When I bought my Royal Enfield Hunter 350, a lot of my friends asked, “Why the Hunter 350, Dave, rather than the Himalayan or Guerilla 450?” On reflection, that was a fair question, given my motorcycling background, but also something I wrestled with before dropping my hard-earned loot on the Hunter. Let me try to explain.
I cut my teeth on sports motorcycles, given that at that stage of my life, our roads were billiard-table smooth and traffic volumes extremely low. Breakfast runs were literally a road race to ‘Stywe Lyne’ restaurant out at Hartebeespoort Dam, normally approached from the Krugersdorp Highway and then down the Lanseria road. On occasion, we extended the ride to descend Hekpoort at silly speed to Magaliesburg for breakfast. Initially, we rode hot 750 Hondas, Suzuki GS750s and Kawasaki Z750s. Over time, the manufacturers started building bigger bikes. The 750s made way for a crop of exciting 1000s and the odd 1100. Honda’s fabulous CBX 6-cylinder 1000, Suzuki’s functionally better GS1000, and the strong, but poorly handling, shaft-driven Yamaha XS1100.
If you didn’t bump the right guys on the way to the dam, you lined them up over breakfast. “See you at the bridge”, was the challenge thrown down. The word got out, and in no time, a huge entourage of bikes made their way to the Krugersdorp highway, where the dice were put on from bridge to bridge. Spectators lined the highway and stood on the bridge to see who and what would rule on the day. Occasionally, the cops would pitch up, and pandemonium would rule, with participants and spectators fleeing in every direction. Those were the days indeed! Working for a Honda dealership at the time, I was normally flying the flag for Honda between the bridges.
Given this history, also followed by a couple of years of Super Single and Endurance racing, it is only fair to wonder why I would be vaguely interested in a bike like the Hunter. The Hunter, with its 20-odd horsepower and 27 Nm of torque, is certainly no firebrand, with a top speed limited to around 115 km/h, achievable by a modern superbike in first gear! Well, specs never tell the full story. In addition, there is always the issue of “horses for courses”. I must add that the Hunter was never intended to be the only bike. I also own a BMW R 1200 GS LC Trophy and an NC 750 DCT Honda. The Hunter is my “soul” motorcycle.
The Hunter is reminiscent of motorcycles of yesteryear. Motorcycles that existed to provide simple and efficient transport. As is so often the case, these honest and simple motorcycles are so endearing that you find yourself riding them more and more, to the partial exclusion of the other bikes that you own. So, what is it about this bike that has crept into my heart? Firstly, the looks. It is classically and beautifully proportioned. The tank is shaped from a bygone era, and it has archetypal ‘roadster’ looks. It is not what it does per se, but how it does it. There is no feeling of stress whatsoever. It pulls off the line with a throaty burble, and short shifting through the gears, it gets to 5th in no time and rolls along, more on torque than on horsepower. The bike is the absolute essence of motorcycling simplicity.
At its heart is a 349 cc air/oil-cooled single-cylinder motor with a 5-speed box. Endowed with conventional suspension with 130 mm of travel at each end and 17” mag wheels, giving it light and quick steering, the Hunter is nimble and carves city traffic with aplomb. I must comment on Royal Enfield gearboxes. For me, they are becoming the benchmark motorcycle brand for seamless, light and accurate shifting. The motor is wonderfully smooth, without any irritating vibes to speak of. Whilst not quick, it holds 110 km/h both uphill and downhill without too much effort. Highway travel between Jo’Burg and Pretoria is dispatched easily, with even the occasional foray into the fast lane whilst overtaking.
The 13-litre fuel tank is good for way over 350 km. My last tank, predominantly all town and around, yielded over 39 km/L, good for an astounding 511 k’s per tank. Typically, the consumption is a bit heavier with open road riding, but even at 30 km/L, we are looking at around 400 km on a tank. I can’t wait to do a tiddler tour with Little Willy to see how that pans out. The riding position is relaxed and comfortable, even for my 6’3” frame. The seat shape and consistency are comfortable and cosseting. I have fitted a Puig screen, which makes open road riding effortless. The flattish handlebar has a pleasant bend which falls easily to hand and is narrow enough to slip through traffic effortlessly.
