Groan, another book review

But what a book! The Original Wild Ones, Tales of the Boozefighters Motorcycle Club (MBI Publishing Co, 2005).

Frankly, it’s not a great book but by dint of being the only one available on the subject it warrants bookshelf real estate for anyone even vaguely interested in the history and antics of the ‘originals’ – the granddaddies of ye olde patche ganges…er, gangs. The guys and gals who were rebels when it still meant something and when motorcycles allied with road trips, drunken rowdiness and a certain amount of being beastly to townsfolk and back-chatting the authorities was as bad as it got. Before being fat, bald, tattooed and pointlessly aggressive on a stock Evo with a few factory accessories became the badge of those who offer themselves as bad to the bone.

And anyway, blame the bloody weather for the endless procession of postings not featuring rides-out. At my age, warmth and comfort have replaced a dedication to Riding That Knows No Limits.

But back to the book.

Accepted wisdom suggests the story runs something along the lines of: returning WWII vets bored with small town USA look for kicks aboard bobbed motorsickles with their best gals riding up behind. Cheating death at 90 miles an hour and giving the finger and possibly a black eye to all who stand between them and…blah.

Well, the truth is in there somewhere but can’t we simply imagine ‘them guys’ is ‘us guys’, blokes interested in biking because they like bikes not especially because they need something to replace the adrenalin high of a B-17 Flying Fortress at 25,000 ft. Of course I don’t know, but I imagine that having done the B-17 stuff, the very best you can hope for is not to be doing it anymore and that small town USA, with a bottle of beer and a Bettie Page-alike riding pillion in a ring-T and high-waisted skinnies is all the kicks you need baby.

All aboard for boozy biking fun

But back to the book (again).

‘Wino’ Willie Forkner it was who decided to bring together a few buddies hep to the joys of bikes, booze and bints and bestow upon them the name Boozefighters. And yea, having done this, the club, alongside many other such clubs grew and prospered, enjoyed ride-outs, engaged in all manner of fun shenanigans and generally got back some of what had been taken from them by the European and Japanese conflicts until the advent of urban decay, ‘police actions’ abroad against the Red Menace, and brainless wannabees going forever too far in a bid to make up for a lack of inches and a suppressed interest in the same sex (which would be far healthier and better for everyone unsuppressed) fucking ruined it for everyone.

Kind of like the Sex Pistols before Sid joined but without the Uranian aspect.

But back (once again) to the book.

The text meanders like a 1950s Land Rover with knackered track rod ends but… but it is the story of the Boozefighters Motorcycle Club and a mighty interesting story it is too.

And, it’s fair to say, everyone on two wheels in the Western World is shot through with a faint but detectable afterglow of the greatest bang since…well, the Big Bang.

Ladies and gentlemen, the joy that is the Boozefighters…

Boozemobile complete with converted trailer used as 'sleep it off' HQ

Balancing act

Bringing up the rear on a big twin in the California sunshine while wrestling an Agfa 120 Isolette folder…

Attending to Tomos #2: fabbing a carrier

Ever seen the secret stash chamber on a Tomos A3?

Hidden catch reveals ‘secret’ cache

Reach behind the saddle, tug on the catch and lift the seat to reveal it. Big enough for a flick knife, length of string, pet mouse, gum, porn mag, bong and all the other appurtenances a two-wheeled Tom Sawyer likes to carry around, not quite big enough for a helmet (unless you have the opposite of hydrocephalus), fuel can, or anything else even vaguely useful (that is, if you have no need to stab, tie up a parcel, grow an ear, chew, wank or huff).

Big enough for small stuff, too small for big stuff

The answer? A rack or carrier.

I have a welder, some scrap metal, a bench and an hour or two of free time – by an amazing coincidence, almost the exact ingredients for making one. Given I could’ve bought a factory example for six quid on eBay recently the exercise is admittedly pretty pointless, but I’m stingy, like making things and have an aversion to fattening eBay’s off-shore bank account so homebrew it is.

