CUSTOM MOTORCYCLES, THE RAJPUT WAY

As I've always maintained, I have met some of the best people in my life through motorcycles. I don't exactly know what it is about them, or may be it's my inability to put it into words, but there's something about motorcycles and the envelope around them. Rider and machine, a bond that can lie dormant, but never dead.

We were two blokes in different cities, divided by large expanses of the Indian subcontinent. I didn't have a clue of who he was; neither did he about me. Yet, now, I can count him as a very good friend of mine. And a way better artisan. And his art medium is motorcycles; no surprise really!

Here's a glimpse into Vijay's world and his Rajputana Customs movement. I call it a movement because it is bound to change the way we perceive the term 'customised' when it comes to motorcycles in this country.

MATCHLESS RESOLVE

This was taken from my buddy Vikas's phone. So please excuse the quality

 

The other day, I was sitting around in my shed, cleaning my trusty Bullet with some kerosene and a toothbrush. She's not been getting any action of late (get your heads out of the gutters, those of you who chuckled!) and was sitting in the corner, with oil smears on her engine. I thought getting rid of those old oil smudges would be a great way to pass a balmy Sunday afternoon.

Half way through the exercise, my gaze feel upon Eleanor, my Matchless G3L. And then, it popped into my mind - my fucking new year's resolution! It's been three whole months since the year started and I've done the whole total of dick to start work on the machine.

One thing lead to another, and 3 hours later, Eleanor was spread over a white sheet, all bare and naked, exposed to every last nut and bolt. The next very day, the tin parts were sent packing to the tinkerer and on opening the engine, I was in for a surprise. The block is still running a standard sized Hepolite piston, and just a new set of rings should do the job. The bottom end, however, was knackered like a cheap hooker's twat. I suspect the bike has been under water before it came home with me and that water has pitted the big end cone and bearings beyond repair.

The machinist, as all machinists are, is extremely busy and said he'll do it whenever he has a moment to spare. The tinkerer has begun working his trade onto the parts and for now, all I can do is sit pretty. Hence this blog! Ha!

Oh, and I'm going to put up photos and a detailed rebuild report as soon as the parts trickle back in. So if you want to see an old Matchless take form, this is the place you ought to be at.

BATON RALLY - WHO'S NEXT..

 

They say that if you do something at the start of a new year, the rest of it shall pass by with you doing that one thing repeatedly. Too bad I wasn't rolling in the hay, so to speak, but this blog is about a different sort of riding.

The blokes behind the vintage and classic club of India finally did what was the obvious choice (but remained elusive for ages, beats me) and held the annual Bombay rally last Sunday (which happened to be in January and hence the former paragraph). Now this was a relief to all concerned because having the shindig smack dead in the middle of the Bombay summer is absolutely traumatic for both man and machine. Not convinced? Well, then you probably haven't been in the city during the summer I reckon - your nads will dissolve in pools of filthy sweat and all you can do is look on with absolute horror.

This year's event was sort of dry, with hardly anything noteworthy making it. In terms of numbers, sure, they could have  tallied with last year, but one must be prudent to discount the bunch of Harley riders and others who chose to ride in on everything but classic machines.

What the hell were they doing here? I don't have a fucking clue but what I do know was that unlike the years gone by, there were more youngsters to be seen. Some were on their dad's bikes and some were on their own. Others rode in trains, buses and elephants to get there. Oh, by the way, the 'elephants' bit was for those sods who have their heads up their arses and still think we Indians walk if we're poor, ride bullock carts when we're climbing up the social hierarchy  and are perched on pachyderms when we've made it in life. 


Coming back to what I was talking about, ah, yes, youth at the classic and vintage automobile rallies. People my age and younger are increasingly being drawn into the dark realm of old machinery, and their charm seems to be hypnotising them (or at least I believe so). Which is great because I don't stick out like a fresh thumb any more at these do's. YAY!


And so fucking what if they're riding beat up Jawas or buggered up Yezdis instead of exotic Goldstars and Norton Internationals. So what if the number of RD 350s, most of them who looked good but sounded like soggy farts, over shadowed the other wise overpowering British erotica. It's the spirit that matters and it's all about how sick you get after the classic bug bites you. Just goes to prove that these machines will have loving and doting new owners long after the old ones pass on. Amen!


There was a flip side as well. Like this rich dick who sat on his 2010 Harley, which was on the side stand by the way, and kept revving the tits off the motorcycle. What's absolutely moronic is the fact that there were a bunch of his testicles, read cronies, who kept jumping about around him, cheering him on to blow those connecting rods (and everybody's ear drums) to thy kingdom come. And then there was this guy who plonked his kid onto an idling Vijai Super scooter (which was in drool worthy pristine condition incidentally, in case you were wondering) and the little guy kept wringing the throttle. Everybody seemed thrilled to see a kid act like a monkey in a circus and what's more is that his mom came over and gave him a hug. Now what if that child had managed to put the thing into gear while he was going ballistic on the throttle -  I cringe at the thought.

I don't know what the organisers had in mind, but if it were numbers, they got it spot on. But quality, nah. The saving grace was that it was great to see fresh faces instead of the same old bunch of old timers. That said, I think they should actually check the bikes for period correctness though - something that is essential to keeping the reputation of any vintage and classic automobile event. It doesn't need to be shiny, just authentic. Keep it real guys!

NEW YEAR, OLD WHINE

The day I got Eleanor home on the back of a three-wheeled flat bed.

