Norton Goes To Florida

LEANING

Norton goes to Florida

Peter Egan

I AM REMINDED OF THE OLD JOKE ABOUT the two buffalo hunters riding across the prairie in a wagon pulled by a mule. The mule stops suddenly and re fuses to budge, so one of the buffalo hunters gets down from the wagon, looks the mule right in the eye and says, "That's once!"

He climbs back in the wagon and the mule slowly. reluctantly, starts moving again.

A few miles down the road the same thing happens. Dead stop, mule won't budge. The hunter climbs down, looks the mule in the eye and says, "That's twice!"

Gradually, the mule starts plodding along. But, a few miles later it stops again and will not move. This time the hunter calmly gets down from the wagon, looks the mule in the eye and says quietly, "That's three times." Then he pulls out his big hogleg pistol and shoots the mule dead, right on the spot.

His partner can't believe it. "You stupid idiot!" he shouts. "Here we are in the middle of Indian country with a wagonload of hides, and you've shot our only mule! You must be out of your mind. That's the stupidest thing I've ever seen!"

The buffalo hunter who shot th mule slowly turns toward his partner looks him right in the eye and says "That's once!"

So, why am I remindeU ot this par ticular joke? Let me explain.

I drove down to Daytona Bike Week in my blue Ford van again this year, hauling along my new Ducati 900SS SP. My friend Pat Donnelly went with me. Pat, who has owned many Tn umphs and Hondas, is "between bikes," as we say, so we brought my Norton 850 Commando along for him to ride.

We did the usual coffee-and-sand wiches thing, driving straight through the night and arriving at the track early in the morning, just in time to watch a full day of vintage races through a fog of uncomprehending fa tigue.

On the way down, of course, the Norton managed to radiate gas fumes the way a Voice of America transmit ter gives off radio waves. Only this was the Voice of England. Pat asked. "What's wrong with that thing?" "It's the petcocks," I said. "They're only a year old, but they leak anyway. We'll just have to keep the windows cracked open. Don't smoke."

It was somewhat chilly riding weath er in Daytona this year, but we never theless unloaded our bikes at the house a bunch of us rented and did some rid ing around town and to the track.

The Ducati ran great. The Norton, however, began dying every time the brakelights came on. Last time it did this it was a shorted brakelight switch, but I checked out the switch, wires and lights, and everything looked okay. That evening, I put the battery on a trickle charger for a few hours.

The next day, the Norton seemed to have partially recovered from the brakelight problem, but would die in stantly when the main headlight beam was switched on. I told Pat to ride with only the small pilot light on, which helped, but we had to quit rid ing at night. Also, Pat informed me the speedometer had stopped working.

"The rear drive must have gone out again," I said. "I've already replaced it twice." Another fine English re placement part, by way of India. Home of the Bangalore torpedo.

After Bike Week, we headed down to Sebring, for the famous 12 Hour sports car endurance race. Arriving a day early, we decided to unload the bikes at our hotel and take a ride down to the shores of Lake Okee chobee and back up through the Semi nole Indian Reservation.

About 70 miles from Sebring the Norton started running intermittently on one cylinder. I traded bikes with Pat so I could try some diagnostic lis tening and riding. Sounded like a plug loading up. "We better forget the rest of the ride and head back to the fort," I said. "I don't have an extra plug."

As we rode along, the Norton ran worse, so I switched to Reserve, just to make sure the main fuel line wasn't clogged. The petcock lever broke off in my hand and fuel started spewing onto the engine. I got out some pliers to shut it off and the whole petcock disintegrated. Luckily, it plugged it self with it's own debris. I looked around. It was mighty lonely out there on the Seminole Reservation, and we were a long way from home.

By the time we got to Sebring, the Norton was running on just the right cylinder, with an occasional BANG from the left pipe. We limped into the hotel, bucking, surging and popping.

I took off my helmet, looked at Pat wearily and said. "I have an Excedrin Headache Number 9. It's a special tension headache you get from riding a malfunctioning English bike through the middle of nowhere."

Pat looked at the Norton and shook his head. "I don't know, Egan. There are so many interesting bikes out there now that really work.. .1 like old English bikes, too, but I just wouldn't put up with it anymore."

We loaded the bikes into the van and I took one last look at the Norton before slamming the rear door.

"That's three," I said quietly.

Not being armed, I didn't actually shoot the bike. I just turned to Pat and said, "That's it. I'm selling this thing."

When we got home, I cleaned the bike, replaced the plugs and the slightly weak battery, then fine-sand ed all the electrical connections on the Zenier diode and the lighting system.

Now it ran fine. No stalling. Perfect idle, lights on or off.

This week I'll order a new petcock and speedometer drive, so the bike will soon be whole again. From three back to zero known problems.

It looks quite beautiful, all cleaned up and polished, sitting there in my garage.

Seems a shame to sell it now, just when everything's perfect.