A Royal Enfield story to tell you

Why is this man smiling? Me fixing my Royal Enfield on the sidewalk.

 Pushing my broken down Royal Enfield Bullet home earlier this year, I was secretly pleased. 

I had finally earned a place in the imaginary club of vintage motorcyclists, in which every member has a story to tell about pushing a motorcycle home. 

My wife, who arrived in our car to bring me a drink of water, was filled with pity. It was misplaced. I wasn't sad, I was happy. 

At last, I had the right to tell the lads down at the pub the story of how I pushed my Royal Enfield two miles. 

Except... there is no pub. I have no "lads." 

That's my fault. For one thing, I waited until I was 50 to buy my Royal Enfield. For another thing, I had waited until I was 73 to push it home!

Most story tellers boasting of going home on shoe power describe events of their youth. Older and wiser, a break down late in life would inspire them to call a truck to collect the motorcycle.

Not me.

I wanted to experience the ups and the downs of riding an old-fashioned motorcycle, and have stories to tell.

Stories like the one Graham Scarth of the Royal Enfield Owners Club (UK) told me years ago, in an email.

"Back in 1970/71 I had a Norton Twin as well as the (Royal Enfield) 250 GT," he wrote.

"Coming home from the Yorkshire coast one evening on the Norton, it suddenly lost all drive in the bottom of a dip just as I opened the throttle to climb the rise. Coasted to a halt and put the bike on stand. Rear chain was laid out in a straight line on the road some yards back and no damage to engine/gearbox cases. No damage to me either from what could have been a nasty incident.

"Pushed the bike about a mile to the nearest pub and phoned a mate with a van, then had a pint or two whilst I waited."

What a wonderful story. And, of course, it ends at a pub.

When I started this blog, in 2008, I visualized it as a fictional soap opera built around a mythical biker bar I called the Three Down, somewhere in America.

I wrote nine episodes before admitting that I am not a novelist. You can read them here. But I wouldn't.

I wrote the soap opera shortly after I retired and I was missing the companionship and drama of the office. I was also missing the fun of commuting to work on my Royal Enfield. A blog seemed like a partial answer to these losses then, and it still is.

Because, truth is, dear readers, you are collectively the lads, and this is the pub. Bottoms up and may there never be a Last Call.

Royal Enfield theme pub in Redditch is a great idea, but I had it first!

The history of Royal Enfield motorcycles is the theme for a new pub opening May 28 in Redditch, England, birthplace of the brand. The Redditch Advertiser reports that it will be called The Royal Enfield.

"The new pub will specialise in real ales, serving a wide range of beers, including those from local and regional brewers, as well as an exclusive ale called The Bullet brewed by Stourbridge-based Sadler’s Ales," the Advertiser reports.

That's good enough for me. One more reason to put Redditch on the list of places I want to visit next time I can afford to cross the Atlantic.

I am a little distressed that "there will be music throughout the evening from 5 p.m. as well as a DJ on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights." Hopefully there will be no karaoke.

My taste in drinking establishments runs to quieter nooks. In fact, when I started this blog, it was as a fictional account of an imaginary bar I called the Three Down. Located somewhere in the United States, the Three Down was noteworthy only because only one brand of beer was on tap and it was never revealed what kind it was.

The name Three Down was inspired by the way the gears worked in Royal Enfield's Albion transmission. My fictional account revolved around the tensions in the bar between old-timers and those who had just discovered Royal Enfield motorcycles. I meant to mirror the flame wars that used to happen (and still smoulder) on Yahoo groups devoted to the brand.

My chief Internet consultant (my wife, a professor of multi-media journalism) advised me that blog readers prefer facts, not fiction. I gave it up, no doubt for the good.

Still, if you're curious, you can read my Royal Enfield soap opera at these links:

Chapter 1: The Royal Enfield motorcycle
Chapter 2: One for All
Chapter 3: Up in Arms
Chapter 4: Bar etiquette
Chapter 5: A riddle
Chapter 6: Answer to the riddle
Chapter 7: A beer to match Royal Enfield

Last call, gentlemen!

