The Enfield concession in Didcot is friendly and not too expensive. The business is part used car sales, part bike dealer - it looks like they’ve had to diversify to make ends meet. You can tell from the look on owner Bruce’s face that the cars might make money but it’s the bikes he likes. When I picked the Black Bullet up from re-commissioning and kicked it over successfully for the first time, his stony face lit up like a child.
I had to fess-up and ask him what the various levers were for just as the staff who had been watching at a distance clustered round. They could tell I was new to old British bikes, with the wrong-way-round controls, but I remember feeling more excited than embarrassed as Bruce confirmed the layout.
“We could have sold it a hundred times in the last few days,” he said, squatting down to click the fuel on. “I suppose you’re going to get it restored?” I felt his eyes swivel toward me behind thick glasses, as his face stopped mid-turn between me and the bike. Not looking at me straight made him momentarily surreptitious and everything seemed to freeze. Birds stopped in flight, a dropped teaspoon failed to hit the ground, you know the kind of thing. Only Bruce's face now moved, at single frame speed toward me.
“I have no plans," I said slowly. "Er, I couldn’t afford it, for one thing, and provided it works I don't mind it looking a bit scruffy..." The freeze frame clicked back into normal play as Bruce snapped the fuel slider into the 'on' position. "Good, right, let's get her going," he said, all business like.
The starting technique owes a lot to preparation. I had some trouble initially, got it down now though. The sequence is: turn the fuel on and press the carb tickler once or twice, to ensure the float chamber is fully charged. Then, if it hasn't been run for a while, seperate the clutch plates by pulling the lever and kicking it over once or twice. You can retard the ignition slightly, to ease kickbacks, and I tend to lift the air valve slightly (this may be because the bike is still running a bit rich). Then you crank the starter gently to find the compression stroke.
If you don't do this bit gently, with the timing retarded, the plug can fire and kick the lever back at you, hard. For this reason I wear big boots and tend to start it right-footed, on the centre stand, with all my weight on my left foot. Strength isn't everything, it's more about feel. You know when she's about to go, you just have to exercise a little patience and keep your extremities out of the way of the starter.
The final bit before you kick it for real is to edge the piston past top dead centre, usually by decompressing the cylinder using the bar-mounted valve lifter. If it's feeling quite punchy and then goes 'dead' under your foot, the spark plug may be wet. Then you have to back off and just give it a few seconds to dry out. You can also open the throttle to admit more air as you kick it gently through a couple of times. This seems to work a treat.
Oh yes, and the fuel system is gravity fed so it helps to have a good header of gas in the tank from the off.
I learned all of this through trial and error later on. Once I’d listened to her run for the first time and settled my bill, a young guy whom I imagined to be Bruce’s son joined me in the back of the van as I tied the bike down.
“Enfield still made good bikes in the 50s,” he opened up. “This one was made before they lost their way.”
“What happened then?” I asked, locating the end of a bungee cord.
“Well, they didn’t have great management, too set in their ways. Didn’t see the Jap bikes coming, until it was too late, and then they couldn’t compete anyway because the management had no vision. A lot of British industry went the same way. But this is from the best era, for Redditch Enfields anyway, nice original condition too,” he beamed. “Glad you’re not going to have it restored.” He patted the rear mudguard and shuffled backwards out of the cargo bay.
This minor soliloquy came out pretty much in one piece. The Black Bullet had evidently been the talk of the shop for a few days and I realised then that Bruce had kept her out on the forecourt the week he'd had it, right by the front door. I wasn’t expecting so much interest, although Bruce himself, apart from his face lighting up when it started, had been strangely cool about it. The reason for this soon becomes clear.
“I’ll give you a hundred and fifty quid for it,” he says suddenly, with a cheeky lopsided grin.
“Nah, it was a gift, I couldn’t do that, even if I wanted to. Anyway I want to ride it.”
“Right, well you let me know if you change your mind.”
He's hot and cold, this guy, so I press him a little.
"It’s worth ten times that, Bruce, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know.” He smiles again but this time looking me in the eye. “It’s a nice old bike, keep it like it is, just let me know if you want to sell it.”
A Scot working at the Olympic Park told me today that a lot of Icelandic trawlermen drop their catches at Frazerburgh, north of Aberdeen, before going out on the lash. I guess some of them must head back up to Iceland soon afterwards. It's worth looking into, if I can only figure out how best to do it.
