Pete Kelly
Despite their obvious differences, each of the six bikes chosen for this month’s nostalgic piece had taut handling, snappy performance and unquestionably good looks, and cover a period of dramatic developments in motorcycle design.
Starting with the Ariel Arrow Super Sports of 1961, and moving on to the 1964 Royal Enfield Continental GT, 1965 Yamaha YDS3, 1966 unit-construction Triumph Bonneville, 1966 Suzuki Super
Six and Honda CB400F of 1974, I hope you’ll enjoy the impressions of these machines that were first gleaned all those years ago.
The only ‘Golden Arrow’ I ever owned was a dusty, well-flogged light blue and gold specimen retrieved from the second-hand storage shed of Jubilee Cycles, a small motorcycle shop opposite the mining subsidence-damaged town hall in Earlestown,
Lancashire, in 1964.
I was just 19 at the time, and it was the first 250 I managed to afford. It always left a bluish-grey smoke trail in its wake – the result of ‘playing safe’ with the petroil ratio – grounded all too easily on corners, struggled to get much above 60mph with my girlfriend on the back, and the brakes weren’t much to shout about either, but I loved it to bits!
One sunny morning, after getting it home, I remember polishing my new-found pride and joy by the front door of our council house with that really cheap, pinkish liquid wax polish that you could buy then as The Beatles sang their latest hit,
I Wanna Hold Your Hand, on the radio.
I also remember rushing home through a built-up area during a sudden heavy downpour one lunch-time when a bitch in heat, followed by half a dozen stray dogs with their minds set firmly on one thing, crossed the road in front of me in a single panting column. I braked hard and the bike went down, scything through the lot of them, followed by me on my backside. Luckily there were no injuries, animal or human, and no obvious signs of bike damage other than a scuffed handgrip and footrest rubber. Those Arrows were tough!
The one that most people remember, though, is the white and gold Arrow Super Sports, launched as a mid-season surprise in 1961 that, in addition to its tuned engine and stunning paint finish, boasted red handgrips and a fly screen.
A MIRA road test report in the October 26, 1961 issue of Motor Cycling highlighted a mean top speed of just over 75mph, an overall 500 mile fuel consumption of
68mpg and a pretty average braking distance of 34½ ft from 30mph to a standstill.
The road-tester enthused: “The Ariel Arrow Super Sports is an exhilarating addition to Britain’s growing range of 250cc ‘work and pleasure’ mounts. Producing a creditable 20bhp at 6500rpm, it checked out at MIRA with a performance which, a decade ago, would have been impossible from a silenced 250, and which today is virtually as good as that of many 350s. Downhill on the open road it would top 80mph, partly due to the spot-on gear ratios.
“Once the high-compression (10:1) unit was on song, it ran up the rev scale as only a tuned two-stroke does,” he continued. “Almost before the rider was aware that the revs had begun to soar, they had reached the change-up point for the next cog. The change was slick, and re-application of the drive revealed the motor to be well into the ‘go’ band for the next upward thrust to a power-peaking crescendo.” Referring to the acceleration curve, he noted: “To reach 60mph in less than a quarter of a mile from rest is quite a feat for a quarter-litre.”
With the engine ‘on song,’ the tester found no ‘dead period’ during which acceleration would lag while the revs built up, but when it wasn’t ‘on song,’ the power produced at low revs was distinctly disappointing – and he also noted that annoying Arrow smoke trail. “The makers recommend the use of two stroke oil with diluent at 20:1 ratio, or oil without diluent at 24:1,” he wrote. Using non-diluent lubricants at ratios richer than half a pint to 1½ gallons produced copious smoke that definitely constituted an annoyance to other road users, and a couple of experiences in our 1400 miles taught us to adhere exactly to the handbook’s instructions.”
Because of the 10:1 compression ratio, super grade petrol was always employed.
