Hilda was a German girl I knew many years ago. Always reliable, totally faithful, a bit slow on the uptake maybe but stronger than two football teams. Hilda was capable of lifting the rear of my Honda Four when I needed to lube the chain. Eventually she left me, but she’d made her mark. I christened the second German to make an impression on me Hilda too.

Hilda the R60/2 BMW isn’t that much different really, except that she can’t think for herself so she’s still part of the family. The first time I saw her was out the back of Wobbler’s garage in 1975. I owned a near-new Norton, which meant that I needed something to ride day to day while the Norton was off the road. The old black 1961 BM belonged to Wobbler’s son and with words like “rebuilt” and “Perth no worries” he soon had me forking over $800.

Unfortunately what he didn’t tell me was that most of the rebuilding would be going on the night before I picked up the bike and it was his BMW-riding mate who’d be heading to Perth, once he’d plucked all the good bits off my new bike. Needless to say some months later Babe Rooth not only had his BM back in near pristine condition, he also had a stock of parts that’d come in handy in the years to come. Boxes of ’em in fact …

Since then Hilda has always been the back-up bike in the Rooth brothers’ stable. Twice I’ve been so broke I’ve sold her to little brother Nicko for whatever dosh he had on condition he gave me first option on resale. Twice I’ve bought her back, although the second time I hardly recognised her. Who remembers the 1982 Bathurst races? Of all the brilliant machinery centre-parked up the main street, not much got more attention than the Rommel Maschinen.

Most people thought they were looking at a genuine desert fox survivor. Most people are fools. My dear little brother had ruined a perfectly good black BMW by painting the whole bloody thing a cack yellow colour (“Cinnamon Stick Matt Interior” Rolf Harris would have called it, but everyone else called it Baby Shit) prior to fitting a set of open exhausts crafted from old Holden tailpipes.

Over the years she’s been both spoiled with things like a couple of second-hand tyres (until Metzeler distributor and fellow Boomer owner John Galvin had his way with her) and then abused by being left out in the alley near our place for a week with the key in and still no takers. Now they tell me she’s almost valuable.

Crap, what would they know? Old BMs don’t get valuable, they just keep hanging in for so long you can’t shake the bloody things off.

Like a blue heeler on heat, there’s nothing more faithful than an old BMW. No, not your shonky late­ model rubbish with chain-driven camshafts (zare are no chainz in zer R60s) and plastic side covers. Plaztic? Vot har you tryink to do? Save veight or sumsink? Dumkopf … We’re talking genuine fair dinkum real BMWs, the ones that earnt a reputation as the Rolls Royces of the motorcycling world and were built before the Krauts let their accountants make engineering decisions. (Ooh, I can hear Stronach and Matheson getting upset from here!)

Good riding? You bloody bet she is. Top speed is still somewhere around 70 mph (that’s about 110 km/h for us poor cam chain and plastic people – MM) but she’ll hold that all day. Handling is better than most thanks to a whole heap of inherent factors that make up for years of abuse. Things like a frame that’s too rigid to twist, suspension back and front that’s so balanced in operation even the spring units (like the wheels) are interchangeable (Earles forks are brilliant, they’re just too expensive to produce) and a built-in friction steering damper.

Gearshifting is slow but clunk free with the right combination of throttle and clutch, the ratios are perfect, the clutch is smooth and light (and as solid as a small car’s too) and the driveshaft has not been touched in living memory. Brakes? Yes, Hilda has brakes, but like my long lost girlfriend she stops when she wants to rather than when I’d prefer. You could say the braking and acceleration are in perfect balance anyway, even if we’re hard pushed to blow off Stronach’s mighty Kwaka 100 …

But talk about reliable. Magneto ignition means there’s always spark, even after a six-month spell — and there haven’t been many of those in the past 16 years. The baby Bings leak like a politician at a press conference but average 60 miles to the gallon with regular tuning. Twice a decade seems to be about right.

As to the rest, well quite frankly I think these old BMs are designed so well there’s hardly much can go wrong anyway. They don’t make enough power to pop anything, you just wind ’em up and spin along on the flywheel and the bike’s momentum. Of which there’s heaps.

