OUR CLASSICS
How do you get double the work done on a project, along with an injection of inspiration? Get a mate to come round and help you out...
Rupert’s Enfield Meteor Minor, perilously close to completion
RUPERT PAUL Rupe is re-imagining a 1960 Royal Enfield Meteor Minor (formerly owned by fellow motorcycle journo John Robinson) as a capable, stylish British twin.
HOLY SMOKE. The end is in sight. Really. After eight years of on/off progress, hopes raised and dashed, periods of euphoria and times when I just couldn’t face it, the memorial bike I am building to salute my friend John Robinson – and express his motorcycling philosophy – is nearly finished.
The big problem had been getting the time. It’s so hard to turn away paying work. In desperation I booked a week off. It filled up with work anyway. But by Friday the bike was on the bench, and my old college mate Simon Martin was along to help. Simon’s an ace fabricator and relentless problem solver, and I love having him involved. I set him to work on the Enfield’s scissor clutch, which was still not quite right after I’d built it.
Simon had never seen a scissor clutch before in his life, but we did have some outside assistance – a helpful email from Bob Yate, the VMCC’S post-1930 Enfield expert, and some pics from Wayne at Enfield specialists Hitchcocks. Simon took the clutch apart, studied its
operation, and put it back together properly. It turned out that I’d fudged a special splined washer.
I made him some tea and handed him the Electrex World ignition/charging kit. After much measuring, and some correspondence with Electrex World, I reckoned there was a way to make it fit. Simon agreed – and suddenly that was done, too. The hardest part of the task was figuring out how to keep the cables away from the chain on their way out of the primary case. We settled on one of the many holes Enfield provide for this purpose, using a fat Kawasaki grommet and a resleeved cable bundle for a nice, snug fit.
Across the bench, I was forced to finish rebuilding the gearbox. I was pretty sure I’d got the innards right, but the outer gubbins that does the actual gearchanging was still a mystery. One problem was a thing called a pillar bolt, whose thread was totally knackered. At times like this, a lathe is priceless. It took ten minutes to lop the damaged thread off, drill the central pillar bit, borrow a mate’s UNF tap, and glue in a new thread from a suitable screw. The alternative would have been to waste two or three days ordering a new pillar bolt, and lose all the momentum for finishing the job.
Instead, I was able to rebuild the gearbox outer mechanism four times, following the Don Morley article printed out from the Hitchcocks website. Eventually I figured out how the various selectors, plates, springs, levers and plungers worked. What a dumbass – I’d spent months faffing, and in the end it wasn’t so hard. At any rate, I can now get four gears and a neutral. I’m not convinced it’s going to be very oil-tight, though. The right side cover might as well be a colander.
This frenzy of activity – and an agreeable lunch at the pub – took us to mid afternoon, at which point Simon had to go. But I couldn’t stop. The morale boost of another pair of hands – and another brain – had me buzzing with enthusiasm. So I stayed behind and made a clutch cable. It’s a satisfying task to get the length of the inner and outer exactly right, add the correct ferrules, make a lever-end adjuster thumbwheel, provide a second mid-way threaded adjuster, and solder the nipples. I thought so anyway, until I realised I had neglected to pass the soldered cable through the hole in the primary case. Fortunately it came apart and resoldered OK.
The cable between the quick-action Domino throttle and the new 28mm Mikuni was easier. Both cables work beautifully, and had perfect routing from full left to full right lock. That is, until I fitted the Bullet tank, which clings to the frame like an octopus. There is virtually no room for cables or wires! Eventually
‘THE MORALE BOOST OF ANOTHER PAIR OF HANDS – AND ANOTHER BRAIN – HAD ME BUZZING WITH ENTHUSIASM’
I cobbled up a P-clip cable guide arrangement that would do for the loom, too. Getting correct cable runs is very important, because John’s philosophy was to make any bike as easy to use as possible. Meanwhile, in London, my designer son Fred was putting the finishing touches to the artwork for the memorial plaque which will go on the rear mudguard – a pic of John with a simple ‘in memory’ caption (see right). I had considered naming all the people who’ve helped with the project, but there are too many of them. I’m 100% certain the pic is the one John would have chosen, especially for this bike.
There were now just two jobs in the way of running the bike: build a loom (easy), and de-rust the petrol tank (not sure). I usually use electrolysis to fetch rust out of tanks, but it can take a few days.
So this time I’d bought five litres of 30% phosphoric acid to do the job instead. Rubber gloves, eye protection, plastic funnel, careful relocation of dog. Pour in. Slosh around... nothing.
Twenty minutes later I drained the acid. It was as clean as when it went in. It wasn’t rust in there – it was lead oxide paint. I rinsed the tank with water and chased it dry with meths. How exactly are you supposed to dispose of phosphoric acid safely? I put it back in the container.
The postman arrived. New battery, new front master cylinder and lever, new brake hose and banjos, plus various special fasteners. I fitted them all, and started on the loom. In eight years with the Enfy I’ve only been annoyed with it twice: once when I realised the best riding position means you can’t use the kickstart because the footrests are in the way, and for a second time when I discovered that the loom has no choice but to foul the carb cable. Acres of space in every direction, and yet I’ll have to tilt the carb a few degrees to allow the loom to fit under the rear tank bolt. It’s so stupid, but I have to remind myself that this bike was made a quarter of a century before integrated design became the norm.
Two very long days later, we had a fully operational loom wrapped in my current favourite tape, Certoplast – it’s unbelievably tough and also looks good on old bangers. With rising excitement I poured two and a half litres of mineral 20W/50 into the engine, and dug out engine builder Jim’s notes on how to fire it up for the first time. ‘Oil everything, and check the pump is sending oil up to the top end,’ they said. OK Jim.
But hang on... what’s that?
A small pool of clean oil had formed under the engine. ‘No, please,’ I thought. ‘Anything but this.’ Blasting the offending area clean with brake cleaner revealed the culprit: a pinprick hole in the crankcase casting. Jim had painted the insides with special Enfield crankcase paint, but here was a drop-a-minute oil leak, and I hadn’t even started the engine yet.
Did I say I was annoyed with the bike twice in eight years? Make that three times.