The remains of a school chair will soon become…

What I don’t have is a pipe-bender so a project such as this requires careful planning in order to use pre-existing bends or else cutting and welding to get the necessary shapes. Here’s an example of what I’m hoping to copy:

…a copy of this, the OE Tomos rack

First step is to cut out suitable lengths and cross pieces for the main part of the carrier. Next, is to turn ‘slugs’ on the lathe to strengthen the joints and provide something substantial to weld to. The alternative is to sleeve the joints but slugs have the advantage of being invisible once the welds are ground down.

Careful cutting and welding preserves the bends and obviates the need for a
pipe-bender. Now all I need to do is lay out the pieces on the bench, toddle off
to bed and wait for some hungry elves to come and make it into a rack

Turning solid steel ‘slugs’ to strengthen pipe joints

With the cross pieces shaped to match the diameter of the sides, the slugs turned and the various pieces held in place with a clamp I broke out the welder and set to. At least, I tried. No wire feed. Hmm. Nothing would persuade the wire to emerge from the torch.

My welder is a cheap(ish) Clarke 130EN Turbo which I use gasless with flux-cored 0.8mm or 0.9mm wire. Working back from the tip to the liner, everything seemed fine so time for a strip down and look-see. With the insides exposed I put a meter across the wire-feed motor which showed DC present. So far so good but other than ‘clicking’, it wouldn’t shift the wire.

Reflecting on the problem over a mug of coffee, it struck me there’s a gearbox fed by the motor which has (as you might guess) plastic pinions clotted with grease. Maybe the gears were seized? Though the whole shebang can be removed as a unit I thought I’d try a little heat first to soften the grease. Using an old hairdryer, I heated the gearbox and pulsed the torch trigger while twisting the speed pot to and fro. Half a minute or so of not very hopeful heating, pulsing and twisting and… success! It began to feed. Either the gears were gummed up, or there was dirt on the speed control track or something else equally minor yet devastatingly terminal. Anyway, here it was working again.

Unless it’s in the hands of a pro, a flux-cored gasless welder produces a strong but messy result. I’m no welder but I don’t mind ‘finessing’ the weld afterwards. However, and as is its wont, having sat for a while the flux-cored wire was blighted by moisture resulting in ugly, weak porous welds. You can counter this by maintaining a >3/4” wire length at the tip. Heat from the weld evaporates the moisture before it reaches the joint but it’s even harder to produce a tidy job.

However, welding difficulties aside, the rack began to come together:

Next morning…

…and the elves have done their work

I want to attach side guards as per the OE rack to keep a pannier from fouling the wheel, there’s some cleaning up to do and paint obviously, but pretty much the rack is together. I’ll post an update when it’s in paint and finished.

Now there's just this piece to weld in place, two brackets to make to
support the carrier behind the lamp cluster, a spruce up and some paint

Me and Evelyn Waugh are just like that

Same cap, different bike. Grandpa Neal astride yet another mount proving that for him and Evelyn Waugh, there really was only one way to travel…

The tenants of the room

Madam Life's a piece in bloom
Death goes dogging everywhere
She's the tenant of the room
He's the ruffian on the stair

You shall see her as a friend
You shall bilk him once or twice
But he'll trap you in the end
And he'll stick you for her price

With his kneebones at your chest
And his knuckles in your throat
You would reason – plead – protest!
Clutching at her petticoat

But she's heard it all before
Well she knows you've had your fun
Gingerly she gains the door
And your little job is done
W E Henley

British bulldog and the Terrier

Public libraries.

A useful source of warmth for the homeless, computing time for those working phishing scams while maintaining anonymity, cheap DVD rentals to pass the days for the out-of-work and drug-addled, and a source of employment and social interaction for terminally unmarriageable wallflowers of both sexes.

“To the library, chaps!”

