6 I AUGUST 2020
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NORTON 750 COMMANDO
Production of Commandos ended in 1977, correct? Wrong. Norvil have built many more since. Frank Westworth rides one of them… Photos: Chris Spaett, Frank Westworth
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AUGUST 2020 I 7
I
magine that it was possible to simply wander off to a showroom and order yourself a brand new classic bike. Maybe a Trident, maybe a Bonneville, maybe … a Commando. Step back, adjust your rosy-tint spectacles and admire the bike in these photos – because someone did exactly that in 2010, and this was the result. Noted Norton specialists the Norvil Motorcycle Company, of deepest Burntwood, have built several new Commandos over the years, and although I’ve ridden a few of them before they were delivered to their proud new owners, riding someone’s P&J before they actually receive it does constrain the enthusiasm a little. With this 2010 example … not so much. Before I start to consider the bike, let’s get the riding thing out of the way. A bit like the ride out for a jar and a jabber at a favourite pub – are we allowed to do that at the moment? – the ride comes first. Before the … ahem … walk home from the pub, of course. It always surprises me how exactly like riding a Commando riding a Commando actually is. I’m not joking, not really. They are truly a unique experience, as unlike most British ohv twins as, say, a BMW airhead, and whenever I get the opportunity … there I go again, back onto a Commando. I’ve owned several and ridden loads, of pretty much any sort, but this one is certainly different. This is obvious the moment you sit down, flick up the sidestand and take control of the balance. It’s lower than is familiar. At first it just feels different, and the reasons for that difference aren’t instantly obvious. But after a moment understanding dawns that its balance is unusual. Low seat, lowered shocks
Behind the cylinders live
ul: an efficient electric sta
and lowered forks, too, I think. Of course, being naturally critical, I decide that the bike will suffer from reduced suspension travel – it must; think about this – so will ride harshly. I ran a Mk2A Roadster to which some maniac had fitted ‘race’ fork springs and rear shocks. It was seriously wearying to ride far – but delicious to ride less far and much more rapid than a stock machine. It’s possible to do many things to a Commando. In this case, the front end is, shall we say, firm. Dive under braking it does not, much.
A great thing. Surely one of the greatest British bike engines. Looks like an 850, but isn’t. It’s actually a 750
8 I AUGUST 2020
two reasons to be cheerf
rter and a fine single car b
Smooth out road imperfections … it does. The rear end with its trick Falcon shocks is easier on the posterior than stock shocks. I like this, being of a non-racing bent and carrying several extra pounds. Those extra pounds may of course be the reason that I found the rear end fine, while Chris the current owner (at the time of writing, probably not by now) thought it was hard. He needs to eat more pies, plainly. I’m ahead of myself again. You’ll have observed that this is close to a Mk3
The drive side confirms that this is a Mk3, complete with the revised primary chaincase and … a left-foot brake? Surely some mistake?
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NORTON 750 COMMANDO
A better view of that left-foot brake mechanism. FW doesn’t think he’d have traded a disc for a cable operated drum, but other views are available
Commando, the model noted for its allegedly occasional electric starting and US-style left-foot gearchange. I’ll get to the latter in a moment, but regarding the former – and far more important – I can reveal that this truly is an excellent self-starter. Turn on fuel, operate the mixture enrichment device (a small lever on the single Mikuni carb) and push the button. Great noise from the paired peashooters – just right; not too loud and not too silent. If only all my old Commandos had been as simple as that, rather than relying on incantations and rituals if they were going to fire up reliably. And then, pull in the clutch – a proper ‘pop’ lever movement, the pop over-centre revealing that the diaphragm spring is doing what it’s supposed to, and then try to engage first gear using the brake pedal. Which is on the left. Chris smiles, quietly. I feel foolish. Engage first gear using the gear lever, which is on the right, just as on all preMk3 Commandos. Feel faintly foolish for a moment, then shrug it off in an heroic fashion and remind myself that I’d failed to find the clutch bite point with the kickstart lever before starting the engine, and that stalling yet another machine in front of its owner is simply silly. Ease the throttle, ease the clutch
and take some small pleasure in pulling gently away with no fuss at all, and no stall at all. I like this bike more once it’s rolling. The riding position is somehow curious. The footrests are in their normal places, and the bars look right but at the same time are a bit of a stretch. It’s the seat, a Corbin, that makes the rider’s arms stretch a little. Isn’t it strange how a simple thing like a change of seat can make a machine as familiar as a Commando feel so different? The seat encourages the rider to slide back into it, which stretches out the arms rather comfortably, and alters the angle your knees are at. It’s actually very comfortable, a side effect of the rearward posterior shift being that it pulls the rider’s knees in rather closer to the Roadster fuel tank. My knees always flap about comically when riding bikes with slender tanks, but less so on this. Hurrah. Maybe I looked less dim than usual. I doubt that, of course. The engine is a peach. Although the barrels are the through-bolt 850 type, the capacity is 750cc. This seems like a curious choice, but I’m sure that the original owner had a reason when he ordered the bike build from Norvil, all those years ago. Time was, I might have been able to tell which capacity the engine was from its torque – no more. I can share
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that the single carb makes for consistent running, and that the exhausts would banish any winter chills in the legs, especially in traffic. But… it pulls exactly as a Commando should, with that distinctive great heave of acceleration available as soon as you feed fuel to the engine and engage warp drive by letting the clutch slip a little, holding the revs around 3500. A Commando can fly, with only the slightest encouragement, and although I am personally a fan of making progress as quietly as possible – I am possibly the only rider who prefers the sound from Norton’s bean cans rather than the seemingly obligatory peashooters – I must confess that this set of high pipes sounds excellent. And only a little explosive. Of course the gearshift is on the right. I rode my own Mk3 Roadster for so long that it took a surprising number of shifts before I stopped trying to brake when needing to change gears. Habits form easily, as I have proved once again. And standing on the brake pedal when intending to change down is amusing for onlookers, particularly when the rider’s intention is to use the lower gear to accelerate through a set of familiar bends. Variety is the spice of life, of course. I found myself wondering why someone specifying a brand new Commando Mk3 would want a right-foot shift? It’s the same