Twice in 16 years she’s broken down on the road and both times we made it home. Once, many moons ago, I’d revved her right out in third (playing fighter pilots again, goggles down and thumb on the button … ) while blowing away a car on the outside of a fast Jackadgery corner. Bang! Kerfufflefuffle, big drone and heaps of slowing down. Hilda sounded like an escaped air compressor but she was still running. A little pin locating the cast-iron plug thread into one cylinder head had blown out, creasing my boot in best Biggles fashion. We kerfuffled all the way to Grafton on the other pot and made a temporary repair with a self-­tapping wood screw.

Err, it was to stay that way for the next three years…

Second time was after I’d cracked the editor’s chair at this illustrious ragazine. Even though the old girl was running, I lashed out heaps of cash importing the finest four-ring piston sets from Germany and the best of everything else needed for a full top-end rebuild. Money didn’t matter, I had a job and my old mate Hilda was finally going to cop some love in return for years of battling devotion to, from and around the opal fields. Her gala run was to be down to Victoria and back for the annual CHUMPS bash.

By the time Seddo, the Wog and I got home, Hilda was eating oil faster than petrol and having trouble keeping up with the clapped Seddon XS650. Maybe the bore was too tight, maybe I’d run her in too fast, whatever, the result was two sets of rings that looked like a bowl of Nutri Grain and pistons you wouldn’t piss on. I scavenged the boxes for the old bits, did a bit of filing here and there and she’s still getting me around some four years later. Old rings and all. She’s one tough old bird, mate.

These days Hilda’s sporting a solo seat and a custom tail light, both bits that didn’t make it onto my Harley. However my pride and joy — and the thing that really upsets them at BMW club days — are the stainless steel pipes with Triumph style mufflers (no inners) and fishtail ends — Sandy Campbell Staintune specials, and bloody beautiful they are too. Fishtails on a classic BMW? Arrgh, it’s enough to make the Gore Tex crew dribble on their lamingtons and dirty their propellor­-embroidered face washers. But it’s rare I hear their abuse because of that lovely burble.

And Hilda? She doesn’t seem to care one way or the other. As long as she gets her oil and fuel and a regular chance to blitz the traffic, looks don’t matter one bit. At 30 years young, this tart’s got more miles left in her than any number of plastic fantastics. Call it love if you want, but Hilda’s my mate. There’s a bit of magic in some bikes. This is one of them.

By John Rooth, Two Wheels, March 1992

And Now…

There’s no way you can read this and not think I’m a butcher. Well, I’ll wear that. It’s pretty right. Poor old Hilda, I’ve had her fifty years and used her senseless all the way. It’s as if the more reliable a machine is, the less care it gets around here.

Thirty years ago, when the second R60 motor and box ground to a halt, Lucky Kaiser and I squeezed in an R100/7 driveline. That’s literally: the frame was heated and spread, the rest bolted where it’d fit. There were a host of other jobs I should have finished like the rear shockies that ran on angles and the air filters that weren’t filtering but Ruby needed a rebuild and with child number one on the way we needed a house. If you ask Karen she’ll tell you that that was the order of priorities too. Hilda was going so she got ridden to work and shops and all that day to day stuff.

For the next fifteen years, until she got left leaning against a fence – did I mention both stands had fallen off? – during a week of rain. Water got into the cylinders, rust ate the barrels and rings, and nobody noticed for a month.

She seized up, right when we were having our third child, buying a bigger house and Ruby needed a new front end. So Hilda copped a quickie rebuild to get her going again. I don’t care what anyone says, basic airhead engineering makes for the strongest engines in the motorcycle world. Name another motor you could treat with this much disdain and get away with it. 

The poor old girl wheezed and wept for a decade until my mate John OIive shamed me into new Siebenrock barrels and pistons and getting the heads rebuilt. John, ex-army, knows me and didn’t trust me to do that once he’d left so he took the old stuff and ordered up the new just to make sure. Despite all the abuse the bottom end still felt tight so I left it alone.

Hilda’s never had an effective headlight so a couple of little LED work lights got bolted to a fabricated bracket under the headlight and wired direct to the battery so I could use them as day time running lights too. That’s kind of useful these days given the average ‘driver’ is about as disconnected as these new cars are ‘connected’. Plus I’d done a quickie spray paint job using three cans of black and six cans of beer. How was I to know that matt, low sheen and gloss black all had the same lid?