Oh, and some of ’em have a few books. Not that anyone under 50 is interested (except maybe women working their way though a mountain of chick-lit).

The central library in my town is, perhaps, better than most in that it has more than a few (books not women) and some of them are actually relatively recent – there's even a new one here and there. For a lifelong fan of libraries it's a breath of fresh air (yes, according to my entries at Mondo I'm pretty much a lifelong fan of everything). What it means is that every now and then it's possible to rummage among the shelves and find something that you haven't previously read and which is sufficiently intriguing to fish out your library card.

Cover dreadful, contents whimsical and
without coherent plot but a fun read for all that

Such a one is Travelling With Mr Turner (Panther Publishing, 2011) by Nigel C Winter.

The cover looks like it was chucked together by someone for whom a John Bull Printing Outfit would be impossibly over-technical and the text setting within strictly amateur hour. The images are too small and blighted by moire rendering them largely indiscernible and yet… And yet it has a home-brew charm that’s hard on the eye but satisfyingly rewarding if you stick with it – a bit like wanking with a picture of Miranda (or Gandhi if you happen to be female).

Sorry, I'm blathering. It looks like shit, is obscure and has no discernible plot, yet it holds your interest in such a way that turning the page and reading on is inevitable. Remember watching Gregory's Girl? Other than seeing the gloriously sexy Claire Grogan (albeit depicted as a rank and unappealing teenager), you wonder why the fuck you're watching and yet still you watch on…

Needless to say I checked it out and took it home. Since then I've read the book several times over the years and enjoyed it immensely despite its many faults of presentation.

In a nutshell then, motorcycling solicitor Nigel, sets off on a pilgrimage to recreate a journey first enjoyed by Triumph big-wigs MD Edward Turner, Works Director Bob Fearon and Chief Designer Alec St John Masters during a bid to publicise the company's new 150cc Terrier motorcycle (a little four-stroke sloper that would eventually become the Tiger Cub). With surprisingly spartan back-up and outfits that’d be hard pressed to retain warmth during high summer in the West Indies, the trio embark on a Land’s End-John O’Groats bike ride endearingly known as The Gaffers' Gallop. Some time later they complete their journey, Terrier publicised, job done.

Esso lends a hand

Similarly, but with suitably wistful middle-aged pontificating on 1. Age 2. Motorcycles Old and New 3. The State of the Country 4. Everything Else in Between, Nige returns home having pretty much followed in Ted's footsteps.

Throughout, there are (albeit poorly reproduced) pics of Nigel's Hinckley Triumph Thunderbird 900, pertinent landmarks and various of the gaffers.

Ted grins and bears it

There’s Ted for example, looking for all the world like an irascible motorcycling Billy Bunter in an outfit specified – and probably knitted – by his mother. A cut-price post-war Churchill from modest antecedents and none the worse for that. Good for an amusing story over a glass of whisky (but not whiskey), with firm views on Rhodesia, and sex with the lights out strictly intended to fulfil the requirement to procreate while satisfying the implied terms of the Anglican wedding vows.

Absolutely then, a man borne of his age.

But back to the book. Any good? Yes, though not quite worthy of the lavish hyperbole dished out in the many Amazon reviews (to paraphrase Not the Nine O’Clock News): “I would willingly sell my house and all its contents to assist Nigel in writing another of his truly magnificent books, he is by far and away Britain’s best author ever…” being typical. Yeah. You decide.

Try going there now without paying the exorbitant ‘entrance’ fee…

Buy or borrow? The latter initially, but with a view to the former if you happen to have a few quid spare after splurging on a whore and the DVD release of And Mother Makes Three (oh Wendy Craig, you bad, bad girl…).

One tip: choose the Kindle over the conventional edition, image reproduction is vastly superior.

You can visit the author's own website dedicated to the book of the ride of the Esso documentary of the publicity stunt here and you can also see a number of pics of Nigel's dad doing what dads did aboard their motorcycles in the 1950s here

Morley and Me

Men. Gear. Morley.

