The Norton Commander is the best bike in the world -
when it's parked. "So this is the new one is it?" ran the first of many
one-sided conversations. "Very nice and a bit different from my old
Commando. Of course I had to give 'em up when..." And he was off.
His mandatory dog, unimpressed, surveyed the Commander's bulbous battleship-grey
topsides looming down on puny looking XJ900 cycle parts like an SPG personnel
carrier on a skateboard chassis. The mutt squatted and expressed its canine
opinion; I made a note that not only tarmac adheres to Pirelli Phantoms, and
this conversation, at least, terminated.
Birmingham (seen it), Clapham (been there), Brighton (done that); the pattern
had been set. Wherever I rolled the Commander's 517lbs onto its main stand, a
man and a dog would materialize for an ogle and a reminisce. As an ambassador
for Bike I answered any questions with a: "Bugger-off-please, I'm
supposed to be riding the thing", frantically clonked a reluctant first gear
home, and squatted the watercooled rotary on its twin Konis. Hell of a Bike,
though, and anyone drooling after a plain-clothes Commander should be told: a
simple trip to Tescos could become a trip to hell.
That the Commander is such good spectator sport is understandable as it is:
"the first true British challenger on the world motorcycle market in over a
decade" (Norton) and a real eye-full to boot. But no matter how many laps I did
on the bike (best time: two minutes, 37 seconds) - I couldn't bring myself to
like one aspects of the styling. From the back I saw 'car', from the front I saw
a porky fairing that looked like ... a porky's fairing. Which of course it is,
minus VASCAR kit and all those extra buttons the lads have to play with. The
Seymour-Powell styling works in that fairing is just a joy to be behind; it also
attracts non-motorcyclists (hopefully a few with £7599 burning a hole). But for
me, it's looks and approach represent part of an unwelcome TRRLian future;
knee-cappers and running lights in place and a safety bag doubtless to follow as
a bolt-on goodie.
Ensconced, though, on the business side of that fairing the Commander was
ideal for a four day jaunt in late December. Price excepted, the K100RT/LTcan
expect some healthy competition now the Shenstone factory has switched to
civilian production.
But not, however, in the slightly crucial luggage department. Or not with
my luggage anyway. The five gallon tank (140 mile range and metered by a
brilliant fuel guage) and everything else is covered in concept fibreglass,
which rules out bungie hook as well as magnetic tankbags. The Slim-Jim panniers
ease urban slicery - we are talking relative here - but make that dreaded trip
to Tescos unavoidable as they re non-QD, integral fixtures. Plastic bags (four
pence a shot) required, each of 25 Litres
capacity (approximately, a tankbag).
Thus having just escaped London for an undirty weekend in Brighton, the
Norton's glorious return to its mod bashing haunt would have to be postponed
while I dumped a few pairs of shreddies back home. More miles? In this weather?
No problem. Wobbling out onto the A5 I couldn't have cared less if the Commander
had a Chernobyl reactor twirling it's forget-about-it enclosed drive chain. All
I wanted was warmth and comfort. And I got both. The fairing works better than
any K series BMW's I've sat behind, though the dissapointing MIRA figures (all
down on the aircooled Classic's despite a claimed five bhp advantage) suggest
that its aerodynamic development owes more to the barn-door, rather than
wind-tunnel, school of design. (Those same figures - you should note when a plod
example appears in your mirrors - were also hampered by roadworks at the test
track, restricting the Commander to one way runs, uphill, into a headwind ... in
the wet. But then what's new?
On a hideous winter's eve, what should have been a windswept 80mph became a
cosseted cruising speed. The twin chamber rotary really is smooth and the much
chewed-over engineering merits of the rotary translate to tireless comfort and a
crystal clear mirror image. Visor up (must get a new one) - the screen was
optically up to the job if I abandoned official police posture and slumped down.
Hands, knees and feet -especially feet, catching the engine's draughted heat
-were forgotten so obviously warm.