AUGUST 2020 I 9
thinking which sees Hitchcocks offering rightfoot conversion kits for contemporary Royal Enfields. I don’t entirely understand it myself, but everyone is entirely entitled to indulge their own preferences. And again, speaking only for myself, I rarely have trouble switching between bikes with their levers on opposite sides. My confusion with this remarkable machine came because it sounds, feels and performs exactly like a Commando, and my own long-term Bendy was a Mk3 with its left-foot shift. Odd how unconscious memory works, isn’t it? It’s also too easy to forget the gloriously long-legged feel of a Commando. I’ve said it before, and many times, but these were a great advert against the introduction of 5-speed gearboxes – except where fifth was intentionally a very high dual carriageway cruising gear. I am indeed one of those luddites who prefers the 4-speed gearset on a TR6C Triumph to its 5-gear successor on a TR7, and although a 5-speed conversion may make for a faster Commando on a race track, the original
4-piece is great for the road. The Norton has a great shift, too, clicking through the ratios as all bikes with a well-adjusted clutch should. And speaking of the Commando clutch, I’ve ridden so many down the years – including my own for several years – that I’m always faintly surprised when they work correctly. My early Commando years were plagued by clutches which both slipped and dragged and defied my youthful failure to understand how they worked. I remember stripping off the primary chaincase outer on my first, and staring in horror at the diaphragm spring – I’d expected to be confronted with a set of adjustable springs, not a strange plate whose function I couldn’t begin to imagine. So I put up with it slipping under acceleration. I recall that when pulling out onto main road roundabouts the slip made the engine sound like it had an auto gearbox. Little things, little minds… Handling is great. These are very easy bikes to ride, and although I’d been prepared for a certain shortage of ground clearance, in fact
nothing touched down. Plainly I’m getting less adventurous. Or maybe everything is in fact neatly tucked away, and as the exhausts are decently high up, nothing dragged on the ground, either. Although the lowered profile of the bike is obvious when you have another standing nearby with which to compare it, the only time it affected my enjoyment of the bike was when hefting it onto the centrestand. That was too much for an aged hooligan, so I just used the sidestand. Much easier. You’ll observe that several of the photos show the bike on its centrestand. Someone else lifted it there. If I were the next lucky owner I’d measure up and get maybe a half-inch cut out of the stand’s legs. Another results of the right-foot shift is that the rear brake is an sls drum, rather than a Mk3’s disc. I’m conflicted about this. There’s nothing wrong with the drum, but I’ve always liked the rear disc, if not the stock front one. Happily, the front disc on this machine is
g gear, providing motivational What your right foot’s for. Changin leg r a flat battery, and keeping the encouragement should you suffe away from the exhaust
FW, trying to remember what classic British controls look like
10 I AUGUST 2020
Front brake is a considerable improvement on the original. Forks are shorter, too, somehow
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NORTON 750 COMMANDO
Comfort seat. It actually is comfortable, and somehow knows where its rider needs to perch
High level…
one of Norvil’s very fine floating discs, complete with an appropriately grippy two-piston caliper. My own Mk3 boasted a pair of these, which was seriously serious stopping power, but in real world riding, the single floater is well up to anything a road is likely to throw at it. It takes a little more lever pressure to make the tyre squeal, so it feels more oldfashioned, but its level of functionality is way up high. Good brakes, these. I hope I’m revealing how much I enjoyed my time – too brief a time – with this machine. Like a lot of well-developed Commandos, it’s a pleasure to ride, and confirms yet again why Norton won MCN’s Machine of the Year award so often. But they’re not flawless. My own favourite dislike is the non-adjustable footrest location. I really do not like where Norton’s designers insist that riders rest their feet. It’s sort-of OK on an Interstate, where the huge tank allows the knee angle to be more relaxed, which is personally important to me, but on most Roadsters I get tired quite quickly. Except … the Corbin seat on this machine makes it easier, as I’ve said already. Something about encouraging the rider to slide back along the seat to the bum hump, thus easing the knee angle. I wish I’d thought of this when running my
own machine! As you may already have worked out, I am no great fan of kickstarting big engines any more. It’s just one of those personal things, not a problem, really, except that it does restrict the range of old bikes which are available to me, not least because I prefer longer rides to shorter – medium distance rather than tooling around at home. And to be entirely honest, I use a mostly modern Triumph for local stuff. The reason? I really like the bike, both to own and to ride, and it has total reliability. So far. Which means that I worry no more about it restarting ten miles from home than I would worry about the car. It’s simply not an issue. So, for experimentation purposes only, I decided to try kicking up this Commando. The first concern was the effort required to heft it onto its mainstand. I’m not keen on kicking up motorcycles on their sidestands, but… in this case, I did. The reason? I’d enjoyed a couple of hundred miles in the saddle riding up to Ledbury, and had the return journey to look forward to immediately after handing back the Norton. My back aches. It just does. After a moment’s thought and a failed vertical heave, I decided to kick up the Commando on its sidestand. Heroism is for the young. In the same way that the lowered bicycle makes the centrestand a pain (literally, in my case), so it makes the bike lean over less far when on its sidestand, which is good from a kicker’s perspective. And Commando sidestands are among the most stable on the planet. It started first kick. Maybe this is an advantage of the 750 engine, who knows? First gear on a Commando is quite high, so the kick requires a decent bout of steely determination, but everything worked as it should. Maybe I should try life with a Commando again?