The little Hunter is such an honest motorcycle. It puts a smile on your face just looking at it, and the grin gets even bigger when riding it. I don’t often name my bikes, probably because they come and go so often (now over 350), but with soulful bikes like Royal Enfield’s, you almost feel obliged to give them names, and so it is with my Hunter. How he got his name, yes, he is most definitely masculine, is a wonderful story in itself. It harks back to an age that spawned bikes like my Hunter. A time when the world’s moral compass pointed true north, and people could be taken at their word. A time when the world as we know it faced a threat which could not be ignored. A time when ordinary men and women answered a call not because they had to, but because they felt compelled to play their part, no matter how difficult or life-threatening.
André, a friend of mine, knowing that I have a huge interest in military history, gave me a book entitled “The Memoirs of Willie Power”. When his grandfather, Willie Power, passed away, he ended up with typed and written memoirs, accompanied by a bunch of photos and faded letters from the front, documenting his grandad’s wartime experiences during the Second World War. Sifting through the material, André felt led to share the memoirs for posterity, so, with the help of his wife Melanie, who spent many hours digitising material from Willie’s files, he produced a limited number of coffee table books immortalising his Granddad’s story.
I own many books that document this terrible time when the freedom of the world was threatened, but none come close to the wonderful, real-world way that these memoirs are compiled. Written after his retirement, 46 years after the end of the war, Willie shares his experiences as a young man, following in the footsteps of his own father, who “did his bit” and faced the same foe in the First World War. Willie, also feeling compelled to “do his bit”, volunteered for service with the Rand Light Infantry.
He documents the training, the friendships forged, the laughter and the suffering of a young man, small in stature but with a huge heart, who chose to risk his life for the good of us all. He shares the poignancy of his only true love, Lally, whom he met whilst on leave from the army. A love that endured through all his time away and resulted in a 53-year marriage that ended with Willie’s death in 1998. Letters home to his parents hint at an age of love and respect. He tells them how grateful he is for them and how deeply he cares for them. He signs the letters “Your loving son, Willy”. Willy saw action in the Western Desert, documenting being shelled by ‘88’s’, the brilliant, versatile German field piece that provided infantry support and also excelled as an anti-tank and anti-aircraft gun. Its high velocity shells had a distinct whine and shriek, easily distinguishable from other artillery pieces.
He tells of advancing under withering machine gun fire to a point where he would lob grenades before fixing bayonets and charging the German trenches. I cannot imagine the sheer guts of these fine men. Willie, small in stature but lion-hearted, went “over the top”, the term given for leaving the safety of your slit trench and charging the enemy across open ground. Willie suffered a severe hand injury when a truck on which he was travelling rolled over. The injury was so severe that it resulted in the eventual amputation of the little finger on his left hand. This gave him some respite from the fighting, but Willie, being Willie, played football and cricket for his unit, regularly scoring goals and runs and taking wickets. He clearly excelled as a sportsman.
The memoirs document a very dark time in human history, but at the same time speak of men with moral fibre, courage and plain human decency. Men who left the comfort and safety of their country to fight a deadly foe. Not because they had to, but because they chose to. Men like Willie Power. Ordinary men from ordinary families, but men who heeded a call when the world most desperately needed fine men of valour. The memoirs remind me of a world that, in ways reflect what we are experiencing today. The rise of radical Islam threatens the core values that men like Willie Power fought so desperately to preserve. Perhaps battle lines are again being drawn, where good men will have to step up to defend their faith and their values for the sake of their children.
My Royal Enfield Hunter 350 reminds me of these simple values that are core to our way of life. It is all in. Happy to rise to any occasion and give its best. Its small stature is not a limitation, but rather a strength. You get the feeling that you can ride it around the block or around the world. The heart of a Willie Power that says, “I’m up for it, just bring it on!” So, my friends, take a moment to reflect on the sacrifice made by fine men and women who gave their all for our sake. Their story must never be allowed to dissolve in the midst of time. Willie Power, I salute you!
Royal Enfield Hunter 350
For more information on the bike that we tested in this article, click on the link below…
