Frank Westworth

FAMOUS LAST WORDS The annoying sound of sound advice…

Frank’s last word this month is mainly about fixing what doesn’t indeed need fixing.

The words of the sage echoed around the big shed I like to call The Shed. “If it ain’t fixed, don’t break it.” At least, that’s what I think she said. It was hard to tell over the ferocious racket coming from the engine.

During the dark and seemingly interminable days of the lock-up I did my utmostest bestest best to spend the bike time I would normally waste by riding around the place – not always entirely pointlessly, thank you – making my motorcycles better. Even better.

As we were allowed – nay, encouraged – to continue with working, and as working involves regular and sometimes frequent trips to the

Post Office, I was never actually unable to ride, but the PO is only five miles or so away, which isn’t much of a challenge, even for a Norton Navigator. Considerably under-rated motorcycle, the Navigator. Fortunately, I already have one. It cost £700. Maybe it’s worth more now? And maybe it’s not.

But in my spare time I have almost miraculously managed to accomplish several of The Shed tasks I’ve been putting off for many years. Decades in some cases. And not just a single decade. Dynamic is not my middle name. Festina lente, as the Romans put it – a saying popular in Cornwall. I have no idea what it means – if anything – but a chap sounds wise spouting Latin, and it at least make a change from spouting nonsense. I wonder whether that Roman rode a Panther? Whatever…

One of my very favourite machines ever is a Matchless. Stop tittering at the back. It is. It is a stunning mixture of red and chrome, and unusually the chrome is in better condition than the paint. This is rare, particularly in Cornwall-on-Ocean, where the vigorous climate can dissolve poor quality plating while you watch. It has been a Shed refugee for years and years, gradually becoming less and less shiny – apart from the chrome on the tank and front mudguard, which is truly impressive.

I decided to make it work. It had never actually stopped working, being a Matchless, but I had stopped using it. I cannot remember why. My memory is flaky, like the bike’s paint. Worse than the decision to make it work again was the resolution to ride it.

It is actually great to ride, particularly if you’re a fan of late Matchless twins. And how could you not be among that number? Answers on a postcard to the Editor, please (no; please – Matt). Because I stopped using it, it stopped working. Are you following this? So adding fuel and a pair of clean plugs would see me victorious and the Matchless back in action. Simple, yes?

Of course not.

After a previously good friend caused the magneto to once again produce sparks, and after I finally remembered how to time the ignition without a computer or a timing disc or a helpful friend, or, indeed, knowledge of any kind, the machine roared into life. That is not an exaggeration: roar is what it did.

I was interested to observe that the carburettor, possibly the original 1965 Amal, was pouring more petrol onto the freshly revived and enthusiastically sparking magneto than it was into the engine. Clever design, putting the mag’s pick-ups directly below the fuel leak.

But why was the Monobloc leaking? It had never leaked before. I understood that the much-loathed modern fuel must have eaten the fuel pipe, so I replaced it. The carb leaked. I understood that the fuel tap was very old and that the much-loathed modern fuel must have dissolved the crud of ages and made it leak, so I replaced it. The carb leaked. I understood that the much-loathed modern fuel had eaten the float needle or the float, or even the Mazak banjo itself, so I replaced them all. The leak ignored me, which is what leaks typically do.

Finally I removed the entire carb, observing smugly that only one of the manifold’s two threads was stripped, and discovered that the carb’s own fuel filter had split. Hence the leak. It took maybe a minute to locate a spare and another minute to replace the filter into the carb, and only two days to refit the carb. No more leaks. Roar it goes, stinking rather less of evaporating fuel.

I started off this piece with a homily, did I not? In a vague attempt at amusing you I twisted the words around a little. That may have been a mistake. Like deciding to fix the unbroken Matchless. We live, we learn, then we make the same mistakes. Life goes on…

“The original 1965 Amal was pouring more petrol onto the freshly revived and enthusiastically sparking magneto than it was into the engine. Clever design, putting the mag’s pickups directly below the fuel leak.”