THE SHED
What, exactly, can be difficult about fitting a carb to an engine? Nothing, that’s what. I must surely have fitted over a hundred carbs to over a hundred engines down this long and amusingly mis-spent life, and rarely does fitting a carb present a problem. In fact, problems arrive only around the periphery, when I decide that the mounting bolts should be studs, decide to replace them with studs, then discover when things refuse to fit that I was wrong all along and that I’ve stripped the threads anyway. Whenever I’m feeling even slightly smug I gaze at the G12 CSR Matchless, oozing malevolently beneath its grubby cover. Hateful thing. And no, it’s not for sale…
This time I’d decided that I would go the whole hog, bite the traditional bullet and replace the bench BSA’s carb, using nothing but new components, sourced entirely from reliable and trustworthy sources. This wasn’t actually too difficult a decision to reach, given that the Beezer came without a carb to its name. Or a cable. Or a twistgrip. Or … anything, really. But now…
Now all the bits are here. Great new handlebars in black, because the Better Third has an irrational dislike of the lovely metallic blue bars I’ve been carrying around in their original wrapping since maybe 1997 when they were sent to me as some sort of promotion by the company who make them – Renthal. It’s bad form not to plug everyone who sends free kit. Otherwise where would we be? I’d need to buy things … with my own money! This is only a good idea if I actually have a use for the things. I’ve been waiting over twenty years to fit those stylish blue Renthal bars to a bike so that the company’s kindness can be rewarded.
Anyway, now I have some black bars. They even fit, despite BSA’s bizarre approach to mounting handlebars.
I also have a set of rather fine alloy control levers, coincidentally liberated from that same rusty G12 CSR when I fitted some standard levers to restore … something I’ve already forgotten. And although I described them as a set – as their original vendor probably did too – in fact they’re a pair … of front brake levers. If a lever is correctly handed, as they should be on bikes as perfect as my own inevitably are, then the slot for the cable entry should be beneath the lever where you can’t see it. And these aren’t. Unless used as brake levers. I have no idea why this might be important. In fact .. it’s probably not important at all.
Meanwhile… I also bought, using genuine money because I don’t know a handy supplier
who’s sufficiently generous to supply such things for free, a new twistgrip. Not a cheap one. I bought the one I thought looked most substantial, as it needs to withstand all that frenzied hard against the stop full-throttling for which I’m justly famous. And a new choke lever, although BSA’s 1971 parts book suggests that no choke was fitted. What did they know? Less than Amal, who supplied a truly magnificent Concentric instrument to fuel the fires within. It came with a choke, so a choke lever it now has also. And let me say straight away that the carb fits perfectly upon its new, correct gasket/washer/spacer thing, hotfoot from Draganfly, and that the choke cable worked perfectly in concert with its sparkly new handlebar lever. This is real progress, right?
Of course it is. It is also a reminder that a job which might take a human ten minutes to accomplish can take me … weeks. My school reports rarely contained praise for my application and dedication. More comments like ‘Could try harder. If he tried at all’ and wearying things like that. My favourite was from a Latin master, who remarked that ‘for both our sakes our ways must part’. Which was a shame, as I enjoyed Latin, and he was a great teacher. He rode a T120 Bonneville while wearing a beret, however, so had his own faults.
Depressed beyond endurance by the discovery that although the choke mechanism worked perfectly and without a single hitch, the inner throttle cable was about an inch too long and replacing it with another would involve removing the carb again, and… I immediately accepted an invitation for lunch. A chap should always do this, although I occasionally pretend to be too busy or on a diet or something. In any case, Andrew, the inordinately generous gentleman who was aiming to venture to deepest December Bude to devour the hottest offerings from the Cornish Pie Co, also promised to roll up on something really special, something he’d bet I’d never ridden before. I sneered (silently and in private) at this. I know everything about bikes, me. Am I not the original Noted Expert? Have I not ridden every motorcycle known to man – and then some more? Of course I haven’t, but you get the point. Possibly.
Parked outside that most excellent pie emporium was a … a … thing. I was humbled. I stared in awe, as did an alarming proportion of passers-by. Could it be his?
