Apologies... and a spring ride out
Greetings old bike fettlers, one and all. May we find you itching to get out, with the first signs of spring in the air. I will not skirt around the glaring front cover mistake last month. Spelling Ariel wrong was, and is, inexcusable. Mistakes on the cover are the faux pas that, as an editor, you hope never befalls you. It was completely my fault. I looked at the cover at least a dozen times, adjusting this, moving that, and all the time the error stared at me – yet notice it I didn’t. It especially hurts as the feature on the 600 sidevalve was great, with Ariel specialist Roger Gwynn, of Draganfly, freely giving so much interesting and useful information. So, to the many that emailed in, to those that just shook their head, I apologise and please feel free to take the michael. My friends have had ‘Aerial’ T-shirts made up and have rung me to see if I can help their TV reception. This one will stick around… Meanwhile, we have been out on the bikes a couple of times: Maria on the TriBSA, Nev on his BMW or the little Triumph Tiger 90, and myself on the trusty old B31. The TriBSA is behaving... Maria has the knack of kicking it over and the carb issue is better. Having taken the carb apart on Maria’s, I decided to do the same on the B31 as I couldn’t remember ever doing it. It was cleaner than I thought it’d be, so a blow-out, all-over check and back on it was bolted. Come Sunday and ride day, cold weather clothing donned and both bikes started first kick! However, once off the single-cylinder machine was mimicking a 40-a-day alcoholic, coughing and spitting everywhere. At Neville’s, just seven miles away, the clean plug looked like I’d caressed it with coal. Hmmm.
I thought somewhat optimistically that a new plug would sort it, but a ride out into the countryside – and more importantly the wondrous Heydon village tearoom for cake – found said spluttering returning. Still, I made it for tiffin and tea. Time to leave the tranquil idyll and the other visitors, resplendent in their Sunday finest, to witness Neville’s Triumph 500 single start first kick, followed by Maria’s 650 Thunderbird engine fire up with similar immediacy. They then witnessed yours truly jumping up and down, checking the timing, tickling the tickler, then jumping up and down again. And again. David Attenborough has seen more ridiculous behaviour during courtship in the Amazon. I pushed it down the lane, head high. Idiot.
We pushed, we towed, we swore, we threw it in a hedge. Neville told me to stop being tight and get the magneto rebuilt. Just as dear friends Nick and Maddie came past in a truck with a strop by chance, I remembered I had plug taped to frame and spanner in pocket.
One minute later I had shouted ‘farewell’, set aside the normalities of care before oil is warm and ragged the poor thing home before it decided anything different. Home, my shoulders dropped, Maria and Nev mocked, and I laughed. It had been exceedingly good tiffin, though.
I must save up for a mag rebuild. But that’s half the fun of our old bikes; it’s not a ride, it’s just part of mucking around with this old lark. A breakdown on a modern bike would involve phone calls and plans ruined. A breakdown on an old bike is like a bad hand in Scrabble; just part of the game. Enjoy,