Tag: norton commando

Adventures on a Norton Commando

Part 2: Continental Tour – the hard way round

Story so far: Back in the far cry years of university days, Nigel Downing had just about got used to the bike of his dreams, a Norton Commando 750 Roadster Mk II. His friend, François was preparing to join him on a Continental Tour…

François had found a BSA A10 650cc twin needing some serious TLC. It even had gravel in oil tank, put there by some vandal. Being up for anything he decided to rebuild it himself, all the while being a petrol attendant at this local garage. Yes, way back in dinosaur time people filled up your car for you. So, with barely enough time to finally bolt on his newly painted fuel tank, we left for Dover and the ferry. The plan was to camp. I stuffed a rucksack and strapped it to the rear luggage rack. François did the same with his kit and we split the tent between us.

Having crossed to France we camped the first night in a field. Next day we took the Route nationale down towards Spain. The experience of my crash was still raw, and François was riding too fast. I told him so. He knew otherwise so I let him go. After a while, just outside Foix, I noticed ahead a pall of dust hanging in the air. A bend later I found him, picking himself and the bike off a large flat patch of dirt on the side of the road. He was OK. The bike was in a mess with bits hanging off, but rideable. The gendarmes arrived, tut-tutting as they do. They had soon forgotten François and were admiring my Norton. “Magnifique! Mais ça rend aux reins du marmalade!” I will let you translate.

As the trip ensued more and more bits fell off the BSA. We lost the headlight and the horn fairly early on. At one point the crank case gasket popped out. François removed the remaining parts and tightened down the bolts to slow the spray of oil (along with the miasma of unburned fuel from the exhaust, due to a broken piston ring) which was covering my visor as I followed. Eventually, we made it into and out of Andora, along the south coast of France, into Italy and thence to Switzerland – a safe haven. My Dad lived in a mountain village there and we had a few days’ rest, some decent food and nice beds to sleep in. The local garage also gave us workshop space and facilities to work on the bikes. François did the best he could, and we headed north once more.

The final day – we were making good progress (well, you know what I mean) across northern France when suddenly, with either a bang or a whimper, the BSA gave up the ghost. “Cylinder gasket,” pronounced François. “And there is nothing I can do about it. I need to remove the tank and don’t have the tool.” I remember sitting beside the road in the sunshine deliberating for a long time. Eventually, François suggested I tow him! Well, that was short-lived. Finally, we decided to abandon the BSA. We found a friendly farmer who took it into his barn and prepared to ride two up on the Norton. That meant piling all of François’ kit on top of mine, doing something with the rear suspension (I think!) and pumping up the tyres. Such was the load that we occasionally bottomed out when the road was rough.

We continued north, took the ferry and headed for home. I remember clearly riding hard through driving rain on the M20 at 80mph, desperate for the journey to end. I dropped François off and made my way back to university, first stopping off at a service station nearby to re-adjust the tyre pressures. As I crouched down by the left side of the rear wheel I saw, to my horror, a sidewall gash running the entire circumference of the wheel, down to the fabric of the tyre. Where did that come from? Closer inspection: the rear mudguard was offset to the right, such that at the limit of the suspension’s travel the mudguard’s sharp rear edge had been gouging into the sidewall of the tyre. Later it turned out that the crash had pushed the rear loom to the right, taking the mudguard with it. Norton Andover had missed that one when they had repaired the bike for me!

I decided to ride on (I mean, how totally daft can you get?) and thank God, bike and rider arrived back in one piece.

I leave the reader to compare the foolishness of youth way back then with the discipline of today’s advanced riding. François and I still laugh about the fun we had, the crazy decisions, and frankly at what we got away with, but deep down we know how lucky we were.

And the bikes? Two years later François took his Mini Van to France. He recovered the BSA. That faithful and generous farmer had died, but an employee handed it over. The bike was sold on to a friend, for yet another rebuild. I had soon to leave for a research project in West Africa and sold my beloved Norton to a friend. As soon as I returned to university, I visited him to buy it back. But, sadly, he had sold it on.

Some years later, I tried to track down my Norton, but no luck. Often, I wonder, KYO 192K, where are you? Rusting gently somewhere? Long gone for scrap? What I would give to have you back!

Nigel Downing

First published in Slipstream November / December 2022

Adventures on a Norton Commando

Part 1: Lessons Learned?