A beer to match the Royal Enfield Bullet

I've said before that no one ever asks what kind of beer we have at the Three Down bar. Over the years, however, I have had to assure visitors from time to time that, "No, it's not Schlitz."

Schlitz Beer helped pay for the sign at the corner of the building, years ago. We haven't changed the sign but we haven't served Schiltz in a long time. That's too bad because it was the world's best selling beer from 1903 until Prohibition, and it reclaimed its spot at the "head" of the industry in 1934.

Lately it was hard to find and, second, it wasn't very good anymore.

But that is supposed to be changing now, and I'm delighted. According to the Associated Press, new owners are bringing it back and using a formula that will taste as good as ever.

If so, we'll try to get it for the Three Down. A Royal Enfield bar ought to have a beer that is back and better than ever. Or would you rather have Coors Lite? Leave a comment here.

A Royal Enfield riddle: is this the answer?

Amid all the shouting at the Three Down bar it was easy to miss the fact that Matthew's riddle probably wasn't nonsense. Acrimony quickly swallowed up the answer. Remember the question he posed?

"If a spark plug is removed from the combustion chamber and has been smashed flat, apparently by the piston, even though the entire engine block is 100% stock and has not been touched in any way, what does that indicate, and might one fix it?"

There had been a clue earlier, when Matthew, advised he needed to set the timing on his Bullet, returned saying that he couldn't because "I absolutely can not get the piston past TDC" (Top Dead Center, the top of its travel, nearest the spark plug).

Matthew had told us that he had a Bullet 500 and he certainly believed it, because he said he had ordered a replacement plug for a 500. The 500 uses a long-reach spark plug. However, the Bullet 350 uses a short-reach plug.

Matthew must have put the 500 plug into what was really a 350cc Bullet, and smashed it flat.

He only said later that he tried another spark plug and it was "fine."

Did you guess the answer? Leave a comment here.

A Royal Enfield riddle

"Speed" did not lead the first walk-out from the Three Down bar. Matthew led it. The truth is, he felt he was driven out.

I am not proud to say this, but I was relieved to see him go. He drove us crazy. One regular summed it up this way:

"He bought a Bullet, wanted to learn, didn't take the advice to get a good manual, fiddled about until the bike was non-ride able, tried to sell the non-runner to get a running bike. That was a real sad story — especially for the bike!"

Matthew didn't seem to realize that, while fellow bikers will answer a question, they are under no obligation to do so — especially if they think earlier advice was waved off. And they let him know it. Eventually, Matthew took offense to being told to listen to what he was told.

Matthew walked out and invited those to come along "who want to be able to ask questions without being treated like dirt and cursed at and accused of evil."

The final straw was, I believe, the last question he asked. It struck some as so preposterous that Matthew was accused of making the whole thing up, of being a fraud who just liked to torture us.

And yet, his riddle DID have an answer:

"If a spark plug is removed from the combustion chamber and has been smashed flat, apparently by the piston, even though the entire engine block is 100% stock and has not been touched in any way, what does that indicate, and might one fix it?"

If you think you know the answer, post a comment.

Royal Enfield bar etiquette

Here at the Three Down bar it doesn't take much to start a row. A perfectly nice fellow says "You ought to change the oil in a Bullet every 500 miles." There'll be a moment's silence as the rest of the regulars decide whether to let it pass.

Someone will gently respond "That's kind of often, isn't it? And it will turn out that the first fellow has thought long and hard about it and has 19 reasons why you should change the oil every 500 miles and arguments to counter every argument against it.

And we're off and running.

It's all perfectly fine as long as, at the end of the evening, everyone drops it.

The object of visiting a bar is to be able to talk to anyone about anything. It doesn't matter who wins.

Sometimes men forget this. I understand. Over the years we've only really had one fellow who either didn't know it in the first place, or chose to ignore it.

His name was Matthew. More about him in a bit.

Royal Enfield, up in arms

The Three Down bar seems like a friendly place, if you're a stranger, a woman or a stray dog. It's only the regulars who ever really get bit. Strange, isn't it? It's exactly the reverse of what you might expect, a clique.