It was his. And after a most excellent lunch, it was time to take a trip. The word ‘ride’ is inadequate when discussing machinery like this. Back in the 1970s, a time of many wonders and changes, machines like this mighty Puch were considered by many to be the very best thing after pedal cycling. They bridged the gap between pedal power and engine power, providing an engine of sorts as well as pedals. Yep, this is a moped.
Rather wonderfully, I entirely missed out on the whole moped thing. I went straight from a pushbike to a Panther. The latter was no faster than the former, but after the initial run’n’bump it generally required less effort and set me on a lifelong path of smelling faintly of burned 2-stroke oil. Several of my schoolchums, however, suffered parental moped application. Of course I pitied them. The easy starting, the sensible handling, brakes… Even lights, to some degree. But … moped. Not entirely the stuff of my own dreams, which were rather more colourful than an NSU Quickly or its ilk.
Sneering is an expert artform. Sneering obviously at someone’s motorbicycle is impolite, so a chap needs to be more subtle. This can take many forms. Insults delivered with precision and a straight face can reduce an entire table eating lunch in a pie shop to heroic attempts at disguising mocking laughter as choking. Trust me. Andrew however got the last word in. ‘Did you bring a helmet?’ he asked, with disarming charm while picking up the bill for lunch. ‘You must have a go!’
Enthusiasm is supposed to be infectious .. in this case it seemed more like an infection of the unpleasant kind. Of course I grinned heroically, but with a subtle sneer. Me? Riding a moped? Can you think of a more ridiculous
spectacle? Well… don’t answer that.
We left the pie shop. Andrew did something strange involving a foot and a pedal, and pottered hazily off up the street. Cars stopped to let him out. Pedestrians stared on awe, wonder and admiration. Young single women scattered rose petals in his path… I may be exaggerating. It was a fine lunch.
And so, helmeted, gloved and booted, bearing the least sincere expression of enthusiasm I could muster, The Big Moment came. How, I wondered, do I start it? By kicking the right hand pedal forwards. What? Proud Owner maintained that this sounded daft (it did) but was easy (it was). Prod, I went, tentatively. Pop pop pop, went the Puch, defiantly. Just like that. One more thing the Puch moped hasn’t got in common with a BSA Gold Star. I have ridden more Gold Stars than mopeds. A lot more. Could this brief encounter mark the start of a refreshing new passion? An enthusiasm to replace heavies for ever?
Displaying Noted Expert knowledge, I requested confirmation that both handlebar levers were brakes, the front on the left and the rear opposite. Andrew’s cheery smile slipped a little. Apparently everyone knows that the left lever is the clutch. I beamed, in an idiotic but disarming way. Of course! And pulling in the clutch lever and winding the entire assembly backwards engages first gear.
Gear? It has a gear? It has more than one of them?
It has three. So much for twist’n’go. OK. Time for indomitable heroism. I twisted the right hand grip. Pop-pop-pop went the engine. At least, I think it’s an engine. Not easy to tell between mysterious shrouding fittings. Sounds like an engine, pop-pops nicely and smokes quite a lot from the happily unattractive exhaust. Pull in clutch. Neat and high quality levers, as befits a Puch. Smooth light action, too. Roll the lever and everything else in the left hand backwards. A vague sense of engagement. Ease out the lever and away we go. Not a wheelie in sight. Disappointment is common among moped test plots, so I’m told.
But! The excitement of riding a fearsome if elderly moped is only just beginning. Where, for example, does hapless adventurer put his feet? You might laugh, but the pedals are fixed at 180° apart, exactly as on a pushbike, and not as on some – dare I say it? – more modern mopeds, where the pedals lock into the same downward position and act as actual footrests. Not that I could possibly know such things, of course. At this point, a hapless chap discovers how the rear brake works…
There are two ways the pedals can be rotated to allow a foot to rest on each. This is obvious enough, and I am no fool, despite
what the Better Third may suggest in rare moments of exasperation. I can now share with you, gentle reader, that if you pedal backwards, the rear brake is applied. It is a good brake and you stop very rapidly. A notable and excellent safety feature. It is also seriously humiliating to stall a moped in front of proud owner and doubting spouse.