I was surprised to discover that the straight-back, rod-up the-jacksie police
posture isn't necessarily part of Hendon technique - but a function of the
Commander's pegs/bars/ seat design. The rider is slotted into a worrying fixed
position which turns out to be all right as the mega-foamed saddle's range far
exceeds the petrol tank's. The fixed, vibe-free pegs are aft enough to hold your
spine straight and ache free, but the bars let it all down a bit.
On the sweeping roads the Commander was built for (etc) the slight upward
turn of the grips induced a mild wrist pain which spread up to my shoulders. In
town they're too high and combine with a high seat height - and a weighty
motorcycle, whatever is said about rotary's shortage of pounds - to give that
oh-god-I-think-I'm-going-to-fall-flat-on-my-face feeling. But you don't, which
brings in the engine.
The watercooled example is not the same monster torque job as the racer but
from a 600rpm tickover up to a 95()0rpm red-line power is smooth and useable.
The diaphragm-sprung clutch is quick but fiercely in or out. Thankfully, it can
be left alone when trickling through traffic at two mph - doing it purely on the
throttle. The Boyer electronic ignition has been praised for ironing out
low-engine-speed glitches, and on this bike, that praise has not been misplaced.
There's little transmission snatch or harshness, find a gap and wind it on. If
you were looking over the screen you'll soon be looking down through it as the
bike sits back like a Boxer but without the shaft reaction.
Lost again, somewhere in E11, I passed an afternoon wheelspinning on diesel
as I accelerated through the competent, if unsophisticated, five-speed box and
enjoying the rotary's unique characteristics. Talking numbers, the power comes
steadily right through the rev range, but feels freer above 500rpm when the
rotors come on the . . . whatever rotors come on. Their low inertia drops the
revs right down if a gear change is anything but slick then it's straight onto
the opposed piston brakes to wipe deceptive, vibeless speed away. In its way,
topping up the oil tank with a pint of total-loss monogradeoil every 250-300
miles included, the Commander is strangely like a two-stroke; brakes become a
reverse throttle for controlling speed not a last gasp back-up to engine
braking.
On my damp travels around the sun-belt, the motor -although rev happy-suited
the bike well. With survival the name of the game, there was doubly no need to
go rushing down through the box into roundabouts. Apply reverse throttles (the
front progressive but needing a good bleed, the rear quite inspiring) and just
when I thought everything was about to bog down - how can I be in the right gear
when there's no engine braking? I realised the motor was still revving, that it
wasn't a two-stroke and away we surged, sounding like a turbo-prop on takeoff.
All good touring stuff.
Ride like that all the time -and I did - and the chassis is untroubled. I'd
happily report on appalling ground clearance or the shortcoming of dated
suspension. But I can't. At sane winter speeds everything matched well. The
Phantoms, though running on narrow 18 inch wheels, were as grippy and reassuring
as ever; the uprated XJ forks, like the twin Konis, were comfortably soft and
firmly damped. All combined to give a pretty awful in-town steerer a traditional
(ok-dated), accurate and purposeful feel on the roads that count. Judging by the
forks' propensity to take a dive when the throttle is snapped shut or the brakes
are yanked, the whole plot, not surprisingly, feels a tad front-heavy and once
or twice the spindly 37mm forks bottomed out going into a bend. The front tyre
got skittish but not bothered and I decided smooth riding was what the Commander
wanted, and even in civics you do as it asks.
A total lack of mods on Brighton's seafront left me with nothing to do but
review the Norton's gizmos with every man and dog who cared to enquire. "Two
batteries (fuzz needs them) . . . s'good innit? Fog lights at the back, no, no
reverse lights, clock, sidestand engine-cut-out, excellent Yamaha self-cancelling
indicators."
"What's bad about its bits, sir? Well, getting to the reserve tap involves
unscrewing a sidepanel (five screws), those glove pouches are in fact a fuse box
and a coolant header tank which also add two keys to the Norton fob, but that's
about it.
And the bike itself? In terms of touring performance and comfort, I'd
need some opposition on hand because it's right up there.