Still, it surprised me when "Speed" and his friends let it get so far, and then ended up walking out. They blame who they blame (Sam, mostly), but it was everyone's fault.

Speed doesn't realize it, but he was still a relative newcomer. He was supposed to ease in a little bit, at the beginning, when it would have been easy. Then everything would have been fine.

Another funny thing: the way it happened, it'll be OK and dandy for Speed and the other fellows who walked out to come back to the Three Down anytime they want. A couple have been by; no problem at all, just like old times.

It's the fellows who crossed them, here at the Three Down, who won't feel welcome over at the new meeting place. In fact I think Sam has even been staying away from the Three Down because he feels responsible for The Incident and doesn't want to make it worse.

So "the rebels" got themselves a new place, and they have the run of the old place, too!

I'm not defending Sam, not entirely. First, he doesn't need me or anyone else to stand up for him. He lost his temper and he said some things, pretty harsh things, too. I wish those things hadn't been said, but I'll tell you the truth: he wasn't the only one thinking them.

The Incident really happened for three reasons. First, you have an outspoken young guy who knows a lot and doesn't mind saying what he thinks. Speed figured he'd been to the Three Down often enough that he was as good as anybody. He had taken some guff before and been willing to laugh it off, but this time he stood on his rights.

Then you have Sam and the fellows who've been around since the beginning. They've seen young guys come and go and wind up with broken motors. They don't mind putting in a word of warning, and then another word of warning and, after awhile, it sounds less like a warning and more like a threat. They don't enjoy being told they're wrong. Call them stubborn, if you want.

Finally, there's always the story-behind-the-story. Just because you sit at the bar at the Three Down doesn't mean you know everything that's eating the man beside you. Well, for one, Speed told everyone he had health problems that worried him. You know that has to bother a young family man.

And Sam has let on that he has health troubles, too. At our age, who doesn't feel the cold draft of time? But worse than that, maybe.

I hope not.

Royal Enfield, Made Like a Gun

If as a child you pedaled around on a plastic Big Wheel, you will not understand the appeal of a Royal Enfield motorcycle.

Excuse me. I did not mean to say that you are hopeless, just because you are too young to have had a Schwinn as your first real vehicle: a big, heavy, steel Schwinn bicycle, with one gear and a coaster brake.

But, if you're my age, you'll fondly remember that big old thing and one thing you will remember is how tough it was: there was no plastic on an old-time bicycle. You left it in the rain, ran it hard over railroad ties, jumped it off curbs and used it to tow your kid sister in a wagon.

Somebody finally stole it from the school yard, and you mourn its loss to this day. It was your childhood.

Enter mid-life crisis, and now the man who would be a boy again wants a suitable transportation device.

Well, knock off the plastic lenses and switchgear the DOT requires on all motorcycles, and the Royal Enfield Bullet looks a lot like that old Schwinn. It is all steel, a true product of the Industrial Age.

That explains the Royal Enfield motto: "Made Like a Gun." It is a tool, an iron tool. "Paging Dr. Freund! Paging Dr. Freund! Dr. Freund, please come to the parking lot!"

A few years ago a friend graciously gave us one of those pretend city parking regulation signs: "Royal Enfield Parking Only, All Others will be Towed." Of course I dared not post this by the actual parking, for fear someone would feel unwelcome.

Everyone is welcome here at the Three Down bar, but I often wonder what the tourists make of us. I am sure they realize this is a Royal Enfield motorcycle bar because of all the old pictures and Royal Enfield advertisements we have accumulated on the walls. Most confusing to the first-time visitor must be the motto.

The company adopted "Made Like a Gun" in 1893, long before it made motorcycles. The ancestor company of Royal Enfield was in the business of making needles. It moved into the bicycle business before the start of the 20th Century.

When the company received a contract for rifle parts from the Royal Small Arms Factory in Enfield, the name Royal Enfield was merrily applied to the bicycles it was making. The motto quickly followed.

Decades later, in 1931, it would seem logical to name a new sporting model Royal Enfield motorcycle the Bullet.