The result is a sort of blackish blend of overall crap that’s almost camouflage. Being LED’s the running lights draw very little current. A word of warning here. I tried a couple of cheap work lights and they were as pathetic as the original six volt equip. If you’re going to the trouble of doing this, pay more for Aussie made LightForce units. Four times the light for half the size.

A couple of weeks later John’s dropped the Siebenrock parts off and because they were so pretty I took my time putting her back together again. She fired first kick and I thought she’d never sounded so good but John reckoned there was a timing issue. In we go again to find the points are almost cooked — and I’d almost forgotten where they were having not been there for a decade — but this time (Gasp!), the Oliveman made me fit a Red Centre electronic ignition. Double gasp, she ran brilliantly! Maybe I’ve been missing out.

As it turned out, Hilda missed out again. The plan had been to put her back together and make sure she ran before a complete strip down and a long overdue repaint. My brother Nicko did a beaut job while we were still mining back in 1982 but it’s been spray pack patch ups ever since. 

So she might still be wearing her patched and faded dress but this old girl is hauling harder than ever. There’s nothing quite like launching from the lights on a geriatric bike. Oops, did I really say that?

Hmmm, maybe it’s time to ring around and see if any of my airhead mates know where I can get a set of softer brake linings…

By John Rooth, February 2025

The Bee’s Knees

Through the induction roar of the BMW R69S you can occasionally discern the whirr of the gear-driven camshaft. This is no late model R Series BMW with its camchain clatter. The R69 is a precision-built motorcycle.

When the Victorian Police used the R69S for pursuit work, the machines were nicknamed “Whispering Death”. Apparently you rarely knew the cop was there until he was alongside you, waving the big finger.

The S was no slouch, capable of 175km/h and a standing kilometre of 30.1 seconds. Legend has it that not too many British machines would outrun the big twin, while few, if any, were likely to stay in one piece long enough to outlast it. The old BMWs are renowned for surviving high mileages without requiring major mechanical work.

The R69S was introduced in 1960 as a sports version of the plain Jane and somewhat pedestrian R60. While the machines looked almost identical to the untrained eye, they were in fact quite different. Compression ratio was up 2 points to 9.5:1, carburettor throat size up 2 mm to 26 mm, while larger, more bulbous mufflers and a huge bell shaped aircleaner allowed the motor to breathe. Bigger valves and big dome shaped pistons were housed in larger ten-fin heads and twin-fin rocker covers. For good measure the S scored a hydraulic steering damper to aid stability, probably a first for a production motorcycle. Towards the end of the model run an expanding ring vibration damper was fitted to the front of the crank to assist in balancing the engine at high revolutions.

Like all early BMWs, the R69S was rated for sidecar use. Two positions were provided on the front swingarm — one for solo blasting, the other for sidecar work. Attachment points were provided on the right hand side as a standard fitment — lovely for the US and Europe but not much good for Australia.

In late 1968, the R69S was a relatively expensive machine costing in the vicinity of $1550 (then Sydney dealer Tom Byrnes’ last sale in September 1968.) Even when I bought a BMW six years later, the S was already considered a classic — some would say the last of the true BMWs. Already some of the small mechanical inadequacies of the new /5 series were making their presence felt, notably camchains and gearboxes. BMW had passed out of the small volume engineering phase into the real world of mass production.

Anyone who has pulled down an R69S motor will tell you that the bastards don’t wear out quickly provided you feed the motor clean oil every 3000 kilometres and a new air filter almost as often. The forged steel crank is fitted with two pressed-in crankpins displaced 180 degrees from each other. The crankshaft journals run in two oversize ball bearings, with a spherical roller bearing at the rear. This can be an Achilles heel if not fitted correctly. Drop forged, oval section conrods are mounted on the crankpins by means of huge roller bearings. The cam is mounted in ball bearings, above the crankshaft. It’s driven by helical gears at half the speed of the crankshaft.

If there’s a weakness it could be the somewhat primitive lubrication system which has no oil filter. A geared oil pump draws oil through a screen out of the sump and forces it down channels in the crankshaft to the two splash rings which distribute the oil. Not a bad system provided you keep your oil clean. While the engine couldn’t stand the revolutions of today’s four strokes, it was rated to 7000 rpm — not bad for a simple old pushrod twin.