One morning in the summer of 1970 I was head-down at my university’s Air Squadron, boning up on the DeHavilland Chipmunk (the RAF’s basic trainer), preparing for an exam on airframes or some other mission critical subject. A fellow student pilot burst into the room. “You’ve got to come outside and look at this!” I soon joined a small throng of young men ogling a Norton Dominator (650cc), its owner beaming proudly. Obsessed with motorcycles since a teenager, I asked for a ride. “Sure,” replied the owner. “Hop on”. And hop on I did, to be treated to the ride of my life. He kicked the machine into a roar and blasted down the cul-de-sac that was Chaucer Road. He slammed on the brakes, turned, and raced back.

I was smitten. Never had I accelerated or braked so fast. As a thrill, it came very close to beating the eight turn spins we were practising in the Chipmunk. This was a must-have! I faced a couple of problems. I had just failed my motorcycle test on a friend’s Bantam 125. The clutch seized as I arrived at the test location. Explaining this to my examiner, he gave the bike a cursory once over, deemed it fit to go and went on to fail me for improper control of the machine.

My mother lived in Mauritius at that time. So, over the holidays, undeterred, I borrowed my brother’s Velocette 350cc Viper. On a Mauritian provisional licence, I thumped and thudded around the island’s roads for a bit before turning up for the test.  A police inspector arrived, admired the bike, told me to do a tour of the car park and gave me my licence. I traded that in for an International Driver’s Licence and was good to go.

The day I picked it up from the south London dealership remains clear in my mind, even though it was some 50 years ago. I was told how to start it, engage gear etc. and thus prepared, set off in trepidation. It was terrifying. I was totally incompetent and out of my depth. Within a couple of miles, the bike stuttered to a halt. I managed to park up on a traffic island in the middle of the road and discovered it had run out of fuel. (Let a dealer try that one on a customer today!). Luckily, I remembered there was a reserve, so I turned the tap and mercifully it thundered into life after a few vigorous kicks (on the kick starter, for those of you who don’t know of these things).

I headed out to Hertfordshire where my good friend François lived. We hatched a plan to go touring the following summer, and he set about finding a bike of his own. Back at university I decided to do a 200 mile ride to help run in the machine. The engine was amazingly tight. I came back from that ride with my kidneys turned to marmalade, so hard was the seat. It clearly needed running in as well.

Gradually my confidence grew, and the panic attacks subsided. The university did not allow students to have motor vehicles, but I needed to get out to the airfield to fly and was given a special permit. I would rock up for my flight (we called them sorties), park outside the hangar, check out my Chipmunk, pole around the sky, before belting back to my college on my yellow machine – Maverick style. I used my cream calf-leather flying gloves for riding, as well as my flying boots. I even managed to find a small space to park the Norton in the Fellows’ garage in the forecourt. My beautiful girlfriend, later my wife, happily perched on the back. My mum even knitted me a lovely yellow scarf to match! I bought a Bell Star full face helmet (quite avant-garde at the time) and had painted on the front: “In the event of accident, do not remove”. I mean, how daft can you get? But I really felt I was living the part. I loved that bike.

A few weeks before François and I set out on our Continental Tour, I decided to show off the Norton at my old school. I passed by a dealership on the way, somewhere like Northampton, I think. The dealer chatted about the Norton’s superior handling. “If ever you’re in trouble round a bend, just crank it over,” he said. “The bike will take it.” Heard that one before? Sure enough, a little while later I was hammering too fast into a right-hander. The wise words ringing in my ear, I leaned the bike harder and hit gravel. The bike went one way. I followed. My flight time was probably quite short, but I had only the one thought while airborne: “What-on-earth-am-I-going-to-say-to-my-Dad?” Bang! I hit the deck, dislodging an enormous paving stone with my left shoulder, thumping my head and scraping my flying glove to within a thousandth of an inch from my skin.

I phoned François with the news. Brilliant friend that he is, he soon arrived with his mini van into which we heaved the sorry bike. Sometime later I got it to Norton at Andover. It might have been the factory. Given the urgency they rebuilt what they could, and François and I were good to go for the trip…sort of.

Next time: François and I head for France, and more gravel…

Nigel Downing

First published in Slipstream October 2022