Regaining my lost cool, Puch and I set off again. The sound of laugher faded, drowned by the roar of the mighty engine. Or by the gale blowing in off the mighty ocean, one or the other. Time to change gear. This operation is quite easy, indeed generations of scooter riders accomplish it without apparent effort – and so did I. It’s a little strange, and it’s a very long time since I last operated a gearbox this way, but all new experiences are exactly that. Also… I was beginning to grin. Dare I attempt top gear?
Before that, however, I needed to putter smokily around the seasonally empty car park so that the Better Third could operate the camera – a far more challenging device than a moped. So, simulating low speed traffic threading using the parked cars, I poppered about until the big thumbs up suggested that photos were taken by the mighty digital device. Big run, then, and away to the promenade for the scenic static shots which may decorate these pages somewhere.
And the more we poppered along, Puch and I, the more we got on together. It has a speedo, too, and once I accumulated sufficient courage to take my eyes off the road ahead, I made it an ambition to achieve 30mph. This is quite a challenge, acceleration being what it is on a moped. But I think I managed it, before needing to brake savagely to avoid the ocean, which is unforgiving in winter, as you know. And, rather remarkably, the brakes are actually very good. The front
a little grabby, but the back-pedalling rear is strangely useable.
But enough of some mad old bloke careering around Bude on a sunny winter’s day, what on earth is this thing? And why would any supposedly sane individual choose to ride one? Serious questions both, as the tiny pop-pops are in considerable demand and suffer from squillions of dedicated devotees. Which does not answer the burning question: what is it? I asked Andrew, notably proud owner. ‘I am never certain about the final letter, but I believe it is a 1973 Puch MS50D 3 speed…’ So that’s what we call it. The first rule of journalism is that a chap should never let the facts get in the way of a good story, so here we go.
Puch built mopeds unlike most others. Contemporary roadtests suggested that this was because they’re based in Austria. Austria has mountains, therefore an Austrian moped must be able to both climb mountains and stop while descending mountains. This makes perfect sense. Although Bude is somewhat short of actual mountains, part of the town centre is only uphill – due to the one-way system – and I can confirm that the Puch had no problems climbing that particular non-mountain. Nor stopping afterwards. The potentially unhappy downside to such mountainous aspiration is that the gearing is very low, which means that the fearsome device is flat out at a claimed 28mph. Whether this would pose a problem for you, gentle reader, only you can know, but Andrew the owner has travelled very far aboard this machine, as a picture somewhere around here might confirm. It would also explain why an indicated 30mph felt so entirely frenetic.
The other remarkable feature of this fearsome beastie is that its engine – the entire heady 49cc of it – is fan-cooled. This is indeed remarkable, but a very good idea. Roadtesters of the day waxed sensational over this, claiming that it means that the engine can be held flat out all day, which is possible in this motorway age … were mopeds allowed on motorways, which they’re not. I think. More usefully, the fan cooling should stop the thing nipping up in heavy traffic, as rarely seen in Bude, but more common in, say, Tokyo.
Earlier scribblers also sang the praises both of the standards of engineering and the finish, and it is impossible to argue with that. Both are fine indeed, and were the Puch not a 28mph moped it would make a fine machine indeed for a spot of globetrotting. Well… it still does make exactly that machine, but only a very special breed of rider would consider such an adventure. Which may be a shame … or possibly sanity.
And lots of riders do ride machinery like this, it’s true. Until this very day I had no real idea why. Boys of my youth rode them out of penury or parental oppression – do they hanker for those great days to be revived? Do they feel sixteen again as they crouch down over the (adjustable) handlebars, dreaming internally of reversed flat caps and trouser legs tucked into socks? Bicycle clips, maybe? The imagination could run riot here. In fact, the reason is clear: they ride them because they really are entertaining, fun at its best. There must be a certain shared bonkersness factor also, and although it’s possibly a less common affliction than, say, the bonkersness which is attempting and repeatedly failing to build a BSA A65T, but, as Real RC Types must admit, where there’s fun, there’s an RC reader. Possibly…