Few other motorcycles have played such a role in national defense. Royal Enfield motorcycles served in World War I and World War II. There was even a very light weight model, "The Flying Flea," that dropped by parachute.

In fact, national defense (of India) is the only reason we today can buy a brand new Royal Enfield motorcycle that resembles in major details the Royal Enfield Bullet of 1955.

It was in that year that India, newly independent and building its army, sought to produce the Bullet for service on the frontier with Pakistan. The Bullet continued in production in India after the British company ended in 1970.

So, the Bullet truly is a "war machine" to this day.

You might call it a Son of a Gun.

Royal Enfield, One for All

Michael was the first to stop by the Three Down bar after The Incident. He's a handsome young man (young to me, anyway) with curly brown hair. He took a stool at the center of the bar.

By the way, that's a very nice thing to do when you are the first in. By sitting in the center you let on that you'd be willing to talk to anyone who comes in on the left or right. Since your back is to the door, you're not sizing up people as they're considering whether to come in. It's very welcoming.

"Is that you, Michael?" my wife Bonnie called from the kitchen. "It's lasagna tonight, Michael, ground beef or vegetarian, your choice. Very delicious!"

"It sounds great, Bonnie. But we're going out tonight. Just a beer, please, thank you."

Michael accepted his beer and coaster and took a sip, with just a glance to the right, down the bar, at the empty stool on the end.

That's Sam's empty chair, at the corner of the bar. Everyone knows Sam doesn't come in early. Michael's glance was more like a little genuflection in an empty church. Sam is the real boss in this bar, not me, although I own it and he'd deny it. Sam is the reason this is a Royal Enfield motorcycle bar. He knows the most about them.

Sam's stool in the corner is the Alpha Male position in any bar. From there, he can take in the sweep of the bar, and look every man in the eye. The hallway is there, so no one can sit behind him. And, I've never seen anyone do this at the Three Down, but, obviously, the kitchen is just a few steps down that hall and it has its own door out the back if you need it.

"Have you been to the new place, yet?" Michael asked me. I knew he was spreading the word about the new meeting place where "Speed" and his friends would gather. The word "yet" was my invitation. I was being told that they held nothing against me and that I would be welcome.

It was "members only" at the new place. Those who had been on the other side of the blow up at the Three Down would have to swallow their pride to get in.

"No," I replied. "I haven't been there."

It would have been the kind thing to do to just add the small word "yet," as though I might visit. But I would not.

It wasn't the loss of business I cared about. Running the Three Down is what I do in my retirement. We're only open five days, and never late. What made me mad was that Speed and his crew had broken up The Old Gang over a misunderstanding.

They would have more polite company at the new place, with everyone catering to Speed and assuring him that this was all so much better than the old days. Bless them for it, if that is what they wanted.

I felt the regulars I had left were unlovable, back-biting louts sometimes. But they were more interesting.

Royal Enfield for King and Country

You might wonder how a biker bar in America can survive, devoted to a single brand of obscure British motorcycle that is only imported today in small numbers from India.

The Three Down bar did well enough, with its single draft beer and single-entrée menu. Until "Speed" walked out leading half my customers, I little imagined any of them would go anywhere else. I expected bickering and pettiness, but never desertion.

The love of the Royal Enfield motorcycle itself would keep them here, I thought.

The only way for Americans to understand this is to consider the Jeep. The very symbol of victory in war, the Jeep was slow, simple, purposeful and plucky. Romantics can still buy a Jeep today that looks very like the original and is nearly as uncomfortable. (Unfortunately, Americans let their love for the Jeep entice them to buy SUVs, which are soulless rolling palaces in comparison).

Everything the American army did with the Jeep, the British army had expected to do with the motorcycle. Royal Enfield motorcycles in gray paint had been fixed as dispatch vehicles, equipped to carry wounded soldiers, and even attached to machine guns mounted in sidecars.

These looked very purposeful. As a tribute to them, Royal Enfield today sells civilians a model it calls "The Military," painted gray and equipped with metal courier boxes for luggage. You have to supply your own Tommy gun, of course.