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AUGUST 2020 I 11
So, having reversed my writing tradition and discussed riding the bike first, what is this? Well, it’s a 2010 Norton Commando built by the Norvil Motorcycle Company and registered in 2011. As I started this piece by remarking, at the time Norvil were building new machines to order – which they’re not doing at the moment, currently preferring to build a bike when they have opportunity and offering it for sale once it’s completed. Of course they’re always sold long before they’re finished… The original owner plainly specified the Mk3 as a base for his bike, but with the reversed foot controls. After delivery, he also replaced the original twin Amal Concentrics with a single Mikuni, the original stock exhausts with this considerably remarkable set of high-level pipery, and the stock seat with the Corbin Gunfighter. And he covered around 6000 miles on the bike from new. I’ve been trying to remember whether I’ve ridden a lowered Commando before, and I’m not sure. I’ve ridden a lowered 650SS, which was very nice, but this Commando intrigued me. The reduction in rear wheels size from 19- to 18-inch isn’t uncommon, but fitting shorter fork stanchions is something I’ve not experienced before. It works well, as I’ve already said, and an unexpected bonus is that
In case you wondered
as the bike is a little lower, so the rider needs to elevate his foot a little less to reach the kickstart. And yes, I’ve not forgotten that excellent electric hoof, but I also worry a little about batteries twirling big engines, especially if they’re not well maintained. I once had a friend who removed the kickstart from his T160 Trident because it was redundant. Then he fitted it again. Bump starts are so undignified…
The high pipes? They’re a little warm, and might be amusing in heavy summer traffic, but they look great and sound great too. And the originals are with the bike, I think, so if you were planning touring with a pillion, you still can. I liked this, as might be obvious. Meanwhile, dripping with whimsy, I remembered that in 2010, when this machine was being hand-built, I also bought a handbuilt new Norton, probably for much the same price. Mine was a Commando 961 Sport, fresh from the Donington factory. And I’d already spotted that Chris had wheeled out a 961, although it’s a higher-spec than our old one. So the obvious question is how do they compare? That might be a question for a longer debate on another day, but I’ll close by suggesting that if circumstances permitted I’d have another classic Commando in a flash, but not the other, more modern alternative. Progress is a peculiar thing, don’t you think?
This is an obvious comparison. Maybe later…
Oddly non-matching clocks. But they work, which helps
12 I AUGUST 2020
‘O OK, I’ve remembered d alll this riigh ht-ffoot sh hift malarkey. Can I tog up and take it out for a few miles now?’
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plex, slow way to Frank discovers a com sunlight… darken the afternoon
One expertly refurbished magneto, ready for reinstallation
T
he excitement of an afternoon in The Shed is almost beyond description. I hardly know where to start this month’s magnificent octopus, things have been so entertaining. Do I continue with the increasingly illuminating headlamp saga, whereby I can almost find the almost correct bits and almost fit them? Or do I dive straight into the gritty nitty and dazzle you with the sparkling brilliance of my magneto refitting skills? Not an easy call, I’m sure you’ll agree. You may recall reading Jacqueline PUB’s excellent piece last time about how she received the CSR’s magneto, gave it a serious dose of technical looking-at and decided that only a complete chimp would be unable to produce fine fat sparks from it with almost no effort at all. I read her words with minor gloom, as you’d surely expect. I have never
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The way we were: a magless Matchless, poised
The old pick-ups. Maybe there’s a clue to the non-running here?
