TRIUMPH T140 BONNEVILLE
Seller’s remorse? That moment when you wish you’d not sold a bike? And then a friend offers it back to you. What to do! Frank Westworth is easily tempted
Seller’s remorse? That moment when you wish you’d not sold a bike? And then a friend offers it back to you. What to do! Frank Westworth is easily tempted
Before I sell a bike I usually take a stack of photos of it. This is not entirely to remind me how much I disliked it – surely the only real genuine reason for sale? Mainly I’m nostalgic about bikes I’ve owned for a while and then sold, but only rarely do I understand a genuine reason for buying it back again. In fact, I can think of only two – maybe three – bikes I really do wish I’d hung onto for longer. None of my oily-frame Triumph twins is among that number, although, like regrets, I’ve had a few…
I have a love / hate relationship with the later Triumph twins. I love the idea of them, but not the reality. I love short rides; ownership, less so. And my ability to kickstart a big twin really is on its last legs. But – and it is a big but – I think some of them look superb, and I am a consistent sucker for bikes I like the look of. Cast your mind back a very long time; all the way to the mid-1980s, in fact. Triumph at Meriden had given up the plainly unequal struggle and although everyone knew that the new owner of the marque – housebuilder John Bloor – was developing great new machines to carry the great name of Triumph on their tanks, great information about them was actually scarce. Many folk – myself included – were more than a little uncertain about whether we would ever see a new Triumph. Except…
Except that we definitely knew that
LF Harris of Newton Abbott in deepest Devon had somehow procured a licence to remanufacture the twins. We also knew that LF Harris – Les Harris to those who knew him – was very well known indeed in the trade for his company Racing Spares, based in Rushden, where they manufactured lots and lots of parts for Meriden twins. My understanding is that in the latter days of the Co-op, Racing Spares supplied many components to Meriden, and that putting the elderly ohv machines back into production would be a good way of keeping their Triumph twins parts supply service buoyant.
Finally, after several delays, false starts and general confusion, the new bikes arrived in the shops. They also appeared in magazine road tests, which of course I scoured, devoured, read and re-read. And then finally I visited my local(ish) Triumph dealer in Chester and examined them closely. And I was of course impressed. I’d turned up to see the bikes aboard a
Commando, and although my memories of my own 1975 T140V Bonnie were less than encouraging, I asked to sit on one of the new ones, handsome with its Italian UK tank. The salesman nodded agreement, so sit I did.
It felt … exactly like an oily-frame Triumph. The clutch felt the same, despite a posh new German lever, and the entire sit-upon experience was strangely familiar. I’d avoided Meriden twins after my unhappy 1976 experience, but had owned a few Tridents and was open-minded about the new machines. I particularly liked the looks, and if the dealer had offered a decent trade-in for my elderly Commando, then temptation could easily have overcome my concerns. But I was disappointed by the lack of an electric start, although I understood that the terms of Harris’s agreement with John Bloor precluded them, somehow.
An aside: I’d always understood that Bloor insisted that the Harris Triumphs should be kickstart-only, but I enjoyed a conversation some time later with Harris’s designer, the fabled Brian Jones, during which he told me that in fact they’d decided to ditch the electric starter because it shoved up the price of the bike – but when asked they’d agreed to suggest that it was mostly a weight-saving thing.
Back to the plot. I was proud to observe that not only was the salesman looking – possibly admiring – my Norton, but that there wasn’t a single drip of oil beneath it. My enthusiasm grew as my caution weakened. He strolled over. The sky was blue. Birds may have been singing. It was that kind of day. I wondered whether they’d take my shiny silver Interstate against a new Triumph.
‘No,’ said the salesman. I possibly looked a little pained. ‘We won’t even take Triumphs against the new ones,’ he added with no trace of a smile. ‘Do you want a test ride?’
I shook my head glumly, manfully hiding my disappointment.
‘Just as well,’ he said, turning away. ‘Demo bike’s broken again…’
I eventually rode my first Harris twin while at the launch of the Harris single: the fine Matchless G80, down at the works in Newton Abbott. Les Harris his very self asked if I’d ridden one, and as we were waiting for a batch of other alleged journalists to return his test bikes he wondered whether I’d like to take out a twin, as there were several nearby. So I did. It was a works hack, used to try out batches of bits from Italy, and considerably non-glamorous. It was great. It really was.