There are heaps of guys (and girls) out there who reckon they can press up the crank of an old BMW and install it in the engine housing. Fifteen years in the industry tells me that there’s less than a handful who can do it properly. The process demands care and patience. One of the best assemblers I know lives on a farm up the NSW north coast. He turns up occasionally, presses six or so cranks and disappears again. You can only pay him on a dollars per crank basis. He is so meticulous you could never afford to pay him on an hourly rate. Mind you, he regards an engine as an extension of his body and the ones he builds appear to last forever if correctly maintained.

It is no secret that it didn’t make economic sense for BMW to produce these over-engineered motorcycles by the end of the ‘Sixties. Even at modest profit margins few people would have been able to afford to purchase a pre-1969 R series. Perhaps the change to mass production style motorcycles heralded the end of the real BMWs and the beginning of a decline.

Consider a parallel. Harley-Davidson has stuck to traditional and often outdated designs, through success, financial disaster, take-over and now back to success. Harley makes no apologies for over or old engineering — only updating to the Evolution format when it became apparent that it had to catch up a decade or two to stay in the sales hunt. Steel guards, real chrome, metal ancillary components and excellent paintwork are the hallmark of the Milwaukee Iron.

If you look at second-hand prices for Harley-Davidsons these days you can see that the big V-­twins retain their value. A quick glance at the new motorcycle sales figures and it’s not difficult to see that in a slow market they are having a bonanza. Like BMW, Harley-Davidson has always maintained long model runs with few changes which should ensure excellent resale values of quality machines.

So where did BMW go wrong? It is currently selling a product which spans a similar price range to Harley-Davidson yet even with police contracts is unable to match sales with Harley-Davidson. The reason may be that some of the old traditional BMW values aren’t present in the current motorcycle range.

What happened to BMW’s product as the ’70s rolled into the ’80s and present day was that some of the quality finishes and benefits were dropped. No one would doubt the need to build engines which could be mass produced. However, the long-term result was an erosion of good old fashioned quality of the ancillary and chassis equipment. The advent of the /5 saw the demise of the metal guards and sidecar-rated frame. It wasn’t long (/6) before enamel tank badges became plastic (which turned brown in the sun) and the traditional key disappeared. Seat badges were printed on late /6 motorcycles then disappeared forever. Plastic blinker surrounds were soon to replace aluminium.

Then along came black handlebars and mufflers (R65LS), replacing the bright chrome of yesteryear. Lighter clutches and then single-row camchains followed, replacing the old, sturdier components along with a reduction in flywheel weight (1981). All along the motorcycles became faster, but they also showed some nagging mechanical faults. Camchains rattled, paint faded and the plastic blinker surrounds turned on their stems. The metal badges which distinguished capacity and model disappeared from the crankcases and the plastic instruments (introduced with the /6) abounded.

Now we have the ‘bouncing’ K series version which can be fixed or stuffed by a sharp knock. All along weight and cost cutting measures have been used in an effort to remain competitive. A self­imposed power output limit continually reduces the possibility of outright competition with the Japanese superbikes. The thick, baked enamel paint has disappeared along with most of the quality pin stripe work and on some models painted tank stripes — little things which BMW owners had grown to appreciate in the R60 range and even the /5 lineup.

While the introduction of the K series in 1983 proved that Germany could build Japanese motorcycles — albeit with an excellent mechanical life expectancy — the long term result of the introduction of the new model has been less than brilliant. You can’t live on police sales alone, especially if the clothing which encases the mechanicals doesn’t exhibit traditional BMW quality. The new computer-coated painted surfaces tend to flake once the surface has been fractured by even the smallest stone chip. Unfortunately, resale value tends to reflect the K Series’ loss of traditional values. They are faring better than the Japanese but aren’t in the league of Harley-Davidson. Gone is the characteristic pulse of a twin and those little touches for which BMW is famous.

At various times I have participated in arguments between BMW owners over which were the best. The speed of the Ks persuaded some, while for others, the quality of the pre-/6 models and the old bikes’ inherent character dictates their choice. Those value factors can mean the difference between someone buying a particular motorcycle or going somewhere else and purchasing something else.

Perhaps the difference between the two eras is best described by extracts from some sales material for the various models. The current sales brochure is full of sales pitches such as “sensationally low front axle lift” — perhaps that’s an engineering feature, but I don’t think that the average owner would understand the terminology, or care — along with such gems as a “favourable drag co-efficient”, or “a motorcycle which attracts attention because it is as cool and dynamic as it appears.” Advertising hype appears to have taken over.