successfully rebuilt a magneto. Or anything else, it sometimes feels like. I did build a gearbox once. It would select first and third or second and fourth. Life can be a challenge. That said, fitting one of Mr Joe Lucas’s K2F magnetos is hardly difficult. Three fastenings and the timing pinion. Did someone mention timing? Ignition timing? I’ll get back to that. First things first. Once this remarkable device is back in its rightful place, I will never ever want to remove it again. I know this. I also know that you will not want to read about my removing it again, so it is important to we Noted Experts that we fit the thing properly the first time. Although practice almost certainly makes perfect, I have no wish to become more perfect in the black art of fitting magnetos. All I want to do with a magneto is forget it’s there, and simply revel in its most excellent sparks. Real Experts like Jacqueline
PUB bask in global admiration because of their technical expertise. I am delighted about this, and not at all envious. A mechanical electrical genius I have no wish to be. Which is fortunate. Part of the fitting the thing only once involves fitting it properly, as you may already know. Failure to fit a technical thing like a magneto – or worse, a carburettor – simply means that the wretched instrument of torture will need to be fitted more than once. Possibly very much more than once. I know this. I once fitted a carburettor more than a few times because when it was fitted the engine would not run. It would not run when the carb was not fitted either, but I took no solace in that sad fact. Mixing up the throttle and choke cables is an easy mistake to make. Part of my relentless pursuit of perfection involved searching for all the peripheral – read ‘non technically difficult’ – bits which
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FRANK WESTWORTH
You’re correct. The little brass screw should not just shear off like this
One of the new pick-ups. Observe how the gasket is actually too large. The new brush, however, looks encouraging
Timing side inlet valve: how to get your pistons in the right place for the sp parkss
transport the awesome discharge from the magneto to the spark plugs, ensuring riding delight for Proud Owner. Which would be me, in this case. It is easy to acquire the cables and stuff, of course. All a chap needs to do is storm off to the nearest event which has a decent jumble, seek out the purveyors of such tackle and buy it. Can you spot the flaw in this? As I write this, the UK is still in the clammy grip of The Great Lockdown, which means of course that autojumbles and old bike events are somewhat thin on the ground. This has been the case since the glorious magnetoid relic of our great British electrical industrial heritage returned from PUB’s palatial estates in the remote east of this wide island. But never mind. Several fine emporia have remained open etherically to service needs such as mine. Hurrah. I zapped online to find the bits I need to convey sparks to plugs. And I found them. I found a wide variety of them. And I found that it is still – amazingly – possible to acquire genuine Lucas bits in genuine Lucas boxes. This is astonishing stuff. I should of course not have been even faintly astonished, because I’d discovered the exact same thing when seeking bits for the great headlamp replacement exercise. That had not been an entirely delightful process, mostly because too many of the nice new nicknacks either didn’t fit or didn’t work, which is irritating. And a waste of both time and money. I am of course the very definition of an eternal optimist, and ordered the parts I needed. Sometimes I ordered the same thing more than once. This is because with age comes forgetfulness. I think. I could be wrong. Who knows? Let’s make up some nice new HT leads. What could simpler? Did you know that motorcycle HT leads are 10mm in diameter? I’d never given HT lead diameter a single moment’s thought in a half-century of hapless two-wheelery. HT leads are simply HT leads. All I knew – if indeed I knew anything, which seems unlikely – was that I needed to use old-fashioned copper-cored HT lead and not some mysterious modern nonsense which uses no copper at all, but some magical black stuff which claims to be carbon. I know nothing about that, of ccourse. What I now know, however, is that HT leads are available in more than one diameter. I now have several examples. 10mm is what w we need. Not 7 or even 8mm. Ten. The strimmer with which the Better TThird cheerily destroys entire swathes of hapless plants uses 7mm HT leead, formed into a single unified item with both the pick-up and plug ccap. This knowledge, although impressive, is of no use whatsoever w when equipping a K2F Lucas for a Matchless motorcycle. But I try to b be helpful. Having finally acquired the correct HT lead and a nice smart set of p pick-ups, gaskets, little brass split washers and plug caps – all branded LLucas and supplied in smart green boxes, I set to, applying the secret
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JULY 2020 I 93
Finding TDC is easy with one of these, and it has handy little marks for you to locate the right piston position for timing
Where the spark starts for the right-side plug
skill which is making up plug leads. Can there be a more satisfying, rewarding enterprise? No need to answer that. First… …I refitted the magneto. This is a good idea, if only because it makes gauging the lead lengths required easy. Timing can wait. Next, the pick-ups, both complete with nice new carbon brushes (and I have a couple of spare new sets of brushes, because … you know… because). Nice neat job. A job well done, I considered. Next, offer up the pick-ups to the magneto itself, remembering to fit the nice new (and peculiarly pink) gaskets. Nice tight fit over the process on the pick-up body. Offer up the assembly to the magneto body. It refuses to seat. This is no use at all. Rain might get in, and Jacqueline would tell me off. A puzzle: why don’t they fit? Because the remarkable pink gaskets are not quite the right shape. File the gaskets. Now they fit. Why not, I ask again with only a tinge
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of exasperation, make the things the right size in the first place? It would cost no more and would encourage me to buy more stuff from the supplying company. Moving on… Measure up the length of lead required to allow it to reach the spark plug from above, between the rockerbox covers rather than just dangling around, as we so often see. Why dangle leads all over the place? It’s messy and when it rains you can experience the rare delight of sparks jumping between the lead and your leg. This produces a mysterious misfire, as you may know already. Right. On with the handsome shiny black plug caps, non-suppressors, because modern tellies don’t generate snow when you hooligan past on your bikes, so ruining the evening’s episode of Z-Cars, or whatever. The caps are nice and shiny. Did I say that? The first one broke as soon as I screwed it onto the lead. The little brass screw connector simply snapped. I tried the other. Same result. Plainly that Charles Atlas course with Dynamic Tension worked. I am a superhero with superstrength. This is good to know but unhelpful when reassembling an ignition system. I threw away the genuine Lucas bits. Rubbish. Genuine rubbish. Happily, in the top drawer were a pair of less flamboyantly branded plug caps. They were modest about it, but careful examination revealed that they were made by NGK, a Japanese company of which you may have heard. Unlike the Lucas junk they fit easily and strongly, and even come with little rubber boots to keep out the rainwater, should I be so unlucky. There’s no putting it off any longer, is there? I cast about for excuses – I even mowed the
