Learn how one motorhead’s lifelong passion led him to a restoration project of his childhood dream bike with all the ups and downs of a first time restoration.
Two-wheeled Time Travel?
Sorry, but you can’t ride home again either …
For those of us who were born prior to The Flintstones or Mister Ed, we like to remember a time lived in a more Leave it to Beaver life. Cars the colors of kitchen Formica, teachers and our mothers wearing home perms and clothed in calf-length, floral print dresses, possibly a string of pearls and, always, sensible shoes. Our dads went to work in either ties or work clothes, arriving home for 6 o’clock dinner and then settling down to their evening paper and a smoke.
But a strong minority of us budding motorheads, myself definitely included, had lives filled with my favorite two deadly sins: jealousy and envy. We watched the “Big Kids” driving 1962 Chevy Biscaynes with moon discs and Smitty mufflers. We watched them ride by on their Triumphs, BSAs and various unidentified but wonderfully noisy rides whose names we would endlessly debate. Adding to the mystique of the objects of such envy was the combined wonder at the Brylcreemed hair, the cigarettes and the fact that these elite were perpetually perched under the hood of their cars, or more critically, on their knees beside their motorcycles. What they were actually doing and their collective competence at the task was of less importance than the fact that these guys had wheels! Not only had wheels, but obviously had never been forced to finish their peas, weed the flower beds or clean up their rooms.
Naturally, after more than six decades of real life, the truth of the matter became obvious to most of this group … let’s call them the conventionals. Well, they fell into lives that were largely patterned after their fathers: finish school, move to trades or college, make Peter Principle themed progress to what level they could reach in their chosen vocation. Over the years the smoking fell away for many, the newspapers became laptops, tablets and phones and their dreams of torque, speed and noise faded, replaced by family responsibilities, time and finances.
What of those other guys? The cool kids? Our TV repair guy with the MG TD, the neighbor with the Sportster? Well, in truth many of these guys were just like us, but took a slightly different road. Their road led them to jobs in the world of engines. Some designed, some repaired, some raced, some sold the wonderful but financially unattainable rolling stock to others or structured their lives and families around some aspect of a wheeled hobby. A seeming majority of the remainder found themselves ending up in some sort of hands-on career, but most seemed to retain some level of passion for that dream. For my particular subset of motorheads, it was always motorcycles.
Making the Best with What You Can
I, like many, have gone through quite a succession of bikes. Most of us, limited by funds or responsibilities, took the more practical route of the most practical option. While we admired the CL450, the X-6 Hustler and later on the CB750 or the Z-1, we bought used YDS-3s, CB350s and older 305 Scramblers.
Now that I have reached the age to have grandchildren and an SUV, I see many of the conventionals have the resources and ability to attempt to relive what they believe they missed. I have seen the numbers claimed by dealers regarding customers who bought a Gold Wing or a Road King as a first bike. I get it and don’t begrudge them their late start; God bless them and keep them until they get good enough. But there are those of us in the middle who, having lived through an unreasonably large number of bikes easily sold when something better seemed to reveal itself. We seem to be buying and restoring or at least rehabilitating the bikes of our unfulfilled childhood dreams. For me, it was a BSA A65.
My cycling succession started at age 15 with a 1966 YDS-3. I put 25,000 plus miles on it traveling everywhere I thought I could get to before school or work interfered. I commuted to school and work. I toured around two-up with my sweetie and, in spite of the many spark plugs, pistons, tires, chains, points and sundry other necessary things, I loved it. Still, though, I lusted for a 650cc BSA.
BSA A65 for Sale
In my mid-thirties, I stumbled into a ragged A65 for $200. It ran but looked like it may have been dragged a distance and then parked in the snow on a regular basis. I think this actually was the case. Nevertheless, I purchased it from the motivated seller and proceeded to ride it regularly as a commuter, and I even hooked a Velorex sidecar to it to haul mortar and chimney blocks for my home building project. It was wonderfully smooth, powerful and most of all surprisingly reliable.
Then reality set in. I got a good job, which led to 30 years of work and a great retirement. Upon nearing my retirement date, I was determined to bring the old beast back to OEM-plus condition and enjoy it forever.
New parts came from the world over. In fact, the parts were easier to find than they had been when folks still rode these! Add to that the internet that has put these international parts sources at our fingertips. Criticize the modern age if you like, but there are avenues available for rehabilitating these relics that we never dreamed of when “The Bike Shop” was our only option. The old fart was dismantled to its last rusty spoke.
First surprise/disappointment, the machine was titled as a 1970 A65 but was actually an A50, the 500cc stablemate: close enough. Getting past the inevitable disappointment so quickly, I moved on.
The bike received new Dunlop tires as well as every worn or failed component connected to them, up to and including the grips and mirrors. All the engine internals, every bearing, cable, wire harness and rubber part. In a nod to the 21st century I added a solid-state ignition, an AGM battery and LED lighting. I left the charging system including the Zener diode in place, its inherent weakness in output compensated for by the lighting load going from nearly 70 watts to less than 10.
Then the first go … it started perfectly on two kicks and settled to a steady idle, though it seemed a little rougher than I remembered it as it walked across the shop on its own. I was certain that running it in and adjusting the details would take care of any issues. The initial 2-mile ride was wonderful it its way, but the bike did indeed seem rougher than I remembered. I brought it back, let it cool and checked tappets, timing and carb adjustment (remember the Color-Tune? I still have one) the chain and tire pressures.
The bike and I rested overnight. In the a.m. I checked head and other bolt torques and headed the seven miles to town. It became evident that the shaking was not an aberration, it was simply a fact. Over the next weeks (months?) I realized that 40-odd years spent mostly riding newer machinery had awakened in me the nerves and sensibilities that had been numbed by youth, energy and delusion.
Overcoming Nostalgia
The reality is that the world and technology have progressed since my youth. I had been dragged along, seduced into thinking that these bikes were, and deserved to be, admired as wonderful examples of wheeled perfection despite all evidence to the contrary. It seems that these icons of my youth were not all I had mistakenly believed. My poor defense is that I was merely a victim of human weakness in the face of those aforementioned sins.
Having failed in my attempt to relive the past, I offered the BSA up for auction and received an embarrassingly high price (I had no idea) and went back to my ’06 Sportster. There I found a new appreciation for the design and execution of a modern bike that looks like the 1960s but rides like a flying carpet compared to that aging BSA.
I did ask the buyer if he had ever owned a British twin. He replied no, but he’d always wanted one. I welcomed him to his dream and did nothing to dissuade his choice. This was partly out of the knowledge that, like me, he would have to learn things for himself. Who knows? Maybe for the unspoiled the dream will work.
Sometime later, while helping a relative move some vehicles, I noticed an orphaned Yamaha sitting in the shop. This may have been my first step back into the abyss. In spite of my attempt at redemption, like any lapsed believer, I returned to the wayward life by way of a Yamaha RD350 in that lovely hugger orange color. I had always wanted one!
I think myself prepared for disappointment, assuming that this will be the one that matches the past that never was for me. The bike that the YDS-3 primed me for; it certainly is possible … isn’t it?
If not, there’s bound to be a motorhead out there for whom the dream can still come true.