Don Morley that is. That's him on the right. With the camera and the ears.

I call him Don and he responds with who the fuck are you? Seems reasonable cos the truth is the nearest I came to knowing the great Don Morley is that we both worked for United Newspapers at one time or another, he as a photographer, me as a nude model. There's more though. There's an affinity that goes beyond simply meeting and knowing – I like to think so anyway.

We both make a fetish of Leica rangefinders and Royal Enfield motorcycles, and we both love the heyday of trials events – say, immediate post-war to the close of the 1950s. The run-what-you-brung, compete-sunday-ride-it-to-work-monday, arrive-on-your-road-bike-and-get-a-ride golden-period…I mean, golden period that was classic trials.

Morley's seminal work, Classic British Two-Stroke Trials Bikes (Osprey, 1987), says so: “This was a time when many competitors rode their [bikes] to the event, competed and rode home again, using the machines as daily transport for the rest of the week.

“[It was] a thriving era of club trials that could be entered on the day with the minimum of red tape [and] countless trials riders could enjoy the sport. For them there was no segregation between stars and also-rans, no bunny hops nor trick cycling. Instead, the worst could always enter and enjoy the event side by side with the best, neither to be overawed, demoralised or likely to suffer physical damage to themselves and their steeds. Great days indeed…"

Morley: “Taken at the Exeter event in the days when trials bikes were a more
general form of transport, this happy bunch made it to Land's End on a
pretty typical mix including Dot, James and Francis Barnett” 

By the way, there's no use in trying to buy the book. It's absolutely the best read on the subject but long out of print and commanding stupid prices at second-hand.

To paraphrase Dr Johnson: worth owning, not worth paying a second-hand price to own.

Saving a Lady

Tappet cover wing nut, early-50s Bullet

Being poor and mean, I prefer to scavenge or else home-brew wherever possible so you can readily imagine my recoiling in miserly horror at the thought of shelling out five quid for something which cost pence (or rupees) to make.

Such a thing is the little gewgaw which holds the tappet cover in place on a Royal Enfield Bullet. It looks cool, mirrors the original Redditch set-up and is actually rather useful if you want access in a hurry or at times of stress. Of course if you're found wanting for lack of spanners, being able to remove the cover will be of little use – but that's to over-think the problem.

Chennai Bullets ship with a domed nut which is not unattractive but doesn't have quite the charm of the original wing nut or the repop version available from the usual sources.

Chennai Bullets ship with a domed nut

Aftermarket repop wing nut

The aftermarket nut is a casting, drilled and tapped through the fat part (much like, I imagine, Kim Kardashian). I don't have a furnace but I do have a lathe though I don't have a ball turning attachment (that's something else I need to make). What all this equates to is I can't cast my own wing nut but I can turn something approximating it in use if not in aesthetics but which won't have the attractive ball-end on the wing.

Clear as mud?

Scrabbling about the workshop for some scrap I lit upon a length of 13mm hex bar. I have a number of these waiting for future projects but for this particular one, the limelight had arrived. Once chucked, I cut off the threaded end, faced it and put on a slight chamfer.

Scrap 13mm hex bar

First steps…

The stud for the cover has an M8 thread (at least, for those Bullets made after 1999). I selected a 6mm drill as a pilot and drilled a suitable hole. Next I used a 6.9 tapping drill for tapping M8. Then I tapped the hole taking care not to snap the tap (I wanted a blind hole). That done, I used a 10mm drill bit to put a little chamfer on the thread.

Drilling the nut…

…and tapping it M8

Setting aside the body of the wing nut I rummaged up a bit of 8mm steel rod, measured a length I deemed suitable to make the 'wing' and set to on the lathe, turning it to a diameter just below 6mm and then threading it M6. I left the other end slightly larger in lieu of a ball.

