TALES FROM THE SHED
Ah, the sweet sounds of hair being torn, spanners being thrown and invective blown into the breeze. Frank’s having a good time, plainly...
Ah, the sweet sounds of hair being torn, spanners being thrown and invective blown into the breeze. Frank’s having a good time, plainly…
Last time in Tales From The Shed: ‘This is worrying. I fall asleep worrying. Then wake up again. I have An Idea…’
Long, long ago, I rebuilt an Ariel. I have done this a couple of times and cannot pretend that I enjoy working on Ariels much. Certainly not as much as I enjoy working on AMC machinery. This is, of course, just as well, as I appear to spend a disproportionate amount of my life hurling abuse and spanners at AMC machinery. The Ariel’s centrestand was lifted from its in-use position to horizontal repose by a pair of bed springs. These turned out to be rather stronger than I am, which while unsurprising in the greater scheme of things is a little demoralising. I really struggled, and wrote about it, doubtless hoping for sympathy and understanding. Possibly offers of free beer. Ignoring the unkind and uncharitable
view view some folk have of incompetent spannermen, I also received A Device in the post. The American postmarks and indeed stamps suggested that it had come from very far away – even further away than, for example, Exeter.
fWhere there be dragons, or similar. The device was a spring puller – a hook with a big T-handle – and it had been sent by the most admirable, talented, good looking and impossibly generous Roger Slater, inventor
of the Laverda Jota. For which I forgave him on the spot.
The spring puller did exactly what its name suggested and the Ariel was soon once again standing on its own two feet. And, demonstrating that my memory has not yet entirely succumbed to old age and ennui, I remembered the puller while staring in some irritation at the chunks knocked out of my delicate artistic guitarist’s fingers after failing to fit the new kickstart return spring to the mightiest Matchless of them all – the G5. I even remembered where the puller was.
This was so surprising that I needed a little remedial liquid fortification . Any excuse in a time of drought. Or rain, whichever is handy.
I gazed at the spring puller. It was unresponsive. No surprises there. I have previously fitted recalcitrant springs using only harsh language and a suitably stout screwdriver, but this was either tougher than most springs (a good thing) or I am finally officially enfeebled (a less good thing). I slipped the appropriate end of the spring into the hole in the gearbox casing where it is supposed to fit. And it did. Hurrah.
The other end fits into a hole in the kickstart shaft – and there’s the problem. Pull as I might (and I did) although I could get the end of the spring into the hole it went in at an angle, a result of the tension it was under, and as soon as I attempted to straighten it the puller snapped free. We performed this ritual several times. Eventually I ran out of inventive invective and paused for thought. A refreshing glass helps here, I find. But not too much, please.
Eventually, lateral thinking and a little desperation suggested that I should try fitting the thing the other way around: put the spring’s end into the kickstart shaft first and then attempt to haul the other end around and line it up with the hole in the casting. I heaved hard, and was surprised to see how easily and how far I could pull the other end of the spring. Amazing. Of course it snapped straight into the hole in the casing and the kickstart worked perfectly. Why doesn’t it suggest this simple technique in the handbook? And why do many of the online experts recommend removing the gearbox to replace the spring? I assumed they didn’t do this because reassembly would reveal that I had done something wrong, and possibly silly, too.
But no. I applied handsome new gaskets from AMC Classic Spares, coated with a little
grease so that when I needed to remove them an hour later they’d not tear, and put it all back together again. Just like that. Then I added an appropriately vast amount of gearbox oil and stepped back to watch it pour out all over the bench. Which will indeed never go rusty due to previous libations. In case you were wondering, the recommendation is to fill up the gearbox until it runneth over, which I did. There is also a decent level of predictable debate over which kind of oil to use. The factory recommended engine oil, which was kind of them as I have quite a lot of it handy. In it went.
And it is still there, despite my actually riding the bike. Miracles.
This is inspirational stuff indeed. Flushed I was, mostly with enthusiasm. The Matchless fired up fine. Its gearbox failed to leak. So far. All of a sudden I was beside myself with manly pride about this little machine, a machine upon so much abuse and insult have been lavished down the years. I paused. Scratched my head. Would it in fact make a decent pair of classic wheels for my local stuff? Would it, for example, be up to the regular trips into Bude for the Post Office experience? I rode it around a bit. It goes very well, is comfortable and even almost has brakes.
Time to service it. In my life, servicing a motorcycle is some insane kind of ultimate test. They rarely survive the challenge. I fix them, I ride them, I service them and they break down or perform some kind of mysterious stunt which means I sell them immediately. Could this most humble of machines survive a service? And what does servicing actually involve anyway?
The gearbox oil was fresh. Engine oil! Off with the outer engine cover (and exhaust, footrest…) again. Drain the oil. Refit the drain plug and replace the outer cover (and exhaust, footrest…) again. Remember to refill the oil. There is also a filter. Excitement indeed. Consult the handbook to see what’s what with the filter. Consult online oracles. They describe it to me and provide photos. I remove my filter, which lives under a handsome domed nut at the front of the engine and recognise at once that my filter looks nothing like the ones in the photos provided by online oracles. I stare vigorously at the exploded engine diagram in the manual. My filter looks exactly like the one portrayed in the diagram. Life is occasionally remarkable.
