The Spark of Life

The Spark of Life

LEANINGS

PETER EGAN

I DON’T THINK I’M EXAGGERATING MUCH when I say my BSA 441 Victor ran last weekend.

Yes, the thing actually carried me up the hill to the nearest stop sign and then roared back down again. Exactly two miles under its own power.

It was a little brisk out there—almost too cold for combustion—but I hardly noticed because I was drenched in sweat from kicking for 20 minutes and then physically running the bike up and down the driveway to break the clutch loose and bump-start it.

This is something I do every few years to see if I’m overdue for a massive heart attack. It’s a lot cheaper than having a stress test at the hospital, and it allows you to perish right at home, with your loved ones nearby. In any case, the second I popped the clutch in third gear, the Victor fired up and took off like a bazooka round, only with more smoke. This is a bike from England’s blackpowder era.

Running. For the first time in 20 years. Granted, it wasn’t what you’d call smooth running. There still seems to be something clogging the idle circuit, so the engine was hammering along on the main jet, bellowing and surging. It sounded just like one of those Le Rhône rotary aircraft engines from WWI, where there’s no throttle so the pilot has to control his speed with a ground switch. If you want to hear this stuttering effect, check out Errol Flynn and David Niven in The Dawn Patrol, landing their evermutating Nieuports and Scouts on that mythical corner of France that is forever Orange County, California, a few miles from the Cycle World offices.

Oddly, working on this bike wasn’t what I’d planned to do at all on a cold Saturday morning. I’d walked out to the workshop carrying my tweed Fender guitar case, intending to do a little practice in our beautifully carpeted (indoor/ outdoor, in slag gray) band corner. While waiting for the place to warm up, I idly walked over to my Handy motorcycle lift to gaze upon the elevated BSA. It was poised there waiting for that special dark, dull day in mid-winter when I’d inexplicably find the gumption to roll up my sleeves and start restoring it in earnest.

But as I stood there examining the side of the engine at eye-level, it suddenly occurred to me that it might be fun to kick the Kroil-soaked piston over and see if I could make that sparkplug spark. I’d bought the bike with no battery and no ignition key, so I installed an old Spree scooter battery, plugged the coil wire into the hot side of the switch, took out the sparkplug, laid it on the cylinder head and gave the kickstart lever a shove with my hand.

Spark!

Not just a spark, but a big, blue fat spark that made an audible snap. Amazing. This BSA had been sitting around in the back of someone’s garage in New Jersey for two decades, and I hadn’t even cleaned the points.

It’s hard to know which metaphor to use in describing that spark. I suppose it would be sacrilegious to mention Michelangelo’s Adam receiving the spark of life from God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, so I’ll go with Dr. Frankenstein channeling the energy of the heavens into his monster, after first running it though a Van de Graaff generator for a little added scientific hocuspocus factor.

Either way, I was suddenly energized and immediately forgot all about guitar practice. If I had spark, all I needed was fuel and air, right? What if I just dumped gas in the tank and the bike started?

Probably not a good idea, after all these years of sitting. I decided to take the Amal carb off and clean it, and a good thing, too. It was full of dry, white aluminum powder and other crud, so I got out an old can of carb cleaner and set the carb parts aside to soak for an hour.

And when they came out of that cleaner they looked...exactly the same.

Someday, I’ll find a brand of carb cleaner that actually works. If I do, I’ll let you know. Better yet, if you find one, you can let me know. All this stuff did was smell really bad.

Five days later, the fumes emanating from my hands are still waking me up at night, even though I’ve bathed, done dishes, washed the car and stolen some of Barb’s lilac-scented hand cream. I swear, when I die, there’ll be some old deaf guy in the back row at my funeral shouting, “Emma, do you smell carb cleaner?” This stuff just doesn’t quit.

Anyway, I went to Plan B and cleaned the carb parts with lacquer thinner and a stiff-bristled brush and got most of the stuff off. Blew out all the jets and passages and put the carb back on the bike. I installed a fuel line, added gas to the beat-up-but-clean, old aluminum tank and was theoretically ready to go.

I tickled the carb, eased it over TDC, pulled in the compression release, held my mouth just right (as CWs late contributor, Henry Manney, used to say) and kicked.

And kicked. Got a classic BSA oilcap bruise on the back of my leg, had the engine spit back a few times and try to throw me over the moon, but it wouldn’t start. Sounded like too much ignition advance to be safe for further kicking, so I did that bump-start down the driveway and it fired right up.

Took my short, two-mile ride and discovered the brakes work, the clutch works, the transmission shifts smoothly and the bike goes right down the road. It’s also a wonderful size for a motorcycle—light, agile and fun. Still needs a second carb cleaning (or maybe a new carb; the old one’s pretty worn out), the timing set correctly and a bit of cosmetic restoration, but I’m on the job.

Yesterday, I drove down to a vintage British motorcycle shop called Morrie’s Place in Ringwood, Illinois, and managed to spend about $450 on a bunch of parts the bike needs. Got a new throttle cable, a better headlight bucket and a pair of new Dunlop K70 tires for that correct period street-scrambler look. Next, I have to find someone who can do a proper yellow-and-polished-aluminum paint job for the tank.

Amazing what a single spark will do to a human being. Adam got himself kicked out of Eden, Frankenstein’s monster had to flee from a bunch of angry villagers with torches and pitchforks, and my guitar case is still sitting over near the amp. Also, I’m $450 poorer and something smells like carb cleaner.