In the R69S brochure of 20 years ago, the story was orientated towards the motorcyclist: “For engineers … the designing of motorcycles is a ‘labour of love’ … One which demands testing under all conditions of wind, weather, road and competition for its perfection.” I think that means the induction roar of the S, the strange sensation as the Earles fork front suspension rises as you brake hard for a corner, perhaps a hint of uncertainty as the enormous flywheel drives relentlessly onwards as you power out of a tight curve, rocker cover and bulbous muffler just grazing the bitumen, a supple ride over bumpy surfaces and gut shaking corrugations.

In the early ‘Seventies, Dave Sanders rode a 69S to the tip of Cape York, a feat which still keeps the less experienced dirt squirts at bay 15 years later.

The standard fitment of a steering damper, hinged mudguard to aid rear wheel removal and auxiliary power outlet adds to the charm. To top that off there is an engineers’ frame without a fragile bolt-on sub-section, interchangeable wheels (complete with drive spline on the front) and built-in anti-dive courtesy of the Earles fork front suspension. Although nothing is indestructible, I’ve seen examples of this model which have been to hell and back with madmen and the bikes have survived incredible punishment. Do that with today’s models and you’d end up with all sorts of breakages.

As the photographer remarked, when first focusing on the R69S, it is a “funny looking thing”. After a while however, he thought the tasteful blend of chrome, black paint and white pin striping was “pretty”. If you look at today’s hyperbikes, you see very little of that deep chrome which was the hallmark of motorcycles in the ‘Fifties and ‘Sixties. Harley-Davidson is one of the only marques that still uses real chrome, with perhaps R series BMWs a distant second. Somehow chrome appears to personify the old principles of motorcycle construction, and it may be a sign of the times that it is strangely absent on today’s bikes.

Perhaps it’s worth comparing the now discontinued modern day R65 with the R69S. There’s no doubt the R65 is faster, stops better and perhaps even handles better on smooth roads than the R69S. Of course it has disc brakes, extra capacity and six extra horsepower to help it. Mind you, at the end of a day’s ride, the S would probably still be a mere foot behind the R65.

The R65’s camchain will probably be rattling, the shock absorber will be worn out and fork seals gone if it’s ridden hard for 20,000 km. At $7280 plus on road costs, it’s a cheap BMW, but for similar money today, a good R69S would almost certainly outlast it.

I have no doubt that a K series engine and transmission package will handle hard work almost indefinitely. Some of the electronics may not like the pressure and the odd drive shaft will snap if you indulge in too many wheelies. Unfortunately I don’t believe that the paintwork, ancillary equipment and shock absorbers will stand the test of time. In fact, close association with a couple of K series bikes convinces me it won’t.

The R69S was one of the best BMWs ever made because it was the last BMW built with the traditional engineering and quality finishes upon which the marque established its reputation. It was a go anywhere sports touring machine, a tag which only the current G/S may be sufficiently rugged to claim. Perhaps BMW needs to keep the S in mind and go back to the basics of quality engineering.

By Geoff Hall, Two Wheels, July 1989

Falloon: The Classic View

Although BMW has produced a variety of single, twin, four and six cylinder motorcycles, it is the boxer twin that has become the BMW trademark. Ever since the first R32 of 1923, the most prized BMWs have been flat twins, and one of the most sought after is the 600cc R69S.

Produced between 1960 and 1969, the R69S owed its origins to the 500cc R51/3 of 1951. While the R51/3 engine layout was similar to that of the earlier pre-war overhead valve twins there were many improvements. These included a single camshaft driven by helical cut gears instead of the earlier twin camshaft design with its long wear-prone timing chain. Other developments saw the magneto and generator now housed inside redesigned engine covers, but retained was the pressed-up crankshaft running on roller bearings. However, while the engine featured many improvements the general chassis was carried over from the pre-war models. This included a rudimentary telescopic front fork and dubious plunger rear end.