The handbook suggests that the best thing to do with the filter is to clean it in petrol, fit new O-rings and replace it into its lair. Which I do. It is remarkably painless. I fire up the engine again, nervously. It still works. Remarkable stuff. In the true AMC tradition, it is possible to check that the notably feeble AMC rotating plunger oil pump is working by checking that oil is returning to the tank. You do this by removing the oil filler cap and looking. With your eyes. It is dark in there. This is neither new nor thrilling – except on a lightweight, where the oil tank is famously hidden inside the engine cases container. No problem. Remove the filler cap and blip the throttle. This is genuinely terrifying. The oil is returning as it should, through the little hole provided for that very purpose. However, lifting off the filler cap lets you listen to the actual unmuffled workings of the engine. I guarantee that you will instantly switch off the engine and replace the cap. It does indeed sound like a drunken blacksmith’s anvil practice in there. Heck, as we say when stressed.
Last check: the primary chaincase and its oil. This is rarely a concern with AMC machinery, despite the desperate reputation of the early pressed-steel cases which really can leak – but usually after they’ve been reassembled by someone who doesn’t know, or indeed care, how they should fit. It’s not that the later cases are particularly glorious; more that the crankcase vents to atmosphere via the driveside main bearings, and the passage of gasses from the insides of the engine carry with them more than enough oil to keep the primary chain as lubricated as a very oily thing. In
those long-ago days, when no-one knew what an ecosystem was, much less worried about it, the actual vent to atmosphere is a hole in the back of the inner chaincase, which in the lightweight we have not got. So how…
Turns out that the engine breathes through a vent between the two drive-side main bearings, more or less straight onto the final drive chain. How glorious. I can find no reference to oil seals between those main bearings and the primary chaincase, so wonder whether there is any oil actually inside the casings. It’s easy enough to check: simply remove the handsome screw-in alloy cap.
This is usually simple enough, and I usually just use my big old Stanley screwdriver. Which refuses to budge the cap. This is unusual. Being a lazy soul, I tap the end of the screwdriver with Thor, King of Hammers in a restrained and gentlemanly fashion and then stare in complete horror when the blade of the mighty Stanley driver drives straight through the alloy, producing a hole. Which is no use. No use at all. I must have several spares somewhere.
After a day wasted searching through heaps of oily refuse, uncovering several bits which I’d forgotten about but which will come in handy on another nearby AMC machine, I admit defeat and go online to find a secondhand cap to replace the one I’ve stupidly destroyed. Of course there are none. I wail on Facebook. Instantly, a remarkably helpful fellow called Victor drops me a line to say that he’s got a spare and it will be in the post.
It arrives. I fit it at once. It’s perfect. Thank-you, Victor. Acts of kindness like this go a long way to balancing out the nonsense with which we are so often surrounded. Someone else to whom I owe a favour!
Of course the oil level is fine. The oil is even clean, and the primary chain itself is in adjustment, as is the main chain, snug and safe inside its full enclosure. I’m enjoying myself so much, what with all this unusual success and optimism, that I decide to give the Matchless a clean. Its first in my ownership and for quite a while I suspect.
Cleaning a bike is a great way to discover faults and missing fasteners, so beware! In this case, all the surprises were pleasant surprises. The rims are original and come up beautifully, despite not being covered in protective muck. Even most of the transfers are good, as is most of the paint. The bike shows signs of its long-term previous ownership, too, in the form of ‘rider’ touches, such as a small spring on the clutch lever to take up the cable slack and stop the lever flapping about; like the insides of the mudguards and the outside bit of the front guard below its stay being painted with very old-fashioned car underseal, to protect it from stone chips. Like the unobtrusive and ancient plastic flaps at the base of the front swoop of the rear mudguard, which keep road muck away from the rear of ►
the engine. Like the complete toolkit in the toolbox, and the little note from a previous owner telling me, its current keeper, what’s inside.
There’s even a small alloy flap fitted in front of the engine’s oil filler cap, presumably to keep water away and prevent it contaminating the oil. I take that off, because it doesn’t look very nice, though it was a good thought. And I discover a little copper mushroom on the swinging arm pivot, which is, according to the handbook, a nipple through which a chap can inject SAE140 oil to lube the arm’s bushes. I have none, so I use SAE90 instead.
By the time I’ve cleaned the bike – and even polished its fuel tank – I find myself entirely enamoured. What a delightful piece of history, and what a delightful bike to ride. The only fault that I can find is the whine in third gear … but they all do that, sir. Even all the electrics work.
And then, quite suddenly, it needs no more attention. I am in two minds about replacing the original rusty exhaust pipe with a new one, though the silencer is still shiny enough. All that remains is to ride it a little more. Which I do. It is really pleasant. Should I replace the pipe? It’s a puzzle.
It’s an ongoing puzzle too. You may recall the other excellent AMC single I acquired late last year so I could just ride it – a fine AJS Model 16 from 1966, which was described as running and riding well. There was A Plan in which the Better Third would ride the Matchless and the Ajay back to back to compare the ‘light’ and presumably heavy 350 singles. That’s been shot down by the refusal of the AJS to run properly. It’s getting there, but only slowly, and while I fiddle and fettle I’ve been tidying up its more obvious and irritating bodges. So I’ve acquired a decent and unbent centrestand and have refitted a few parts in the way the factory intended.
And – here comes the exhaust puzzle – although the silly fat silencer may well be the original and is certainly of the original type, it has also lost much of its chrome and is a little challenged in the structural integrity dept. And they are of course entirely unobtainable.
Except… they’re not. Fanfare of bugles! There is a company in Slovakia who can – and do – supply replacements, almost exact replacements in fact. So exact that I can’t tell their pattern item from an original, even when shrouded in my greenest of AMC anoraks. I now have one of these new silencers, and will talk about it a little later. But in the meantime, should I also replace the exhaust header?
Thinking about fixing things is rather easier and less expensive than actually fixing things, don’t you agree?