Many who rode the long, lowlooking Arrows would agree with his observations about the stands. “The prop stand would do its job reliably only if the resting surface was level and hard. The tread-on ball of the centre stand tended to pierce the thinnish soles of soft shoes (yes, many riders unable to afford posh boots rode in them back then), but more seriously, the grounding of this stand set a limit to the angle of bank – an annoying handicap on such an agile machine.”
Otherwise, with its massive box frame, the Arrow’s steering and roadholding were excellent, the trailing link front fork in unison with the well-damped rear giving real comfort when riding hard over roughish roads, but the riding position might have been vastly improved by setting the footrests further back.
For all these criticisms, the Val Page-designed Ariel Leader and Arrow derivatives were icons of their time until machines from the Far East such as Honda’s overheadcamshaft CB72 and CB77 twins, Yamaha’s YDS3 two-stroke twins and the like came onto the scene.
In 1961 the Ariel Arrow Super Sports would set you back £190-15s7d (including £35-5s-7d purchase tax), and road tax of £2-5s (£2.25).
After joining Norman Sharpe’s team on Motor Cycling in 1965, part of my job was acting as a ‘ferry pilot,’ collecting and returning test bikes to and from the manufacturers or simply putting mileage on them for the 1000 mile road tests.
As I lived in Warrington, I could put well over 500 miles on the clock by riding a bike home from London on a Thursday, followed perhaps by a Saturday ride into North Wales with my mates, and then returning to London after Sunday lunch for our weekly press night – always of course paying for my own petrol!
My eyes lit up that August when a racy-looking 248cc Royal Enfield Continental GT arrived, and Norman handed it over to me just in time for another weekend run to Lancashire and back (my home town didn’t become part of Cheshire until many years afterwards).
With its tuned engine, five-speed gearbox, bright red glass-fibre fuel tank, clip-ons, fly screen, humpbacked dual seat, huge crankcase breather and very loud swept-back exhaust (which unfortunately shrouded the contact-breaker cover) it was a young man’s dream – in fact the only things I didn’t really care for were the huge perforated alloy discs surrounding the excellent 7in front drum brake that gave the false first impression of a giant front stopper!
Despite a wildly-optimistic speedometer that gave readings of 90mph at a true 76mph, the
Continental GT gave a great account of itself at MIRA with a best one-way speed of over 86mph – all the more impressive considering the machine had already been thrashed on a 22 hour 20 minute demonstration run from Land’s End to John O’Groats, taking in several fast laps of the Silverstone circuit in the hands of John Cooper along the way.
Yes, the GT really was a wolf in wolf’s clothing, fast, light and with brilliant handling, a lovely five-speed gearbox and first-class brakes – but on one occasion that inexcusably loud exhaust in built-up areas forced me to explain to the police officer who stopped me that it really was a standard fitment!
Two-fifty Enfields always handled well, but the weight-pared from the Continental GT made it better still. The absence of side panels completely exposed the battery and coils, but even a torrential downpour left the electrics unaffected. Peaking at 7500rpm, the engine was smooth throughout the rev range, and the sweet, short-travel gear-change action and light, faultless clutch made the Continental GT a delight to ride.
The distinctly sporty riding position was great around town, but on those long weekend rides to and from London, arm-ache had always set in by the time I reached the then still far from completed M6 near Stafford. A short hump-back seat might have helped a lot, but on the long dual seat, the hump was much too far back for a solo rider.
Despite this niggle, the GT was just what youngsters had been demanding, allowing the Redditch manufacturer to get away with slapping an outrageous price tag of £270 on it!
The Enfield’s overall fuel consumption over 500 miles of fast riding worked out at a pretty impressive 76mpg – a far cry from that of the next machine on my list, the 1965 Yamaha YDS3 two-stroke twin that differed from the preceding YDS2 in boasting the separate oil tank and Autolube pump that would quickly render the practice of mixing two-stroke oil straight into the fuel tank by hand redundant.
Such devices rapidly became the norm for two-strokes, and l felt sorry for a young motorcycling journalist who, a couple of years later, collected a BSA Bantam from the Small Heath factory only for it to seize up the first time he filled up – completely unaware that he should have measured his own oil directly into the petrol tank!