lawn, such was my desperation – but no, it really was time to set the ignition timing and to close up the timing case. Hang on! The throttle cable’s inner is miles too long. I must replace it at once with an item of the correct length. But the strangely wrong cable claims to be the right cable? O joy! More procrastination opportunities! I dug out a pile of new cables left over from decades of time wasting but valiant rebuilds. One marked as suitable for a 1971 500 Triumph fits the 1965 650 Matchless perfectly. That didn’t take long. Back to the ignition timing. Why I make a fuss about this I have no idea. It’s actually really easy. I know this. Given that I know this and have in fact timed many many ignitions, why do I make a fuss? Life is endlessly puzzling. Should you be on a quest for arcane information, I can reveal that this is what you need to know: 650cc AMC engines need to be timed with the right-side piston at 11/32”, which is 35°, before top dead centre. There you go. You need never to lie awake fretting about this again. Setting the piston at the correct point is easy too. Most folk I know use a spoke from a wheel to poke into the plug hole to measure the distance. I use a little tool I picked up at a jumble which is possibly even less inaccurate than an old spoke marked with magic marker. Whip off the inlet valve cover (easy on AMC’s elegant twins), then turn the engine using the kickstart lever until the piston is exactly at the top of its stroke after the inlet valve has closed. Screw in the little tool to check that the piston is where it should be. Promise chocolate reward to someone conveniently proximal – I prefer to ask the Better Third to do this,
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FRANK WESTWORTH F
One magneto, back in place, complete with a nice new gasket of course
because she is sympathetic about things like ignition timing – and instruct them to gaze at the little marks on the little tool, explaining that you are going to perform Complex Boy Stuff and wind the rear wheel backwards while she looks at the little tool. She will, at this point, gaze upon you as though you never had any marbles, never mind lost them. Smile encouragingly and say, brightly ‘You’ll see the little thing move down until it reaches the little line I showed you.’ Smile more, and try to look intelligent. Heave on the wheel. At this point your hopefully glamorous assistant will say something like: ‘OK, it moved. It’s past that mark now. Now what?’Try not to scream, because you will certainly regret that later and at length. It was, remember, your explanation that was at fault. Be cheerily helpful about this. Because eventually you will, between you, get it right. At this point, you remember that you should have checked that the magneto points gap was between 0.010” and 0.012”. This should
be checked before the wheel-heaving thing, because chocolates are decently costly and funds may be tight. Be brave: we’re nearly there. The piston is now at the point where the contact breaker should be about to separate. In olden times, enthusiasts stranded at the roadside in thick fog and pouring rain would check for the exact points separation moment by using a presumably soggily disintegrating fag paper, but we move in enlightened times and the bike’s on a bench and I have an electric meter, which is good at this kind of circuit spotting thing. Set the little fibre foot-thing on the cam ring thing at the separation point and stand back. Time to breathe and to contemplate the many advances made in motorcycle ignition systems since your bike was built. Then take a deep breath, because it is now time to connect the magneto’s drive to the engine. And it is very easy to rotate the magneto’s armature while tightening the nut which holds the timing pinion onto the armaturre’s tapered shaft. This completely wastes all
that time you spent setting the points at the exact break point. And did you remember to set the manual magneto at full advance before you set the points? Of course not. Do it now and repeat what you’ve already done, at least twice. Practice maketh the man. Or something. Your own Better Third need not be present for this, so it is OK to blaspheme, at least a little. Except on Friday, Saturday or Sunday, depending upon your religious inclination. Maybe all three days, just to be on the safe side. Right then. I’d set it up. I refitted the timing cover, using no gasket because I’ve never seen one fitted to an AMC twin timing case, and tightened all those little screws with great care. Only one of them appears to be stripped, which is good going for one of these engines, and I stuck that screw in place with a little dob of thick grease, like you do. Or like I do, in case you do not. And then, beware, for the moment of truth approaches. But before that, a chap should fit the fuel tank properly, not in some half-hearted way using all manner of mysteriously random fittings. Pause. Ignore that bit. I decided at that point that I simply wanted to see whether the thing would run – Jacqueline assured me that it would and she is never wrong – so I just rested the fuel tank on the frame, added fuel, made absolutely sure that the Better Third wasn’t nearby, so had no inkling that failure and despair were about to set in, and I kicked it over a few times. It started. Well… it fired, once. I tickled the carb and said generous things to no one in particular. Set the choke
One of the more useful tools in The Shed toolboxes FW’s NOS (aka, old junk) box comes in handy again
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JULY 2020 I 95
k restting in place, fuel line connected. This machine should run Tank
about halfway and kicked with vigour. It started. Properly. Both cylinders. My gob was smacked. It always is at the start-up moment, somehow, even though I do in fact know that it should. My eyes started to water. Was this a supreme emotional moment? No, my eyes were watering because The Shed was filling with acrid smoke. The smoke was blasting in huge swirling billows from the CSR’s silly fat silencer. This is because well-worn AMC
twin oil pumps sump if left standing for a few years. Three things result from this well-known phenomenon: clouds of smoke, oil returns mucho rapido to the oil tank, because that oil pump is a good pump, and a huge pool of filthy oil forms on the bench because crankcase pressure blows oil from the crankcase through the drive-side main bearings, into the primary chaincase and then out of said case through the hole provided to allow breathing and onto the