The crucial moment for British motorcycles came at the battle of Dunkirk. Trapped on the coast of France by the German army in 1940, the British escaped to fight again in one of the great evacuations of all time. There was time to bring off only the soldiers; they left their equipment, including their motorcycles, behind.

To replace the material lost in this disaster, the British motorcycle industry, including Royal Enfield, had to produce as never before. By the end of the war, British motorcycles were established as supreme, across the Dominions and even in America, where they were soon exported.

Of course, they were only children in those days, but my regulars were old enough to remember the newsreels of motorcycles at war and peace. They would accept no substitute for the British motorcycle. Unfortunately, it now seemed that many of them would just as soon share their love of the genre with one another in a bar with a good sound system, a full menu, and half-a-dozen different beers on tap.

The Royal Enfield Motorcycle

The Royal Enfield motorcycle is a British motorcycle, but it is not built in Britain today. It is built in India. There it has been changed and improved without getting much different than it was in 1955.

Even when brand new, the Royal Enfield motorcycle remains recognizably a British style motorcycle of a time otherwise gone. India exports the Royal Enfield to the wide world, where it is appreciated by anyone who can appreciate a superbly made but obsolete motorcycle.

The Three Down bar is a biker bar in America but it is not an American biker bar. It might have been a pub in Redditch, Worcestershire, England, in a time of coal and factory work.

You might wander in today, drawn by the charm of fading paint on the façade and the "Fish 'n Chips and a draft beer" advertised on the chalk board at the door.

You soon realize the bar is devoted to the Royal Enfield.

The Royal Enfield motorcycle, now and since always, is a tough yet unreliable machine, prone to broken clutch cables and electrical faults, slow even when modified for performance. Its brakes are weak, its compression is low, it has but a single cylinder.

This very much describes the Three Down as well.

Service here is at a pace that does not rush your conversation; only one brand of beer is served. You need not ask what it is, not because everyone knows, but because no one either knows nor cares. If Fish 'n Chips is on the menu, then Fish 'n Chips it will be.

The boards of the floor are dark and wide. Everything in this bar, every table, every chair and the bar itself is made of dark wood, or wood that has become dark in old age. The occasional odd piece of metal in the place will have fallen off of a Royal Enfield motorcycle and have been put to use as "decor."

The Royal Enfield is beloved by the denizens of the Three Down bar, and you find mostly Royal Enfield motorcycles parked in a neat row along the alley between it and the shop next door. We first visit the Three Down, however, at an unhappy time.

There has been a schism.

As a result, not everyone is here this afternoon; and not everyone who is here is all there, if you know what I mean.

Do not make the mistake that the men (and they are all men) sitting silently here are a clique, in love with one another. No one here likes anybody else very much. You may as well come in and take a seat; you're as welcome as not.

Those who left not so long ago, and in considerable anger, for another pub in town, were the popular ones. They liked one another, enjoyed good company, talked loudly and spilled beer.

But the cheerful crowd was mistaken to believe this was acceptable behavior in the Three Down. Mostly they were recent arrivals anyway, just come into ownership of a Royal Enfield motorcycle and anxious to share their enthusiasm.

It had been getting a bit crowded in here, in fact. There was talk of adding a sound system and playing music by The Beatles. That is how far things had sunk.

The new men said, when they first came, that they wanted to hear from those who had always loved the Royal Enfield. They lied. They wanted to boast.

They were speed demons, to hear them tell it. They spoke of making their motorcycles go faster. That was a sin: the Royal Enfield motorcycle is slow, and properly slow. Anyone who couldn't understand that didn't belong at the Three Down.

The anger among the old-timers built gradually. Inevitably, there was a blow up. Chairs skidded back on the wooden floor as men stood. Lines were drawn. A threat was made; or maybe it was just implied. Voices rose.

It was suddenly obvious that those who had sat their stools for many years were keeping them. The newcomers would have to leave.

Their leader was "Speed." Yes, his nickname, which he chose himself, was appropriate. Like a Moses, Speed had swept the Chosen Ones off in a huff, to another bar, with a pretty waitress and a sound system that played The Beatles. Reports were that they were very happy there.

At the Three Down, it was suddenly very quiet indeed.