you’ll know it’s true. My fervent hope is that the new gasket will seal the case’s faces without any need for gloop of any kind. Why would it not? Modern gasket material must surely be much improved on the old stuff of ages past, the faces are flat so far as I can tell. So…
Decision reached. I’ll assemble it all without any magic (or otherwise) gloops. Just the gasket. I do this. Carefully. The gasket fits perfectly. In my long, bitter and weary experience, old-style gaskets almost never fitted properly and often tore. Who says there is no progress? I amble to the shelf to consider oils. Why? Because a wise man suggested at one point that the reason for this clutch’s chronic slippage was that the wrong oil had been poured into the chaincase. Modern engine oils contain many magic glops, among them chemicals which increase the oil’s ability to let bearings slide and roll as bearings do without let or hindrance. They have fancy names I cannot remember. Old fashioned oils, like those used by BSA in 1971 do not contain such magic stuff.
On a shelf I find an old bottle of branded ‘transmission oil’. The brand is Harley-Davidson. Why is this oil on my shelf? Although there is indeed a nearby Harley-Davidson I have never even checked its transmission lube level, much less added some. The bottle is maybe one third empty. A magical mystery. The bottle, an American bottle, no less, carries all manner of information, although a chap of a certain age needs a magnifying lens to read it. Among other things, it reveals that the oil within is intended specifically for motorcycle clutches which run in the oil. It will not make them slip unintentionally. There is only one way to discover the truth of this. I pour some into the chaincase. Impressively, it fails to leak out past the dry gasket. Isn’t science wonderful?
I try the clutch. It slips and drags exactly as it should. Fit the footrests and connect up the rear brake again. Does the brake still work? It does. As does the brake light. This is marvellous indeed.
At this point, the sensible thing to do is run spanners over every component to check for tightness. I have a tendency to fit parts but not tighten them all the way until I’m confident that they’re going to stay tightened up. While doing this I make a discovery. There is no battery strap. The battery is a small modern device with flimsy spade connectors for which I have added bodged female spades to the original wiring – wiring with circular connectors for more traditional battery posts. They work, although somehow somewhere inside me is a nagging distrust of spade connectors on a battery. It’s probably irrational, but…
And of course there is a new battery strap in a box somewhere. It was actually acquired for the Better Third’s most excellent Triumph T100C, bought as part of my campaign to stop the engine stopping when it should not be stopping. Of course I never actually fitted the battery strap. This is The Shed way of things. While rooting around looking for the strap I discover a new hook for that strap – a stainless
steel hook. Marvellous. That just increased the engine’s performance by at least 10%.
To fit the strap the battery carrier needs to come off. Of course it does. This is why I don’t tighten fittings until I’m sure I’ll not need to remove them again. Of course I’d tightened the battery carrier’s fittings. Why would I ever need to remove the carrier again? I untightened them and removed the carrier. Fitted the strap and put it all back together again. With the new stainless hook. That was particularly exciting. After thrills like that a chap needs a nice lie-down.
Right! On with the right-hand side panel. These panels are another tribute to BSA’s excellent design engineers. They mount on a pair of prongs on the frame, which locate into holes in the side panel and which carry rubber bushes to protect the panel against vibration … should a BSA ever vibrate, which I cannot believe they would. Ever. Of course not. The panels are secured at the front by a Dzus fastener, which is itself retained by a little rubber tube. The left-hand side panel covers the air filter and fits perfectly. The right-hand panel is too small to locate on the frame prongs. I stare at it. This does not help at all. I bodge a bit of plastic tube to act as a prong extension. It sort-of works. The side panel rattles. Or it would if the engine vibrated which of course it will not, this being a BSA. Perfect in every way.
The debate is still ongoing about whether the B25SS should be treated to a re-covered seat. It may get one at some point … but not yet. The original seat is very tatty. Never mind.
I wheel the bike off the bench and admire its height. This is not a low motorcycle. BSA claimed a seat height of 32 inches. That … is tall. I walk around the bike several times, looking for reasons to avoid trying to start it and trying to ride it. I remember that the Matchless G80 which got rebuilt many moons
ago still has a few outstanding jobs, so I dig that out and park it on the bench. Parts of its engine have developed some hideous form of metallic acne. Very odd. I fit its new battery cover. That was fun. The B25SS leans, just a little due to its new sidestand, and appears to sneer. It plainly knows that I am intimidated by the thoughts of inevitable failure – either to start it or ride it or both.
Climb aboard then, and perform the starting ritual. No choke, tickle until the first sign of a flood. Kick twice. Tickle again, switch on and kick. Ignition, rattly and fairly loud. Warm the engine through. No smoke, no leaks, no tickover. You can’t have everything. Pull in clutch and apply toe to gear lever. Click, it goes. We have first gear. This was not the case last time the bike got a rebuild. Ease the clutch. It grips. Wows, as we say at times like this.
This little BSA was last ridden in maybe 1997, maybe 98. It was a very short ride and very unrewarding, because although the engine was willing the gearbox was reluctant to provide a first gear. This time, we sat there, in the second decade of a new millennium, rattling busily and contemplating the trip across the garden, through the shrubs and onto the drive … and then onto the lane. There was no one around to witness the inevitable failure, the engine’s explosion, the slipping / dragging clutch, the forks falling off, aliens descending to cart us off for arcane experiment.
Except… None of that happened. The engine demands revving, but pulled away remarkably sharpish. First gear failed to dematerialise, second snicked in cleanly, as did third, and then … top. The speedo doesn’t work any more. How can this be? Who cares? Ride a half mile, return. Someone is standing in the lane holding a camera, wrestling with its modernish tiny buttons, screens, digital wossnames and the like. Pull up, turn around again and blast off once more. No smoke, plenty of poke – this is a lively fellow. Having a non-functional speedo is actually amusing; we may only be proceeding at 35mph, but we can kid ourselves that it’s more like ninety!
Turn and return, sweep heroically into the driveway, across the garden and stall outside The Shed. The clutch is dragging. Only a little. Neutral; kick, fire up instantly, and roll into The Shed. Neutral is lost again, but it doesn’t matter. Switch off. Sudden quiet, broken by the sound of two hands clapping with no irony at all. A wide smile. Two wide smiles. No leaks, engine pleasantly warm. It all works. Who could ask for more?