My only ride on Motor Cycling’s road-test YSD3 was to put a few hundred test miles on it one weekend – but I was hugely impressed by the quality, and how easy it was to loft the front wheel unintentionally under harsh acceleration.
I also loved its looks – especially the swirly design of its roundish tank, embellished by nothing more than large rubber knee-grips and simple Yamaha tuning forks badges, which to me looked better than the box-like tank designs that would follow.
In the February 4, 1965 issue of Motor Cycle, Mike Evans wrote a fine road test report on the same machine which began colourfully: “Yowl is almost a trademark of the Scott, but now a newcomer to the British market is poaching, for it is hard to think of any word to describe more accurately the mating call of Yamaha’s new YSD3. It yowls and it wails as it goes through its five gears in a fashion to delight the most phlegmatic of riders. On sporty acceleration it sounds every bit as would a four-cylinder racer speeding down the Glencrutchery Road on the TT course.”
The twin-cylinder two-stroke engine, while basically similar to that of the preceding YDS2, had a big innovation up its sleeve in the fitting of that small but all-important new component, the Autolube pump. “Driven from the gearbox, the pump draws its oil from a tank on the offside of the machine,” wrote Mike, “and meters the lubricant according to the dictates of engine revs and throttle openings. Large openings and high revs mean more oil, while for about-town trickling on a wisp of throttle the oil supply is at its minimum. From the pump, the lubricant is carried through a couple of plastic tubes and injected into the induction tracts of two Mikuni carburettors.”
After 1300 miles on the YDS3, even though the pump was set to deliver extra oil for the running-in period, the overall oil consumption was just a fifth of a pint for every gallon of petrol – an overall ratio of 40:1 – whereas a normal two-stroke on a 20:1 petroil mixture would have used twice as much.
However, there was a price to pay in the overall amount of fuel used – and with the searing acceleration and high-speed motorway cruising the Yam was capable of, the fuel consumption over around 500 miles of normal use after runningin was a disappointing 45mpg, tempered somewhat by the fact the machine ran happily on regulargrade fuel.
“Yet every penny spent on fuel returns a dividend in performance far beyond all expectations,” continued Mike. “Under 17 seconds for the standing quarter-mile and a set of intermediate acceleration figures to match brand this Japanese sportster a piece of very hot ginger in the world of two-strokes, and in second gear especially the engine (producing 27bhp at 7500rpm) will shoot past 10,000rpm into the red danger area if an eye isn’t kept on the dial.”
Every bit as sporty as it looked, the YDS3 was also extremely comfortable and, whether one or two-up, could be ridden to the limit with every confidence in the welldamped front and rear suspension, with no trace of the bounciness sometimes associated with Japanese bikes. Under all conditions, too, the 8in-diameter brakes, twin-leadingshoe at the front, performed well, particularly from high speeds.
The test was conducted largely in wintry conditions of rain, snow and ice, and Mike recounted what happened after it had been left out in the open all night. “It was covered by a good half-inch of hoar frost and the ignition key had to be heated over a match before the frozen lock would accept it, but despite this the engine started at the second kick as always.
Performance figures indicated a highest one-way speed of 88mph, and maximum speeds in the five gears were 27, 41, 56, 80 and 84mph at the claimed maximum power of 7500 rpm. The Yamaha YDS2 was certainly the shape of things to come, and in 1965 it cost just over £279, including purchase tax.
The only big bike I wanted to include in this selection was the
1966 unit-construction Triumph Bonneville, which with its taut handling, lively performance, sharp brakes, foolproof starting and stunningly looks, accentuated by its orange and white colour scheme, had just about everything going for it.
It was the first Bonneville I rode, and when I was handed the ignition key and asked to put 500 miles on it, far from being the massive hulk I’d expected it to be, at once it felt light, nimble and forgiving despite its 47bhp, 113mph performance.
At times it felt like a serene tourer, but when the throttle was cracked open it became a rapidlyaccelerating missile in which I felt I could always place my absolute trust.
