A personal memoir of Arthur Francis
This article recollects a young scooterist’s memories of meeting the scooter legend.
A young scooterist's memories of meeting the scooter legend
Rarely in the world of scootering has one person been spoken of with so much affection and held in such high esteem as Arthur Francis. Doyen of the Clubman tuners of the 60s and 70s, creator of the famed ‘S' type Lambretta and an inspiration to all modern-day sporting scooterists.
The aspiring sporting scooterists of the 1960s were heavily influenced by Arthur's articles in the monthly Scooter World magazine – a must-read at the time. One such article suggested ‘overboring' the Lambretta barrel, which would take my mate Rich's old Li out from 150cc to 175cc and make it a flier – that was the theory, at any rate. The new barrel was an exchange item, so Rich would have to take his old barrel to Arthur's shop to enable him to swap it for a new one.
“WILL YOU TAKE ME TO WATFORD, THEN?”
Don't laugh, but to us West London boys from Acton, a trip to Watford in dim and distant Hertfordshire was a long journey. We only rode our scooters for relatively short journeys and used the tube or train for longer journeys, as it saved our expensive clothes from losing their creases – honest! Watford would be awkward to get to, so the scooter trip it would have to be.
The day of the trip arrived: “Did you have to bring that school satchel?” I enquired.
“Got my barrel in it – don't have anything else strong enough.”
We opened the garage and wheeled out the GT.
I made Rich put on his parka over the satchel (couldn't be seen with that). We both now looked quite cool in our parkas and dark one-piece wrap-around shades from the posh bike shop in Chiswick High Road. Kicked over the Lambretta – quite quiet since the ‘big bore' had been substituted for the slightly altered original exhaust. Eased out the clutch and off we went down the alley towards the streets lined by the factories, now empty of workmen on this Saturday morning.
WATFORD OR BUST!
“Relax, my son!” I shouted over my shoulder as we reached Acton Vale to search for a road going north. Bit lost to tell the truth… sort of Harrow-on-the-Hill way, Stanmore – where the tube (and civilisation!) ends, follow signs to Watford.
A bit of a struggle to find it, but there we were, bumping up the kerb near the Arthur Francis shop situated in a Victorian high street. Locked the GT up on the pavement near the shop and we both entered this hallowed ground to be greeted by the man himself – the Arthur Francis from the mag article. Smart V-neck pullover, polo shirt and a distinguished face with a greying moustache. We were impressed!
Rich disentangled the barrel from the bag under his parka for examination. It was okay, and he got an exchange for his hard-saved cash; another barrel with a bigger hole in it and a matching piston with rings. As we were totally absorbed with this shop of earthly delights, we didn't notice the commotion going on in the street outside. Arthur sped out of the front door and returned in an equal hurry saying: “Is that your Lambretta outside?”
On leaving the shop… “Oh, bugger!”
Mayhem and disaster in distant Watford. The GT was on its side over a rapidly growing pool of petrol darkly staining the flagstones. There was, slightly more impressively, a whole line of completely ruined – one or two almost flattened – cars. All were once neatly parked at the kerb awaiting the return of their owners. At the end of the row, half resting on the pavement, was a large, but badly damaged tip-up lorry loaded with builders' rubble, some of which was now spread artistically around the scrapheap cars and the wounded Lambretta. Rich, myself and the Arthur of legend prised the Lambretta up and rolled it on to its stand. Amazingly, apart from a scraped kick-start rubber and handlebar grips, the GT was, unbelievably, undamaged. The truck driver, however, had been prised from his cab and, from our slightly obscured viewpoint was, apparently, about to be lynched by a gaggle of once car-owning Watfordonians – quite right too!
Arthur, for his part, wrote an on-the-spot quote for insurance claim purposes that was a trifle academic on the grounds that ‘Third Party, Fire and Theft' was the only affordable insurance for this particular Lambretta. Kind of Arthur, anyway.
Apart from the initial difficulty starting the Lambretta, the ride home was uneventful.
“WATCH THE PISTON WHEN I KICK IT OVER”
The next day at Rich's garage, situated under the block of flats where he lived with his mum, Rich's Li was plain to see, but obviously, still in bits.Something odd occurred. Even to my non-technical eyes it was very odd! As Rich pressed down on the kick-start, the piston crown appeared over the rim of the barrel as it travelled up and down the bore. Now that shouldn't happen!
Upstairs to Rich's mum's flat and straight on the phone to Arthur Francis. Rich's bad news was that he had been given a barrel off an earlier model, which was shorter than his original. A mistake had been made.
The trip back to Watford had to be made on the following Saturday, as we couldn't get away from work, other than going ‘sick' – and the two of us doing that would cause a large rat to be smelt.
I'd just fitted a new tyre to the rear wheel of the GT as the old one was only impressive by its lack of tread; just then Rich turned up equipped with his heavy satchel. We sort of knew the way this time and blasted up to Watford and did the swap. We were mildly surprised not to find the corpse of the, apparently drunken, lorry driver swinging from a lamppost, but – even in Watford – they had recently stopped doing that!
The ride back was sublime. Rich's extra weight allowed the GT to really grip the tarmac. Holding on to the inside of double white-lined bends at 50-60mph on the downgrades we were flying, overtaking snarled-up cars like a rocket and weaseling through to the front at traffic lights and blasting away at full throttle on green. We were untouchable under our guardian angel, as it appeared…
After dropping Rich off at his gaff, there was a strange noise. It was coming from the back of the Lambretta. A sort of rattle – no, more of a knocking. As I turned into the alleyway, the GT was knocked into neutral and the engine turned off. As we freewheeled up to the garage door there it was: ‘tock-tock-tock' – quite loud, in fact! What on earth could be causing that?
Pulling the old Lambretta on to its stand, it was quite obvious that the rear wheel was lying to one side and not upright, as it should be. Closer inspection had a silent word to say about the guardian angel syndrome. One wheel nut – and one only – was holding the wheel in place. That wheel nut had, perhaps, only two turns of thread left. The knocking was caused by the wheel banging against the wheel stud lugs as the relevant nuts worked undone and had, for good measure, broken off two of the lugs!
Rich's arrival had distracted the morning's wheel changing process and I'd forgotten, in my hurry, to tighten up the wheel nuts. They had been left finger tight! The two of us had just done over 40 miles of white line heroics on a scooter with a loose rear wheel!