In my last post, I reflected on the fact that although
I still think of my 1994 Daytona 900 as a new bike, quite plainly it is not. Just like me, it used to be young, and I can just about remember what it was like.
Age. It catches up with us all. A teeny bit at a time, perhaps, but that youthful flexibility gradually ebbs away. One becomes conscious of it when for example picking something up from the floor and, just before fingertips make contact, a sharp little twinge in the lower back intrudes. Or perhaps you have been sitting on the floor (almost certainly a rare event in itself these days), find your legs don't want to straighten out, and you are suddenly aware that standing up takes a time to achieve.
Well, motorcycles are also subject to the effects of time. T300s were in production from the 1991 Trophy 1200 to the 2003 Trophy 1200, with Daytonas, Tridents, Speed Triples, Tigers, Thunderbirds and Adventurers in between. So the most senior are 22 years old, and a full decade has already passed under the wheels of even the most junior. But it isn't really the rigours of motion I refer to. After all, a determined rider could easily cover 30,000 miles in a single year on a brand-new bike. No, the effects of time I refer to are more insidious than that. In some ways, putting on the miles can be a benefit.
The atmosphere always contains some moisture. Where I live this is not a revelation - the moisture is often visible beating on my visor! That dampness gradually infuses itself into the fabric of the machine and any uncoated components inevitably start to oxidize. After all, 22 years translates into 264 months of opportunity for corrosion to grow from a discolouration into a full-blown seized fasteners. Or electrical connections that fail to connect any more. But it isn't all about rust, verdigris or furred up ally.
Consider the carburettors on my 1991 Trophy 1200. Each float bowl has rubber components that have sat in petrol for no less than 8,030 days. For the past three years, the effects of this treatment has been made more severe with the addition of ethanol to UK fuel. The rubber ducts connecting the carbs to the head have had to cope with 192,720 hours of ozone and fuel vapour, and extremes of temperature and expansion/contraction cycles that go with them.
Yes, t-w-e-n-t-y-t-w-o years is a l-o-n-g time for any vehicle to be around. Clearly, there are a fair number of bikes still around of double that age. I'm not sure what the design life of a contemporary motorcycle is supposed to be. I'd guess five years because that is the cycle for introducing new models. Maybe ten years for guaranteed spare parts availability. Those older machines have survived certainly because of a combination of the importance of longevity for the designers and the investment of care by previous owners. Or being parked up in a dry garage for years because of a previous owner's change of life circumstances. Luck, in other words.
The point is, T300s are now almost certainly surviving a fair chunk of time beyond the point at which most machines are designed to last. And even given that breakdowns and general durability were high on the list of priorities for the T300 design team, not even they could forestall changes in petrol composition or stop the effects of ozone on rubber.
These bikes, for all their many merits, are not for the faint hearted. They are tall, solid, full-fat motorcycling experience. I think anyone deciding to take on an early Hinckley bike should do so conversant of the fact that they are no longer new. They must respect the machine for the virtues of its design when new, and also be prepared to tackle its age-related foibles as they come to light.
For all that age brings with it a dimming of the raw senses, there are fuller tastes to enjoy from the longer view made possible by experience. It's not just wines, cheeses and whiskies that develop flavour with time. Those doing the tasting can spend more time enjoying them, without being in the tearing hurry of youth.
I remember being in too much of a rush to check my chain tension as often as I should have, and oiling being a case of drowning it once a month in a guilty splurge, rather than a more regular and measured activity. Now I can take time to walk around my Trophy before a ride, because I haven't left it until the 11th minute of the 11th hour to set off, and not just look at the chain but maybe oiling the control points. And feeling the result with a smile. Or polishing the screen. Or what have you.
At a steam fair, I once saw a really old engine with the dull gleam that can only be obtained with years of the application of an engineers oily rag. I bore a brass plaque:
If I rest, I rust
If I rust, I bust
No rest, no rust, no bust
So miles can make smiles more than just for the rider.