Turning the 'wing'

Threading the wing M6

Back to the body, I used a centre drill bit on my pillar drill to make a pilot hole, a 5.2mm tapping drill to take it to the required diameter and an M6 tap. I cut off the body at a suitable length put it back in the lathe to face and chamfer it, put a drop of thread locker on the wing, screwed it into the nut and the job was done.

With the thread cut…

…it's time to part off the wing
(I don't like parting off in the lathe)

The finished wing nut in situ

It isn't as pretty as the original but it does have an old-world charm that I think is rather appealing plus I saved a satisfying £5. Now I just have to figure the best way to grind the fins off the cover itself for a ’50s-like appearance.

What's that? Oh, cockney rhyming slang for a 'fiver'. Lady Godiva…

How many greasers does it take to fix a bobber?

One to wield the wrench, the other five to look very cool…

A trick of the light: (charging a 6v battery with a 12v charger)

Miserly charge = 6v misery

I really ought to buy another 6v battery charger. The last one came from the set-aside electricals pile at the tip and, with a couple of resoldered dry joints,  gave many years service maintaining diminutive 6v motorcycle batteries in good health.

The problem, of course, arises out of the number of machines in the garage than any special fault in the battery (though bikes definitely benefit from a 12v system). More than one machine means reduced riding time for them all – I only have so much arse to go around – which, in turn, means that the batteries leak away their charge living in the forlorn hope of a nice run out any day now.

Battery tenders and the like provide a modern solution to the problem but that's to spend money and wait for the postman (or finding a local bike dealer that still sells 'accessories') here we're interested in the situation as described: you have a dead 6v battery and only a 12v charger to hand – cancel the ride or resort to Heath Robinson?

A bulb, a bit of flex from an old domestic iron and your car charger: 6v Heaven

And the latter gets the cigar every time. A solution is dead simple and here's what you need: an automotive bulb rated 12v 5W, a length of wire, a crocodile clip or two (or a bit of electrical tape), soldering iron and solder (or more electrical tape).

The trick is to deploy the 12v charger but drop the voltage reaching the battery such that it receives only what it needs. To do that, you wire the bulb in series with the charger and battery so that it (the bulb) consumes a portion of the migrating electrons thereby reducing the quantity which reaches the battery. Confused? The circuit diagram is your treasure map:

Fag packet or back of an envelope, digital stylee

As with all Heath Robinson contrivances it's probably best to shell out on a proper charger but this will get you going in the meantime.

NB Mondo is not responsible/accountable for your demise while playing with electricity. Play safe.

Not Sparky and CowBoy…

…but Sid and Cyril, Britain's answer to the cool US duo detailed elsewhere at Mondo.

MCers Sid and Cyril plan their next road trip – more
Bexley Heath than Berdoo

The accoutrements, of course, are all in place: leather jackets and road captain caps, the studs, patches and badges, the inevitable finger-staining Woodbine and an old Ajay and a Beezer C15 quietly dripping oil somewhere out of shot. It's the attitude that's all wrong (or right, depending on your disposition). Our Sid might annoy the neighbours but he'd never say fuck before the Queen.

Easy to see why, with a very few exceptions, our motorcycle gang members were more likely to bring titters than terror to British towns. Or at worst, annoyance at the din.

To our right, Cyril models a snug line in home knitwear lovingly stitched by future wife Brenda. We'll just have to imagine what Sid's wife Dot did to keep him warm.

There's still a bike in Sid's shed, though it's a 350cc Royal Enfield iron-barrelled Bullet dating from 2008. Indian-built, but none the worse for that. Cyril's dodgy knee and a tedious stint aboard a Honda FJS600 Silver Wing scooter put paid to his riding and now all that's left are the memories: greasy spoon cafes, jellied eels at Chelsea Bridge, big singles and purring twins.

Uncool maybe, but lovable all the same.

NB You can find the real Sparky and CowBoy here