Much of this was down to the
647cc Triumph’s new frame which, with its modified steering-head angle, eliminated that characteristic Triumph ‘waggle’ for good, and the entire machine felt so well-balanced that bend-swinging at any speed was a pleasure rather than a challenge – and finding my road test riding pictures aboard GAC 243C from 54 years ago in Mortons’ Archive was like being 20 years old all over again – but I’m still surprised that the official name for that lovely orange colour was grenadier red!
The parallel twin started first prod every time, stuck predictably to its line on any bend I could throw it at, and the smooth-operating 8in front and 7in rear drum brakes always pinned it down with aplomb, but when one of my colleagues took it to the MIRA testing ground for the official set of performance figures, dressed in bulky winter riding gear that even made it difficult to get into a crouch, he encountered bitterly cold 30mph winds and icy patches underfoot that reduced what should have been a maximum one-way speed of around 118mph to just 111mph, and a two-way average of just over the ‘ton’.
Like me, he found the new Triumph clutch exceptional, taking all the abuse he could give it after faulty timing gear necessitated a succession of standing-start runs.
While one can easily look back over one’s life through grenadier red-tinted spectacles, my experiences of riding that particular ‘Bonnie’ remain so fresh in my mind that I would still have no hesitation in naming it the perfect all-round motorcycle of its day.
Another superb machine that I briefly rode in 1966 was the sensational 247cc Suzuki Super
Six two-stroke twin which, despite its 90mph-plus performance and incredibly racy looks, also turned out to be a comfortable and civilised machine on the mostly motorway journey from Greet, Birmingham, back to London.
In the June 23, 1966 issue of
Motor Cycle, the road tester, who once again appeared to be Mike Evans, had nothing but praise for this stunning newcomer, writing: “Hold on to your hats – Posi-Force is here! The new Suzuki Super Six, an over 90mph roadster, is one of the brightest stars to come flying over from Japan.
“Just look at the advanced features: pumped oil to the crankshaft and a six-speed gear box – enough to make any enthusiast run for his boots and hop aboard. In appearance and specification the Suzuki is a winner, and after 1200 test miles it has proved itself no less impressive on the road, with its 94mph best one-way speed making it the fastest 250 roadster twin ever tested by Motor Cycle.”
While five gears might have been perfectly adequate, the tester wrote: “The longer you ride the Suzuki, the more you come to enjoy having six, and with this full keyboard, tuneplaying is a delight, and the Suzuki produces some impressive wails, although they are remarkably well muted. There’s never any need to hold on in a high gear, for there’s always one a wee bit lower that will send the revs soaring into the hotpepper range of 5000 to 7500rpm.”
He also remarked that the T20’s gear-change action was one of the sweetest imaginable, and that “mainly because of the closeness of the ratios, upward changes can be made just as positively and silently without the clutch or with it”. The light and smooth clutch, together with the gear box, made it one of the best combinations ever met on a bike, and another welcome feature was having a full stop for neutral when changing down.
Although starting could be really erratic, sometimes needing up to 10 kicks, handling was excellent. Even though the open-spring telescopic front fork felt a little soft in action, both suspensions were adequately damped. In the tester’s view: “The combination of topdrawer handling and the immensely willing, powerful engine makes the new Suzuki Super Six a real rider’s machine on which you will achieve high averages simply because it never tires and can be ridden to the limit without worry.”
He also noted: “In top gear the Suzuki will zoom along at 70mph with a steady 6000rpm on the neat tacho, and it will hold this speed, seemingly for ever. It did the entire length of the M1 at 70 on four occasions without protest.” Any rider could expect about 85mph in top even under adverse conditions, and fifth was good for almost
80mph anyway.
At high speeds fuel consumption could drop to just under 40mpg
– but again that was the price of twostroke performance back then.