Considering BMW rose from the ashes at the end of World War II, it was going from strength to strength in the early 1950s. For 1952, a 72x73mm 594cc R67 and a higher performance 35 horsepower R68 joined the R51/3. By late 1953, the 100,000^th post-war motorcycle left the rebuilt Munich works. In 1955 the twins finally received a new chassis, this following the unusual form of the RS54 racer released a year earlier. The running gear now included swingarm suspension front and rear, with the driveshaft incorporated within the rear fork leg.

While swingarm rear suspension was now considered mainstream, an unusual leading-link Earles fork replaced the usual telescopic front fork. While providing built-in anti-dive under hard braking, the Earles fork was really more suitable for sidecar use, a popular alternative in the 1950s. These new twins became the 500cc R50 and 600cc R69, but they also coincided with a general downturn in motorcycle sales that saw many Italian and German makes disappear altogether. BMW also narrowly avoided bankruptcy until the success of the BMW 700 car during 1959. Despite the gloomy times, updated twin-cylinder motorcycles were released during 1960, one of these being the sporting R69S.

Ostensibly identical to the touring R69, underneath the R69S’s similar exterior was a reworked engine. With a 9.5:1 compression ratio and twin 26mm Bing carburettors, the power was 42 horsepower at 7000 rpm. A timed rotary disc engine breather was mounted on the front of the camshaft and a larger air filter and mufflers improved gas flow. Completing the performance specification was a closer ratio four-speed gearbox and a hydraulic, rather than friction, steering damper.

The chassis was carried over from the R69, with 18-inch alloy rimmed wheels front and rear and a 200mm twin-leading shoe front brake. Although the R69S weighed a considerable 202kg, there were few machines available at that time that could comfortably and reliably cruise at high speed on the German Autobahns. An R69S wasn’t as agile as a comparable British twin, and there were some initial problems if the engine was revved unduly hard. However, after BMW incorporated a vibration damper on the end of the crankshaft from 1963, the R69S would run all day at its maximum speed of around 175 km/h. This was something you couldn’t say about the British competition.

The BMW R69S was also surprisingly successful in racing. After winning the Barcelona 24-hour race at Montjuich in 1959 on an R69, Peter Darvill, again partnered with Bruce Daniels, narrowly failed to win in 1960. But with factory assistance for their R69S, they repeated their 1959 success in 1961. They also won the Silverstone 1000km race that year. René Maucherat and René Vasseur won the 1960 24-hour Bol d’Or at Montlhéry, and the R69S rekindled BMW’s interest in off-road competition. Sebastian Nachtmann won a gold medal in the 1960 ISDT at Bad Aussee, Austria, on his factory R69S.

Throughout the 1960s the R69S remained competitive. In September 1968 Kurt Liebmann and Fred Simone took the victory in the Virginia International Raceway Five-Hour race on an Amol Precision R69US. John Potter and William van Houten were second on a similar machine.

BMW established an unrivalled reputation for reliability when Danny Liska rode his R60 from the Arctic Circle in northern Alaska to Tierra del Fuego at the tip of South America. Liska was the first person to do so on a motorcycle, and covered 153,000km over a period of six months in 1960 and 1961.

Unfortunately, the R69S’s conservatism counted against it during the 1960s. Only available in black with white pin striping (or white or red to special order) it was always expensive and exclusive. Against the good looks and raw power of the British vertical twin, the BMW was seen as an anachronism.

Instead of a tiny fuel tank and slim seat, the R69S offered a 17 or 24-litre tank, small solo saddle or large dual seat. The only attempt at modernisation was the alternative of new long-travel telescopic forks for the US market in 1967. However, these were not popular and eschewed by the traditional BMW buyer in favour of the traditional Earles fork version.

By 1969 the market required a new machine, and economics dictated that the R69S engine, with its built-up crankshaft and gear-driven camshaft, be replaced by one more suitable for mass production. With over 11,000 produced between 1960 and 1969, the R69S may not be a limited production machine, but it is still representative of that earlier era when the accountants didn’t rule the engineers. As a motorcycle possessing all those usual BMW qualities of comfort and longevity, the R69S provided the best of both worlds. An eminently practical and useable classic motorcycle, the R69S has justifiably earned a place as one of the most desirable post-war BMW motorcycles.

Ian Falloon is one of the world’s foremost motorcycle historians and authorities on classic and collectable models. He has written several books on BMW, including The Complete Book of BMW Motorcycles, available here. An updated edition, pictured below, including the R1300GS range is due by the end of 2025.