bench. Or floor, depending. As I was congratulating myself in an only slightly immodest and hysterical way, I became aware of the presence of the Better Third, who was appearing and disappearing again through the vast drowning clouds of dense smoke. Smoke which, incidentally, discourages insect life from nesting in the rafters. AMC thought of everything. But what was she doing? She was waving her cell phone around. This is mysterious behaviour, even for a young woman high on the promise of imminent chocolate overload, but… The engine stopped. It had in fact run out of fuel. The Better Third was in hysterics. ‘That’s going to crack them up on Facebook!’ she cried, vanishing again. And she was correct. As always…
Guess what! Some gentle exhaust exhalations may be apparent…
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When is a triple not a Triumph? When it’s a Yamaha. Frank Westworth heads down memory highway aboard an XS750…
Ph hotos by Ch hriis Spaett, Frank k Westworth h
Compact and understated. Yamaha’s 750 triple made no pretence at being a supersportster
6 I SEPTEMBER 2020
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YAMAHA XS750
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SEPTEMBER 2020 I 7
The twin camshafts are driven by a Th chain from this side of the engine, while the primary drive by Hy-vo chain is on the other side. Final drive, famously, is by shaft
veryone I know indulges in harmless obsessions. Many of my own involve deciding that I absolutely need a particular motorcycle, whereupon no advert, no auction, no online enthusiasts’ group is safe. I plot and I scheme and I find a few, make a shortlist, consider the familial and financial outcomes and … do nothing. Usually. Sometimes I even abuse my happy position as a Top Magazine Chappie and go ride one of the chosen few, but mostly I resist that wicked temptation. Mostly. So it was when Rowena of this parish remarked that she was prepping a feature on my almost-favourite Triumph, the T160 Trident. All things being equal, you should be able to read about this elsewhere in this very issue, and a truly handsome machine it is, as are all T160s. I’ve ridden lots of them and owned only one. Why only one? Because for some time that T160 – nicknamed Smoky Joe by friends and colleagues because of its studied emulation of a Soviet coking oven when nice and hot and under throttle – held the sad distinction of being the least reliable, most costly motorcycle I had ever owned. But when it ran well, it ran outstandingly well. When I gave it away (really; in a magazine reader competition, although I did get paid for it) I swore I would never have another. So did the lucky winner of the machine. He loved his free British classic, his first
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Three carbs, three exhausts, two cams. Yamaha’s idea of the correct way to build a triple
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YAMAHA XS750 British bike, in fact, and lavished money and attention on it. This generosity was repaid in full about six months later when the Trident’s oil pressure gauge fell to zero and the engine lunched its several shell bearings. Plainly, with the advent of great age and in this age of uncertain futures, it was finally time to get myself another triple. I mean: electric start, fab looks, disc brakes, fab looks, left-foot shift and fab looks – how could anyone resist the lure? ‘You don’t want one of those,’ said an email from my friend Chris. ‘This is what you want.’ He’d somehow failed to attach an image to the email, so I assumed that he meant to say that I didn’t want any more motorcycles, which is a profound thought indeed. Impressed, I was, and replied to tell him so. Two minutes later a mail with ‘sigh’ in the subject line landed in the inbox. Attached to it was a photo of the bike you can see here – hopefully. You should observe right away that this is not a Trident. It’s not even a Triumph. This is in fact a Yamaha. It’s been at least a couple of decades – maybe even three – since I last rode a Yamaha XS triple. My brother bought a new XS850 back then, and a brother-in-law rode an XS750 at the same time. They were the reason I bought my only big Japanese bike – a CB750 K6 Honda – so that I could keep up with
YAMAHA XS750 FACT PACK Engine
Across the frame, air-cooled 120° dohc triple
Bore & Stroke, Capacity
68 x 68.6mm, 747cc
Comp Ratio
8.5 : 1
Carburetion
3 x 34mm Mikuni CV
Max Power
64bhp at 7200rpm
Max Torque
46 ft/lb at 6000rpm
Top Speed
117mph
Clutch
Wet, multiplate
Primary drive
Morse Hy-vo chain
Transmission
5-speed, shaft drive
Frame
Steel, duplex cradle
Weight (dry)
531lb
Wheelbase
58.75”
Width
27”
Seat Height
33”
Front Suspension
Kayaba hydraulic telescopic
Rear Suspension
Twin shocks, preload adjustable
Tyres
3.25 x 19 front, 4.00 x 18 rear
Brakes (front and rear)
10.4”discs, floating callipers
Fuel Capacity
3.75 Imp gallon
Fuel Economy
41mpg
Yamaha’s advertising for their touring triple was occasionally eccentric, even for its time
them. That is a good excuse, no? A tiny addition to the happy families anecdote is that when I first failed to keep up with my brother and bro-in-law I had been riding a Commando, the best bike ever, as you know. It broke a lot while travelling at the same speed as the two Yamahas, only once returning home on a train. The CB750 was such a joy that I swapped it for a T150V Trident. I couldn’t keep up with my brothers on that, either. This made me understand that I ride very slowly whichever machine I’m on. Understanding is profound, Grasshopper. Which has nothing to do with the Yamaha you are even now gazing at in awe and wonder. Awe and wonder? Yes of course: electric start, left-foot shift, disc brakes at both ends; the stuff of dreams. Throw in double overhead cams and a shaft final drive and we have one seriously epic motorcycle, certainly by the standards of the mid-late 1970s, surely? So you would think, for that specification reads like the very stuff of dreams to a touring-type motorbicyclist such as I. It did back then and it still does today. What, as the youth endlessly ask, is not to like? Of course I booked an appointment, rode a mostly modern machine up into the Herefordshire Marches and baked in the sun all the way, pausing only for a moment to share lunch with Ollie of this parish and to have a coffee with a long-lost chum who has inexplicably acquired a brandnew Harley-Davidson tricycle and plainly needed a sympathetic ear. The following day of course found the skies black with
weeping rain clouds and the excellent Salopian hills visible only through the morning mist. A real world ride, then, none of this golden dawn nonsense. The truth of this is visible in the photos. No sun when we need it… Photography can be a challenge at times like this, as can riding an unfamiliar machine belonging to someone else over wet cowslurry roads while Proud Owner follows closely aboard my own motorcycle, keeping a stern eye on proceedings. The XS is not a low-seat machine. In fact,
Much modernity here. Yamaha were proud of their new reduced ‘stiction’ forks, which used Teflon bushes. To say nothing of the cast wheels and twin disc brakes. This was all pretty posh stuff in 1976
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SEPTEMBER 2020 I 9
its 33-inch seat height is quite enough for most of us. It’s taller than the catastrophically tall 1971 BSA / Triumph range, which reveals how times change. However, once aboard, it proves to be decently slim, softly-seated if not sprung, and the view ahead is genuinely enticing. Some bikes somehow make me want to ride them. Others … not so.