So smooth and well-silenced was the engine that it was often difficult to appreciate that it was actually running, and the excellent brakes (8in diameter front and rear, twin-leading-shoe front) and utterly reliable 12 volt electrical system epitomised the quality and attention to detail inherent in this machine. “Who else would give you a transparent petrol gauge to show at a glance, even while riding, how much petrol is in the tank?” the test rider asked.
In 1966 the Suzuki T20 Super Six cost £276-17s-1d including purchase tax, and road tax was £4 per year.
My final choice in this sixmachine round-up takes me back to 1974, by which time Motor Cycling and Motor Cycle had become combined into a single weekly newspaper with staff members from both former titles. It was my privilege to take up the editorship, at the age of 29, that February, although competing with Motor Cycle News was a truly daunting
task for all of us despite a top-quality team that included the likes of Mick Woollett, Bob Currie, John Nutting, Vic Willoughby and other similarlyskilled staff members.
In 1975, a large Honda advertising supplement brought us the chance to feature a first road test of Honda’s CB400F by chief tester John Nutting, whose bold and fearless writing style was every bit as good as his brilliance as a rider – and he became one of my most trusted colleagues.
His report began: “It cruises at 45mph with all the serene grace of a royal garden party. It purrs and coos with all the soft innocence as a pair of doves. But drop down two or three gears and gun it, and Honda’s new CB400 four transforms into a tyre-spinning, screaming 10,000rpm reincarnation of a Grand Prix bike.
“Either way, whether a boulevard bird-puller or boy racer, the CB400F marks an important turning point in the Japanese company’s policy, for they’ve actually gone and done it! Honda have made a super sports bike worthy of the title – in every aspect of its performance as well as its exciting appearance.
“Now I’ll agree that in the past I’ve not been a great Honda lover. But ever since they imported what many people regarded as their pacesetters, the ultra-sporty CB72 twins, Honda had diluted the performance and handling features of their bikes to the point of the latest CB250 twins.
“The CB400F challenges all that at a stroke. With looks that scream ‘racer’ from every sparkling highlight on those distinctive four-into-one exhaust pipes to the scarlet worksstyle tank, mini side-covers and folding set-back footrests, it feels so unarguably right that it’s almost unbelievable.”
That was quite a stage entry, John, but there was more. “Smooth as a turbine and quiet as any car, the CB400F offers nimble secure handling whether in dense traffic or wafting down country lanes. It is also very compact and light for a four-cylinder machine. Anyone used to the usual 250s should have no trouble with this one. “
The CB400F’s top speed (arrived at by two opposite-direction runs at MIRA’s test track) was 104mph, only one mph down on that of the 500 fours, and the standing quarter-mile acceleration of 14.9 sec was also only fractionally down on that of the larger model. These figures were allied to remarkable fuel economy, ranging from 101mpg at 30mph to 55mpg at 70mpg.
“Even driven fast,” wrote John, “it can sing along at 80-85mph with no more sound than the hiss from the valve gear, and even then fuel consumption didn’t drop below 51mpg.” The heart of the six-speed machine was a 408cc overhead-camshaft four less than two inches wider than the twins, and John observed: “To sit astride the bike, you wouldn’t think you were on a four at all.”
Both stands were easy to find and use because the whole of the bike’s nearside, without the plethora of pipes, was so accessible, and the test rider was impressed by many other small features too – such as the electrical logic that prevented starting while in gear with the clutch out, and the superb, easy-to-follow, electric components beneath the nearside plastic cover.
Maximum power of the CB400F was a claimed 37bhp at 8500rpm, but the unit was quite capable of buzzing beyond the 10,000rpm red line to 11,000rpm through the gears. The hydraulically-operated 10½in front brake and 6½in drum at the rear gave a good stopping distance from 30mph of 29ft, but the front brake needed watching in the wet, and the clutch was virtually indestructible, which were all good reasons for us to successfully beg a trio of these machines, painted in the new orange and black colours of Motor Cycle, for an assault on that year’s TT production race – but that’s another story!
In 1975 the Honda CB400F cost £669 including VAT, and road tax cost £10 per annum.