Читать книгу No Room For Watermelons - Ron Fellowes - Страница 9

2

The Dream

Initially, the marque of the bike had me stumped. I’d never seen a configuration like it. Only the letters FN stamped on the magneto offered a clue. I leafed through old motorcycle magazines to find that the engine and frame I had acquired belonged to a Belgian 4-cylinder, inlet-over exhaust, shaft-drive Fabrique Nationale (FN). I pinpointed the year of manufacture to 1910. FN Belgium was established in 1899 to make arms and ammunition, and from 1901 to 1967 the company also produced motorcycles. Beginning in 1905 it was the first manufacturer of in-line, 4-cylinder machines.

I told the previous owner of my findings, boasting, ‘I’m riding the bike back to Belgium for its centenary’. He looked dubious. I was then 26 years old. Had I known that I would be 68 before I’d attempt such a feat, I might not have been so cocky.

An article I found in the archives of New Zealand’s Ashburton Guardian newspaper, told me the 1910 model had taken the world by storm, and that 400 FNs had been ordered by the New Zealand agency. As far as I could gather, only one other, also unrestored, was still in the country.

The frame and engine languished in the garage for many years. Only when we moved to Australia did I write to the FN factory asking for information. I was thrilled to receive a parts manual, in French, and photos, taken at the 1910 Paris Motor show, of lefthand and righthand views of that year’s model.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I spent evenings working on a 1940s flat-belt Colchester lathe making replacements for damaged or missing parts. I scaled them from the photographs. The parts included the hand controls, fuel gauge, fuel and oil caps, fuel filter, oil pump and dripper.

The pedal chain was made using old racing pushbike chains of the same style but of narrower design. I machined the rear brake drum from a solid block of steel. Kevin, a skilled machinist in Tasmania, replicated the crown wheel from the badly broken sample. The bike frame was repaired using Reynolds tubing.

Leon, a fellow enthusiast from South Australia, supplied the front forks, and I made all-new sliding links to suit. Rims were bought as blanks and a tool was made to dimple and drill them. I used a cardboard template for the pattern of the oil tank and then formed it from a sheet of brass.

Leather tool bags and the seat were crafted by hand. I reconditioned engine parts and replaced the original cast-iron pistons with aluminium because modern rings would prove more efficient and easier to obtain.

The process of accurately replicating the parts was painfully slow, and several years passed before the bike started to look like one.

Meanwhile, two Honda motorcycles — a beautiful 1976 LTD GoldWing and a brand-new CX500 — were added to our stable of machines. Lynne, having erased the Norman from her memory, now wanted a bike of her own. The bright red V-twin fitted the bill perfectly.

Our son Mark raced motocross bikes, and at times I joined him on the track. I never gained a podium finish, but I did share in the exhilaration of clearing the jumps. No matter what style of riding I try, I love them all.

When our youngsters left home, Lynne and I set off on a new adventure. We rode from Alaska to Brazil on the GoldWing, a camper trailer in tow. In three years, we covered 200,000 kilometres and passed through 21 countries. That journey instilled in us a love of travel, and it taught us a great deal about the grit required to commit to such ventures. It also strengthened my resolve to ride the FN back to Belgium.

Over the years, as I studied the bike’s history I became fascinated with such a marvel of engineering. In 1905, when other manufacturers were using twisted rawhide drive belts, FN began fitting a far superior beveled drive to the rear wheel. Unlike other machines, which constantly needed adjustment to stop the belt slipping, the 362cc 4-cylinder shaft-drive required no daily maintenance and was not adversely affected by wet weather. The FN was also smoother running than single and twin-cylinder machines, and its uniquely designed front suspension proved highly effective.

These pioneer machines had magneto ignition and a five-bearing crankshaft with pedal assist. LPA (light pedal assist) was required for inclines as there was no gearbox fitted as standard equipment. The lubrication was total loss, in-as-much as the oil was not returned to the oil tank, and was drained periodically from the engine. For inclines, a hand oil pump supplemented the adjustable drip-feed system. Many bikes around this period had only one or the other. And, I believe it was the only motorcycle of the time to be fitted with a fuel gauge.

Interestingly, in 1909, Percy Pierce, son of the Pierce-Arrow Motor Car Company’s founder, began manufacturing 4-cylinder motorcycles very similar in design to the FN he had purchased and ridden in Europe. The earliest of the Pierce motorcycles offered a larger 688cc engine, though few were ever produced.

I wrote to other FN enthusiasts across Europe and began seriously looking at how I could realise my dream. Thanks to Jacques, Belgium’s FN guru, I had photos and information to accurately complete my restoration. By this time, 2007, our children, Nikki and Mark, were married with families of their own, Lynne and I were living in Bali — the FN’s centenary was fast approaching.

