Here's my dad's little story about the Series B :
WHITSUN
Having traded in the AJW for a Vincent HRD fitted with a V.P. Sports
sidecar (torsion bar suspension), we were on our way. That first drive really opened my eyes, I think we got to Blackheath before I got out of second gear ! 'King of the Road' sounds about right, The AJW 'Old Black Bess' had always struggled up the hill, and the difference in power lives with me for ever: - we flew.
By the following spring we had got used to being part of the elite ownership, and on a trip to the factory at Stevenage had picked up a few goodies. A folder containing every available worksheet, making a unique workshop manual, and I also got a tank protection cover, that the test riders used. That was when I picked up my first copy of the V.O.C. magazine.
George Filer and his brother-in-law Tommy Dyer, (Ariel Hunter, Norton ES2), proposed going to Devon for the Whitsun weekend, camping at Lynmouth. Would we and the Bakers like to join them? Of course we would!
On telling my parents of our plans, they proposed coming to Plumstead for the weekend and looking after the kids, and we could be free of all worries. So now the party was ten strong, Harry had an AJS (350 solo), and all the rest had combos. We had the lightest load, and the most power, so when we took off we were always at the tail end. Until we got to Porlock Hill that is, which starts with a tight hairpin bend on an incline of one in four, and then uphill for two miles. That was a challenge I couldn't resist, and boy! did we go! We heard later that, George's mum, who was in Tommy's sidecar, complained all the way up that she wanted to fly too, but with Pat on pillion in front of the biggest hamper I've ever seen, and only 500 cc to play with, no chance ! Harry was the next up, and we had time to admire the view and a smoke, before the rest caught up. From there we could have freewheeled all the way to Lynmouth, except for Countisbury Hill.
The camping site was just outside Lynton in the bottom of a ravine, beside a little river, (that fed the Barbrook Mill), which came directly from Exmoor, fast flowing and icy cold. We slept well in our little bivouac, and were woken early on the Saturday by the smell of someone cooking breakfast. Looking out of the tent, we were greeted by the sight of Tommy in shorts, stripped to the waist, in mid-stream, shaving in the icy flow. He was one of those blokes who always looked like he needed a shave, heavy jowls and black stubble, and you could hear the scraping at fifteen paces. A sight to remember.
The whole scene was a sight to remember, for less than a year later, in the following winter of 1952, torrential rainfall on the moors turned this little river into a raging torrent. From the higher ground the waters gathered speed, and by the time they reached Lynmouth, the riverbanks and foundations were undercut to the extent that houses and hotels were collapsing into the riverbed. The services, and there were so few of them, were helpless against this torrent, and 36 people drowned. Such was the volume and speed of the flow that rescuers could only aid people who happened to be on the same bankside. From the top of the High Street right down to the seafront, the harbour town was devastated, thousands were made homeless. We have never been back to see the rebuild, I prefer to remember it as it was.
However, to continue:-
On the Whit Sunday the gang decided to go and visit Bude, for a day on the beach, and maybe go the Valley of Rocks and anything else that took their fancy. It so happened that on that day the Exmoor Motorcycle Trials were taking place. We couldn't miss that event, so for the day we went our separate ways. Not having specific information on check points, we followed some riders who were heading for the next section. They were directed into the woods up a very narrow track, there was no way we could follow. So we asked the marshal if there was a decent viewing point nearby.
“Yes”, he said, “there's a road just round the corner that goes to the top of the hill, you can look down from there“. Up the road we went, a bit narrow, but when it turned into a track, I began to worry. Two marshals suddenly appeared behind us, they said
“Yes, it is a road, a bit bumpy, but it does go right to the top“. So we went. What they didn't tell us was that this bit of track was part of the sidecar trial section, in no time at all we were in trouble. No room to turn back, we were in it, right up to here, then suddenly four or five marshals appeared, and between them, practically carried us to the top of the section. The bloke who directed us there was one the team, and they all thought it a huge joke. The only casualty was our Thermos, so bang went our hot drink.
The track from there on was no trouble, and ran directly to a farmhouse, and as we approached the farmer's wife came out to greet us.
“Hello”, she said, “we don't often get visitors up here “. After we had explained the events that got us this far, she laughed, and told us that her husband was a trials rider, so she knew all about that track, he uses it as his back door.
“I've just got some scones out of the oven”, she said, “do come in and have tea with me, I do like company and you must try my clotted cream with fresh strawberries
Devon splits !! Great !! Didn't see much of the trial, but what a great day.
The High Street, from the harbour up to Lynton, is something like one-in-six, so after shopping and a jug or two, it was back to camp for a siesta. Laughing, I said :
“I’ll give you a 100 yard start and still beat you to the top”.
Now, the gearbox on the H.R.D. had a low starting gear, then a big jump to a close-ratio 2nd., 3rd. and top, and it doesn't like to be rushed. But I did rush the change from bottom, and paid the price. I knocked the 2nd. gear out completely. The jump from 1st. to 3rd was in the main, too big a gap, just couldn't drop the revs quick enough. But the reserves of power were more than compensation, and for the rest of the weekend, my 3rd. gear handicap put everybody else in contention.
Early the following week I consulted with Jack Surtees, who informed me that at the time my H.R.D. was constructed, a batch of substandard cogs had slipped through the inspection net. However, he happened to have a spare replacement, and not only that, but it had been modified to enable faster changes for racing purposes, ---my guardian angel was still in business. There was no other damage in the gearbox, and the repair was straightforward and uneventful. I had Jack Surtees do a test run on the bike, because the rattle of valve gear was bothering me. His verdict:
“What else do you expect from high lift cams? You've got a good one there, look after it”.
And so it was, for the rest of the time in my hands.