First and foremost, I wish all of you a very happy new year. Yeah, so just like with every year that has passed in this planet's existence, shit's going to happen in 2011 as well. Just don't tell me that I didn't give you a heads up. Don't believe me? Just read the news: birds are dropping dead from the skies, fish are kicking the bucket in hordes and the terrorists - well they're the only mother fuckers pro-creating in the teeming millions. Ah well, I'll just get back to more pleasant things - old motorcycles.

They say wine gets better with age. I don't doubt that. But there are other things that mature with time and motorcycle projects are one such thing.

Take my Matchless G3L project for one. The Matchless was the first bitsa I ever picked up. As usual, the sod who was selling it told me it was an easy restoration. 'Aarey, it was running just last year wonly. Clean the points, service the bike and you can ride it everyday to work', he cajoled me. I didn't buy his sales pitch one bit. But I took the plunge and got Eleanor home.

With a good night's sleep came realisation that perhaps I had bitten off more than I could chew. The engine belonged to the military version while the frame came from a civilian variant. The magneto had been ditched in favour of a Bullet alternator and with that, came the whole gamut of Enfield parts - the inner and outer clutch covers, point cam shaft etc.

Yep, I was screwed and if you’re fucked after paying up, it's termed as the same aforementioned 'f' word, just with the word 'royally' prefixed. This was back in 2007-8.

It's been a long time since and Eleanor has come a long way too. Sure, I've ridden her for the grand total of 5 minutes in all these years but she starts and vaguely resembles what her maker had intended. Many later projects have come and gone but yet, Eleanor hasn't been restored completely.

I'm certainly not the 'let's make a new year's resolution' type but this year, I'm making an exception. Eleanor will be completed this year. And yes, I'm stripping her down again and starting over from scratch. Yes, she deserves all the TLC I can fit into the 365 days that 2011 has in store for me. Wait a minute. Bugger, make that 358 days counting from today. Gah, time is really one slippery, little bastard, I tell you.


 

Eleanor, as she now stands. There's a long way to go and so little time..

The one that started it all...

Handwritten behind this photograph, "With my savings, I have purchased my dream motorcycle - 1964"

This is the bike that started it all - my dad's Jawa 250 model 353 (he  named her Betsy) that he bought brand new back in 1964 from the Nagpur military canteen. Why a Jawa, I once asked him. All he said was that he never fancied scooters, the Rajdoot was too cheap and the Bullet was too bloody expensive. He bought the Jawa for the princely sum of Rs 3000. Back then, a tank full of petrol would cost you a hefty Rs 5. He spent 15 bucks getting the bike to Bombay.

Dad, mom and Betsy, back in the day.

 He met a certain woman, fell in love and terrorised her neighbourhood with the din that only a Jawa can pull off. He later married her and I call her mom.

My brother was born after a few years and I followed six years later. I learned to ride on the Jawa in the 5th grade, strictly in the compound under my dad's watchful eye. My legs didn't reach the ground and so dad would stand in one corner, ready to catch the bike as I approached. If it was a special day, he'd turn the bike around and let me loose again. That almost always happened, though.
 

Betsy, as she stands today and still very much the stunner that she started out being.

The Jawa, ah, the Jawa still lives with us. I may have ridden a handful of motorcycles in my existence till date and owned a couple of them too. But there is never going to be a motorcycle that makes me smile more than dad's Jawa named Betsy. I secretly wonder if dad loves Betsy more than me. I wouldn't blame him if he did.

Bad blood..

Yellow Fever made her debut ride about town today and we were promptly carted off to the police station by, er the police. Figures having a handwritten numberplate won't cut it these days and the cops generally don't take chances with blokes on RXs or just RXs themselves. Apparently, at least that's what the gallant men in uniform had to say, there are a lot of sods who ride these things about these days, snatching chains from pregnant women and such. Okay, I made up the pregnant part but anyway..

I feel like a total bad-ass now and I'm sure the little Yam's notoriety is only going to go up. She's running great, just lost the stand spring when I hit a series of bumps the great care-takers of my city seem to have fucking forgotten about. She's running a tad lean but that's just a matter of fine tuning. I'd like to lower the headlight brackets to give her a meaner look but all of that in due time.

Flat line.

There's a fine line that defines a truely gorgeous motorcycle from a hideous one. And this one, unfortunately, over stepped that line by a billion miles. What you see before you is Royal Enfield's iteration (based on the EFI Electra sold abroad) of the now-in-fashion flat tracker movement - a phenomenon that's just taken forward from where cafe racers left off.

I don't know who they hired for the job, but I'm willing to bet my nads that the guy thinks a flat tracker is a non-endowed stalker. I commend the good folk at the Madras factory for trying something new with such an iconic machine, but in my opinion, this just does not cut it with me.

Think flat tracker and what comes to mind is the venerable Harley-Davidson XR 750. Definitely not this thing. Don't get me wrong, I really am a huge Royal Enfield fan and I love my Bullet to death. However, this lump of metal, nahhhh.

I like the tail end of the motorcycle but when that seat section reaches the tank, the disaster begins. Truth be told, I opine that the tail is a tad too high but I'm guessing that is because the good folk in the Madras factory didn't want to tweak the frame rail ends - economics, I reckon. 



The tank is too round for the angular rear and the front end is as disproportionate as a politician's income. The head light is too large, the mudguard too conservative and don't get me started on the cheesy 'Fury' emblazoned on the flanks. Heck even Stevie Wonder would agree that the font is too bloody garish and oversized and just doesn't blend in with the rest of the bike. It really does look like an after thought.


Oh, and as if it makes up for the rest, the bike will be priced at 5,795 pounds in the UK, sport a digital instrument cluster and twin silencers. That just makes this contraption twice as bad.


Photo source - www.motorcyclenews.com - one of the best websites dealing with news about anything two wheeled! Thanks fellas and keep it real!