Another aside: When I got out on the Matchless silver single and stopped to take some photos in the scorching Devonian sunshine, I naturally switched off the engine. I could not restart it. I kicked and kicked
until I thought I would expire on the spot. It was very hot. In the end I pushed it up a convenient hill, rolled back down and bumped it into life in the time-honoured manner, then rode steamily back to the factory. As I chugged into the car park and pulled up, one of the guys who worked there wandered over and asked what I thought of it. I swore a lot about the hot starting. He burst out laughing, which I did not entirely appreciate. After he’d taken the bike from me he fiddled with handlebar furniture and operated the left-foot kicker. The beast fired up at once. He switched off and repeated the trick several times. After I’d recovered my equanimity and cooled down a little I asked for the secret.
He explained that the carb on the G80 was not an Amal and worked its choke lever opposite to that primitive British instrument; by uncovering jets when you tightened the cable. To turn off the ‘choke’ you slackened the cable. Starting a hot engine on full ‘choke’ is often not easy, we find. I was fairly embarrassed, so wrote great and generous things about the Matchless, cleverly failing to mention my own idiocy…
But the factory hack Bonnie had made an impression. A better impression than the Matchless, sadly. The sadness with the Bonnie came with the understanding that I couldn’t actually buy one, due to poverty and the strange comments from the alleged salesman.
Fast forward a few years. A pal with a Cheshire bike shop loaned me a Harris Tiger 750. It was the first I’d seen and I chugged my way around the Cheshire / Shropshire borderlands for most of a day. I really liked it. Not only was it a single-carb Tiger but it was also graced with a Us-spec tank and higher bars than we Brits were offered. It was comfortable, handled excellently and boasted braking better than any Bonnie I’d ridden before. Oh! The suspension worked, too. Nothing plank-like about this.
By now you’ll expect me to reveal a snag, no? OK. The engine appeared to have porous castings. The joint faces didn’t weep, so far as I could see, but after maybe 100 miles the entire engine was soaked with nice clean golden oil. It washed off easily, but returned from nowhere obvious after maybe 30 miles. My pal’s ace mechanic stripped down the entire machine after chatting with one of the big London Triumph specialists (I can’t recall who, exactly) and had the insides of the crankcases coated with something. The leaks stopped and they sold the bike. I didn’t write up the story because I try not to be negative. Simple as that.
A little while later, the same pal called to tell me that he’d just discovered a pair of seriously strange Harris Bonnies. Police trim. Electric start. Anti-vibration frames. Alloy cylinder barrels. Brand new machines destined for an overseas market. Of course I borrowed one of them, and it was entirely excellent. It was also sold, so my generous if predictable offer of £100 cut no ice. This was the machine which convinced me that the last of the ‘Meriden’ twins was worth the trials of ownership.
Of course I rode several more, some very good indeed and others mysteriously unwilling, somehow.
Fast forward a lot more years and a fine fellow came over to the RC stand at Kempton Park and offered to sell me … a Harris T140. At last! At last we come to the machine you can see here, which remains the only Harris Bonnie I’ve actually owned. Yep, I bought it. It arrived at RCHQ Bude and proved to be in far better condition than its description! How utterly excellent is that? I was a little excited. But only a little – read on and I’ll explain.
All of the Harris twins I’ve ridden have been easy starters, and this Bonnie was no
exception. It had electronic
ignition as standard and those peculiar Amal Mk1½ Concentrics rather than the restrictive devices fitted to the later Meriden machines. These are – I think – basically Mk1 Concs with the cold-start device from the Mk2 fitted to replace the environmentally unfriendly tickler. And they worked fine. Open the handlebar lever, turn on the fuel, wait a little, switch on: kick. Brummm.
This is a UK machine and wears possibly the most attractive of the UK fuel tanks. It also boasts handlebars with a bend and reach to suit the slightly-too-forward footrests. This is a persistent grumble of mine: the rests are always about an inch too far forward for me on 1970s oily-frame twins and triples. Not the singles, and not the 500s. Strange. In this case, the relationships in the golden triangle (hands, feet, backside) were pretty good, and I took to it decently well.
One of the several good points about these machines – and a feature which is unfathomably the first to get thrown away – is the fine set of Lafranconi silencers, which are reputed to be based on a set intended for a Moto Guzzi twin. They sound great, and plainly suit the hybrid carbs pretty well, as this bike ran cleanly through its rev range with no hesitation and no fluffing. The Harris I’d ridden previously to this one had been fitted with a set of Commando-pattern peashooters, and although louder it didn’t sound any better. In fact, the Italian jobs have a decently deep tone which I personally like. But folk throw them away, lots of them from new, too, which has always been decently puzzling to me.
I like quiet bikes, always have. Whenever I’ve rebuilt my favourite Norton twin – the Commando – I’ve always preferred the unloved ‘bean can’ annular discharge silencers to peashooters. It’s the same with Triumphs: every T150 Trident I’ve bought has come with either ray guns or three-into-one megaphone systems which sound bad and stop the thing running properly. It’s a mystery.