The FN’s motor was running, but a good deal of fine-tuning was still needed. Each time I road-tested the bike, I took my life in my hands. Unsafe roads and the devil-may-care attitude of Indonesian bike riders made riding a veteran machine a nightmare. But my outings proved invaluable. I became adept at missing chickens, cows and potholes; and I learnt to avoid motorcyclists who made illegal turns across four lanes of traffic, and others talking on mobiles while holding ladders, panes of glass, even babies.

It soon became obvious that a clutch would make life much easier, given that the FN had a fixed gear and a long-wheel base. Handling, especially on corners, was proving diabolical with a bike whose slowest speed was 30kmh. The cost of a clutch from Europe was prohibitive, so it was a swap of unwanted FN parts with an online trader that allowed me to meet this challenge.

After months of anxious waiting, the clutch arrived. It took several attempts before I had it working efficiently. Each attempt meant having to remove the engine and experiment with various seals to eliminate leaks. Finally I was satisfied. And, with a little ingenuity, I fashioned tiny oilcans featuring the FN emblem, to be used to lubricate the valves and fork pivots. Similar in shape to those used on old sewing machines, the oilcans were devised by making a die, the necessary curvature being achieved by molding the bottoms of aerosol cans.

Bali to Belgium had a nice ring to it. I applied for a permit to register the bike so I could begin my journey from Indonesia. The police refused to issue a licence on the grounds that the bike was too old. For a fee, many locals offered to help, saying they knew someone in government or the military, or insisted they had connections to the local bikie club’s tea lady, who could guarantee success. This was Bali, where truth never gets in the way of making a fast buck.

Even taking the bike out on the road meant risking confiscation. Registered or not, motorcycles, it was well known, were often impounded until ‘duty’ had been collected. I flew to Jakarta to plead my case with the police chief and came back with a letter of support from his department. But it was no help; the FN still didn’t get registered. It seemed that I either lacked the right credentials or wasn’t seen to be playing the game.

As a result of all the stuffing about, I missed out on celebrating the bike’s centenary in Belgium. I was ticked off. Then I heard of the Fabrique Nationale Treffen that is held annually in Germany, and that 2012 was its tenth anniversary. Come hell or high water, I was determined to get to that celebration. With an overland route from Indonesia now out of the question, I had to consider my options.

The immediate solution was to return to Australia. After five years of living in Asia, Lynne and I had found it way too challenging. We had built a retirement villa in a seemingly idyllic location, complete with swimming pool and tropical gardens. But we never felt at home as expats in Bali. I was approaching 70 and fast running out of time to achieve my goal, so putting our house on the market and leaving the island was a no-brainer.

The plan was that I would return to Brisbane and Lynne would follow when the house sold. In a volatile real estate market, I knew that might take time. Never-the-less, Lynne urged me to leave, confident she’d be okay and that the right buyer would soon come along.

Before I could take the FN back, I needed permission from Australian Customs. Fortunately, I had retained the export documents that proved it was exempt from duty, so approval was quickly granted. All that was left to do was to organise the crating of the FN and take it to the air-cargo handlers. It was when the FN went through their x-ray machine that things became challenging.

A phone call from the cargo depot told me four suspect ‘canisters’ had been detected in the consignment. ‘Don’t open the crate or touch anything until I get there,’ I pleaded. I’d screwed the crate together and deliberately painted the screws so that I could tell if the container had been tampered with. ‘No, we won’t, Mr Ron,’ the agent promised.

I battled my way to the airport through heavy traffic and arrived to find the crate broken open — precisely what I didn’t want to happen. All the x-ray had revealed were the FN’s four engine cylinders!

I secured the crate and returned home, insisting as I left that they call me if there were further concerns. An hour later the phone rang: ‘The spark plugs are dangerous and need to be removed in case they catch fire.’ I tried to reason with him. Getting nowhere, I again pleaded for an assurance that they would not touch anything until I arrived back at the airport.

When I walked into the freight depot, the crate lay open and, to my horror, even the tyres had been deflated, which meant there was a good chance they would come off the rims. That could mean the bead would be dislodged, making it awkward to refit the tyres.

‘The air in the tyres is not safe, Mr Ron…’ I cut him off, snapping, ‘The bloody bike was flown to Bali by the same airline with the tyres inflated. Nothing has changed’.

His inane smile in response had me shaking with anger. Apart from the absurdity of the claim, I was concerned at the prospect of drugs being stowed in the crate. Until the plane touched down in Brisbane, and Customs had carried out a thorough search, I knew I wouldn’t rest easy.