Check that the fuel tap is switched on, turn key and observe the few loonie lights, then work out all on my own where the choke lever is, and operate it. A display of notable expertise like this impresses everyone, you know. And the engine fires up immediately, and – good heavens – it sounds exactly like a 3-cylinder 4-stroke. Uncanny but true. Of course it’s running on all three cylinders s straight away, a trick none of my BSA / T Triumph triples managed, and is decently s smooth, like a Trident. In fact, it feels and s sounds surprisingly familiar, which can only b because I’ve ridden lots of BSA Group be t triples, which share the Yamaha’s 120-degree c crank layout and which are dimensionally s similar, with the Yamaha’s 68 x 68.6mm a little c closer to square than the Brits’ 67 x 70mm. Of course the clutch is light. Of course there was no need to free it off before clicking it w aalmost silently into first. Of course there was The view from above is as competent as the rest of the bike. Big clear clocks and controls which are simple to use. The indicators are self-cancelling, too, which must have surprised many riders
fid dence is not a virtue. Of course there’ss Over-confi a kickstart
The much-praised shaft final drive. Oddly enough, road tests of the day blamed it for an atypically (for Yamaha) noisy gear shift. FW didn’t notice, of course
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no tug from the drivetrain when first gear engaged. And of course there was neither slip nor drag – of course the first hesitant pull-away was trauma-free and completely smooth. Of course the brakes work and the engine ticks over like an off-beat metronome as soon as I demote the choke and wait for a hole in the traffic. Wait a minute! What’s that most unJapanese rumble? Main bearings? A fault! On a Japanese bike! It’s Chris on my own bike behind me, trying not to tell me to get a move on… The triple engine pulls like the proverbial, no fuss, no fandango, it just pulls. It’s cold so I short-shift, hitting top gear while the speedo reveals a speed below 40mph, which would have seen my old T160 spitting and expressing its displeasure by clanging the final drive chain against the chainguard. The Yamaha of course is fine, and accelerates smoothly from less than 40 straight up to an indicated 70. And then we have corners – familiar corners, the best kind. So we need brakes and we need engine braking, because I am an old school motorbicyclist and like to do the braking thing properly.
YAMAHA XS750 And it is really good. The brakes may be twin discs, but there’s no overkill, instead they’re pretty gentle in the way they haul the bike up. You get the feeling that even if the machine was fitted with ABS it would be entirely unnecessary and would never trip in. They demand a decent squeeze, but work well enough. Like much of the machine, the brakes feel competent, if unexciting. This is also true of the engine, about which the very best thing is the sound. The quoted 64bhp (at an almost restrained 7200rpm) feels
about right, and propels the bike’s 530lb or so with very little fuss or effort … or indeed excitement. It’s a really pleasant engine, but unlike a Trident, you’re unlikely to lie awake in the wee small hours making vroom-vroom noises, scaring the cat, while counting down the hours until you can get out there
Although the seat looks pretty big, and is certainly comfortable, a promo pic of the bike 2-up suggests that it was in fact a little cosy for two
a fire it up again. Which is a small surprise, and because b its spec is excellent. Like three cylinders, c two overhead cams, a totally reliable electric e hoof and proper mid-70s Oriental engineering and construction. All of which e make it very worthy, but they do not make it m tthrilling to ride. There are no thrills in the steering and handling h departments, either. It steers easily, instinctively, and the handling is predictable and pretty good. It’s just not … entirely … thrilling. p Don’t get me wrong, I had a great time w it, but was vaguely surprised at how with u unsurprising it was. It sounds really good and it goes very well, but it’s not easy to see how s someone who was in the market for a 750 in 1 1976/77 would have clambered off, say an sohc Honda or a dohc Suzuki and decided to go for the Yamaha. Maybe the shaft drive would have swung the argument? Certainly Yamaha’s advertising and press puff emphasised the ‘quality’ of the shaft drive, which is indeed very neatly accomplished and entirely unremarkable in use. How can this be? BMW twins of the period exhibited several interesting characteristics which we all put down to the shaft – the meisterschaft according to their ads of the day. Plainly we were all wrong – and Honda’s CX500 would confirm that wrongness. The Yamaha shaft works perfectly and perfectly unobtrusively too. In fact, I can’t find anything to waggle a critical finger at. The XS rides well – maybe the much-vaunted at the time Teflon fork bushes really did ease their operation; it goes well and it steers well. It even boasted odd practical touches, like a giant toolkit complete with a loop of steel wire to allow the home mechanic to compress the rear suspension
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SEPTEMBER 2020 I 11
to help with dropping out the rear wheel – and the rear mudguard boasts a swivelling section to further ease things. So of course Yamaha’s excellent XS took the 750 world by storm and sold in millions – correct? Sadly not. Early models enjoyed a remarkable number of problems – genuine engine failures in some cases, and although Yamaha burst into action with a series of fixes, including con rods, clutch, camshafts, oil pump and most bearings – the bike never sold in the numbers predicted. Which is a shame, because built into this machine is a very well thought-out tourist’s delight. Yamaha themselves acknowledged this later on, by advertising their triple complete with a vast
fairing and hard luggage, but tourists are no more prepared to put up with even perceived reliability issues than are café cowboys, and an atypically short production life was the result. Today? Ignoring all of what I’ve already said, I would in fact consider one of these if I was in the market for an unusual middleweight Japanese machine from the mid-1970s. It ticks most of the boxes that we all line up to either encourage or prevent us buying a bike. This particular example gave me a totally enjoyable day out. I didn’t need to worry about whether it would start, stop or straggle through crawling traffic without any fuss. Or whether it would be too slow or too cumbersome to handle modern
A-roads with modern A-road traffic. It was fine. But fun? The jury is still out on that one. Back in those historic mists, I would have bought a Trident. Nothing has changed. I’d still buy a Trident, and there is no logical reason for this, because Yamaha’s take on a 750 triple makes more sense in all departments. That said, when were motorcycle purchase decisions based on sense? Quite so. I rest my case.