So then: easy starting, a comfortable riding position, great looks and a decently muted exhaust grumble. How does it actually go? You will possibly observe here that I’ve not mentioned the engine’s mechanical noise. Because that is another of the variables; some engines remain golden silent for thousands of miles, while others develop nasty knocks early on in their lives. This, happily, is one of the strong silent type.
The clutch is nice. Even the lever is easy to operate, the later machines using the same switchgear which first appeared on the T160 Trident along with a set of levers which do not require the rider to have foot-long fingers to operate. No complaints so far. Click goes first gear. It does. Remarkable. No clashing of cogs or a sudden leap forward. Uncanny.
These are genuinely great bikes. With a caveat: they are also very variable. If there is any variety of a T140 twin which I would never, ever buy unseen, this is it. When they were current, riders reported endless irritating problems, mainly concerning engine noise and the finish falling off. Also oil leaks from the engine – the traditional Triumph 1930s pushrod tubes being a deep-sigh moment, but also accompanied by reports of porous castings – head and crankcase. And sadly I’ve seen a couple of these. This engine leaked a little from the pushrod tubes.
I was unbothered, personally, but the bike’s subsequent owner – who still owned it when I did the riding revisiting thing – hated that.
Although LF Harris’s contract with John Bloor precluded much development of the twin, the crankshaft – the very heart of the engine – was apparently identical to that used in the very last Meriden twins; the story going that it was the same as that used in the excellent TSX soft chopper. Whatever, it’s smooth. At least this example is. Other levels of vibration are available on other examples of these variable machines.
Acceleration is best described as being brisk rather than exciting, and the handling is excellent; bend-swinging in the olden way is superb, with the bike’s dynamic package suiting its performance characteristics just about perfectly. And… fanfare of trumpets… the 260mm twinned Brembo brakes are the stoppers the bike should have been using for a decade before Meriden shut its shutters for the last time. They’re really effective examples of 1980s twin discs. Not over-burdened with feel and requiring a decent level of grip on the lever, but easily learned, consistent and predictable. Better yet; the suspension works very well at both ends, with both the 38mm front fork and rear twin shocks being sourced from Paioli and working very well together.
The entire package was – and remains – impressive.
So, then. Two questions. Why did I sell it, and did I want it back?
The first is easy. Two words: Norton, and also Commando. I was running a superb Mk3 Commando which did everything the Triumph did as well as boasting an effective electric starter. The more I thought about it, the fewer reasons I could dream up for choosing to ride the Bonnie rather than the Bendy. This is a true thing. And so, when we had a great reduction in The Shed, both of our oily-frame Triumph twins left for posteriors new. The other was a fine TR65 Thunderbird, in case you were curious.
It is also true that the riding position on the Commando suits me better than that on the Bonneville. Which is entirely a personal thing, as is the way the lowdown grunt of the 850 Norton twin works so well through its old-fashioned 4-speed gearbox. The Triumph went, by an only slightly roundabout route, to a friend, Roy. Who then decided to sell it on to buy … another T140, this time with an electric foot of its own.
It would be apposite to remark at this point that while the Triumph was still a resident of The Shed, I decided that I would fit it with an electric starter, and indeed I acquired all the parts to do that thing. But… I was discouraged by several Triumph chaps telling me that although the Meriden starter would fit and would work, the Harris crankcases might not be up to the task, and could break. Which was a risk too far.
Why did Roy also decide to sell it? Basically he felt that the unrestored, almost original machine needed too much work and that he’d ‘rather lost interest in grovelling about in the garage mending old bikes!’ I can understand that. Oh yes.
And, more surprisingly; ‘Riding it was a bit meh too. It never really felt like it wanted to Go and felt strained over about 55. And something about it made it made it feel big and windswept, which is daft cos the T140 ES feels small and compact...’
Which is how I found myself staring at the bike again, thinking how good it looked and remembering how much I’d enjoyed my few miles aboard it. I still have the electric starter kit, too. So I kicked it up again, and it started easily, on one cylinder at first, then on both as it got into the mood for running. A gentle trundle restored the old memories further – if asked which was the best Bonnie, this would come very close, although I am actually a fan of the TSX. As is the way of tyre-kicking timewasters everywhere I decided to go away and think about it – especially about the price, which had of course risen.
I decided that times had changed, that the Commando is no longer in The Shed offering the electric option, and what the heck, maybe the electric start would just fit and just work! I should grab it while the grabbing was good! Of course it had just been sold. He who hesitates…