Vincent Truths

From http://www.net-motorcycles.com
The Truth About Vincents

21 years on a series C Vinnie
The first real tank slapper I had (this was when I hadn't owned it
long) I thought I might be riding it wrong. After all, the Norton
Dommie I'd owned didn't do that sort of thing. The second time was the
real frightener - I shot between two cars on the wrong side of the road
and narrowly missed mowing down a chip shop queue. I knew then that I
was in for a trying relationship.
In a vain attempt to overcome this debilitating behaviour, I adjusted
the slack out of the many bushes in the forks. Found, after much
experimentation, that the only way to tame the beast was to tighten the
steering damper until the bars can't be turned! Goes down a treat at
MOT time.
Before I discovered the damper trick, I had a good mate who reckoned he
could master any bike within ten minutes. I let him have a ride (second
opinion and all that) and despite being warned he set off for a blast
past the factory gates, determined to do 115mph. When he eventually
returned looking bug-eyed, tight-lipped and with a definite tremor in
his pallid knuckles, his only comment was that I should get rid of the
bloody death-trap! Sound advice which I didn't take.
As I was new to Vincents, I blamed myself for the erratic starting.
Although I knew the ridiculous drill - I'd owned big singles before -
finding the correct stroke on the rear cylinder, etc, it wasn't until
the beast completely stopped starting that I investigated. Finding a
dodgy spark, sloppy valve guides and 11:1 pistons conspiring to prevent
the horrible thing from firing.
Now, I'm not a bloke who gives into adversity easily - I've lived with
the same woman for twenty years! I was becoming dangerously fascinated
with a nearby mineshaft that was waiting to be filled but after
ingestion of what are now considered harmful chemical substances I
mended the magneto well enough to give 50/50 starting - that's fifty
Hail Mary's followed by fifty pneumonia-inducing swings on the
appropriate pedal.
To repay me for this act of kindness on the next ride, as we were
returning from Scarborough, the gearbox jammed in third, resulting in a
burnt out clutch on Saxon Hill hairpin; although on this occasion the
bugger did get us home without resorting to the train.
After burrowing into the mysteries of the, er, unusual transmission and
knocking the sliding (when it's not seized) gear off its shaft with a
steel tube and large hammer, easing the bush with a scraper and
reassembling, I refilled with EP90 gear oil and have never had the
problem again. Which makes the gearbox about the only trouble free
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