Yet another area where the Japanese revolutionised motorcycling was the under-seat scenery. Everything is easy to access and sensibly laid out, complete with a manual and an 18-piece (!) toolkit. There’s even a small internal butty box…
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LETTERS
WE HAVE IGNITION
A while ago, Jacqueline waxed lyrically on the Francis-Barnett and talked a little about converting to coil ignition. I have a similar elderly 1957 machine languishing in a shed and would like to know how this conversion is effected. Would it be possible for Jacqueline to explain the method in simple terms for us simple people who are not blessed with the attributes to be a wizard – in which I include meself!? Richard Woolnough, member 4000
The ignition system on my Francis Barnett is not a conversion, but is the standard one for the model – see the wiring diagram. The only ‘conversion’ bit is that the original coil was scrapped as faulty many years ago (as standard it is sited underneath the battery tray). For many years I got away with a standard 6V coil, but it was tricky on timing and starting. With a bit more knowledge I discovered that it should use something more like the ‘AC ignition coil’ used on many an old Japanese lightweight – with which it starts a bit better. The 1H, however, is odd and requires a 2-lead type, where most, including the 2T twins, are happy with 1-lead types (the coil frame being the other connection). JacquelineB
BRAKE MEAN EFFECTIVE PRESSURE Adding to RC’s erudite conversation on torque, it seems to me that the only ‘thing’ an internal combustion engine produces is BMEP, the bang above the piston. Torque and power are not ‘things’ as such but are, as Mick Dobson explained in RC198, concepts derived from BMEP. The greater the torque and / or the greater the revs, then the greater the power produced by an engine. Put crudely, power is torque times revs. Racing tuners spend their days trying to increase BMEP (and hence torque) and to raise the rev range at which it is produced, in the search for more power. Outside of Pikes Peak, it is power that mostly wins races, not torque. But in the real word of riding, what are torque and power good for? In a nutshell, torque delivers acceleration and power top speed. And torque determines the hillclimbing ability of a machine and power the speed of ascent. This was graphically illustrated recently at a classic trial held – under strict COVID guidelines of course – at the wonderfully named Snaque Pit, near Sudbury in Suffolk. My 16-stone pal Nick attempted a long, steep but
linear climb aboard his bog-standard, right down to road gearing, Honda TL125. Engaging first gear, he approached the slope with impressive speed (power) but as he climbed the speed fell away. We thought he was a goner, but to everyone’s surprise the bike dug in and held the slope, chugging to the top. My pal had accidentally found the point of maximum torque, well below top speed revs, and just enough of it to defeat the Snaque. Keep up the good work. Hugo Rose, member Great anecdote – and a neat description of power calculation, too. Thanks. Frank W
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BULLET BITS
RC198 was yet again an impressive issue. The articles by Paul Henshaw and Graham Lampkin are of special interest. I’ve followed my family on the enjoyable road of Royal Enfield, as did my father, uncle, grandmother, grandfather, great grandfather and cousin David. My journey started back in 2005 after riding my good mate Peter’s 350 and swapping my Triumph for a new Enfield ten days later. I’ve since owned five Bullets and still have two. My present ones are an EFI Bullet, owned from new, and a 2003 trials 500. I know every previous owner of the trials Bullet and also most of the people who’ve worked on it. Even though this has been a strange year, we the Royal Enfielders in Ireland enjoyed two camping events – all following safety guidelines. Hope is the best weapon to stay positive. Looking forward to the next instalment from Paul Henshaw. John B Nicholls, member 3473 As you say, John. Being positive is the only way to proceed. I’ve enjoyed some great rides this year. Frank W
ENFIELD ERRATA In my article in RC198, the brown Redditch 500 machine pictured is not a big head, but a late framed, ordinary Redditch type. Interestingly, it has been suggested by more than one source that the non-big head Redditch 500s may be more scarce than the big heads themselves! Certainly, big head 500s I have worked on have outnumbered the earlier types, if that is anything to go by. Also, there’s mention of the big bolt through the frame, above the gearbox. Very definitely no Redditch machines ever had this, although the caption on p45 says otherwise. This is very important, as there are those who will try to pass off a big bolt frame as British when this is certainly not the case! Paul Henshaw
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