Stories of wild handling and vicious powerbands sharp enough to cut cardboard sprang to mind when I saw a Kawasaki 500 triple for sale. A week later I was the proud owner of a standard 1976 final production run KH500. The only improvements being a pair of Dunstall rear-sets. The KH was supposed to have more refined handling and saner power delivery than the previous rocket-like H1.
It was while riding the bike home that I started to notice the little things. Like the way the chain jumped the teeth on the rear sprocket when even mildly accelerating, an alloy plate welded on the engine clutch cover (not badly done just not mentioned by the dealer). Then there was the nearly bald rear TT100 and a persistent rattle from the standard centre exhaust pipe.
My new Mach 3 derivative was back in the dealers the next day to have new chain and sprockets and a new rear tyre fitted, a Conti this time, plus the full service the garage said had been done before I picked the bike up. The difference was fantastic, even the exhaust rattle had been fixed, a loose bolt that jiggled about in the pipe.
Performance, though quite spirited, gave the impression of being muted slightly and the handling, though not as bad as had been reported by journalists of the time, was decidedly vague at the rear end. Shot shocks and worn swinging arm bushes did not help. The latter were replaced and Girling shocks added. The difference was startling, no more straight line tank slappers or pogoing around corners on all three (two tyres and a leg).
It was now possible though not recommended to attempt to close the throttle midway through bends without soiling one's underwear and the acceleration, though still not all I hoped for, was adequate.
An article on how to midly tune Kawasaki triples appeared in a copy of Motorcycle Maniacs, junking the air box, mild porting, rejetting, etc. All my plans were put on the back burner by a woman in a VW who decided to see how far Kawasaki forks could be bent backwards by pulling out of a side road in front of me. My heart sank at the sight of my once lovely, spotless triple laying bent and leaking petrol in the gutter.
Actually, the worst parts were the front forks and wheel, a slight dent in the petrol tank and some scratches on the silencers. My injuries were a broken pinky on my right hand (which through incompetence at the hospital is still crooked today). Apart from that, both the bike and I came off quite lightly. Not so the Beetle, a mate saw it in the local scrapyard two weeks later, the body shell had been bent by the force of the impact, making repair impractical. Poetic justice or what?
Whilst the bike was off the road, I gave the tank a new paint job, the barrels were ported to the MCM spec, the heads skimmed and the carbs fitted with larger main jets (100s, up from 75). The dealers used the insurance money to fit a Z650 front end with twin discs and a set of flat bars along with a front Conti tyre to match the rear.
Come the big day, me and a mate were pushing the newly resurrected bike up and down our road trying to suck enough petrol through the vacuum petrol tap to reach the cylinders (wondered what that prime position was for). Having pushed the thing backwards and forwards for ages and getting nothing, my mate decided he'd had enough and was off home. I pleaded with him to just give it one more go.....we were just slowing to a halt, exhausted, when it suddenly lit up.
Full throttle in first gear! The bike leapt forward like a greyhound coming out of the trap with me hanging on like grim death, side saddle at an angle of thirty degrees with no helmet, jacket or gloves on a writhing, wild motorcycle. Control finally came at the end of the road, 300 yards later, leaving me a quivering wreck. When I saw my mate writhing around on the road I thought the bike had done for him as well but I found him laughing so hard that tears were running down his cheeks. He pointed to the road and I noticed the black line snaking in the same direction the bike had taken off in.
The back wheel had spun for around 100 yards until I had gathered enough sense to close the throttle. Seems my mild tuning had not been so mild after all. There was a definite power band that came in suddenly at 6000rpm and disappeared just as quick at 8 grand. Using Belray two stroke oil and K & N air filters on the standard pipes the bike would pull 115mph easily on stock gearing. After fitting a smaller rear sprocket (two teeth less), the bike would pull a top speed of 128mph at the redline.
After a particularly enjoyable run to Bridlington one Sunday, the bike had become rather loud and rattly, refusing to tickover cleanly. The centre exhaust baffle had blown nearly all the way out of the pipe and was pointing skywards....gave me a lot of trouble that baffle until it finally blew out altogether.
On route to buy a set of Allspeeds a few days later, the clutch cable came out of the actuator fork. The 130 mile round trip ahead did not deter me and the clutch was not really a problem as long as I didn't stop. Managing this to the edge of the city was no mean feat, but a set of quick change traffic lights saw my downfall. Rolling the bike forward and then snicking it into first or second gear worked fine until a dealer was found with the correct size allen key. A more relaxed journey home took place with a pillion struggling with three seemingly alive, awkwardly shaped expansion chambers.
With the Allspeeds fitted, the power band came in at 5500rpm and disappeared at around 8250rpm, but the engine pinked badly until some larger main jets were fitted (130s this time). The howl the pipes produced as the power took hold sounded just like Mick Grant's H2R racer - wicked!
The first outing was to Grimsby and back via Caistor with a mate and his lady along on a KH400 in case anything went wrong. My pillion being of a nervous disposition, we took it steady until the journey home when she on the back urged me to go faster. This was it. Down a gentle hill the speed built up to around the ton in no time, when we all noticed the tightening bend rapidly approaching. A real white knuckle job ensued, the curve eventually exiting into a short straight at over 70mph with the uncertain fear of ending up in the hedge uppermost in my mind. Both bikes coped extremely well with that even if both riders took a right ear bashing from their pillions.
Then came the trip which ultimately led me to part with my triple. A 66 mile jaunt which started off with a full tank of fuel and the bike going on to reserve just as we reached our destination.....that worked out at 22mpg! The excitement in riding the bike was still there but from then on so was the vision of petrol disappearing down a small whirlpool in the corner of the tank. It only did 30mpg around town as well. When petrol prices started to rocket the magic somehow went out of it and I replaced it with a more economical machine, but one which did not have the character of the old KH500.
It never let me down or threw me off through bad handling, it was a lot of fun to ride and captured Kawasaki's slogan at the time, Let The Good Times Roll!
Gary Stevenson
****************************************************
'A bike with a bit of history there, mate. Be worth more than a Vincent in ten years time. I'm not even keen on selling it, you know...'
These back street dealers revel in their own words, but I let it float over me as I took in the state of the 1969 grey import from the States. A stocker with only eleven grand on the clock but well faded, right down to the tuffs of grass on the back of the swinging arm.
'Can I have a test ride, then?'
'No chance, mate. Insurance, innit? You can go on the back with Mad Derrick, if you want. He'll give the motor a good workout for you, no doubt about that!'
Mad Derrick turned out to be six and a half feet of youth in an oil splattered set of bright orange overalls. His ancient Griffin helmet had a large crack in it and huge areas where the GRP had been worn down to the matting. Wraparound shades so densely black that even a blind man would've complained. He was dribbling with enthusiasm as the silencers crackled into life and the H1 did a veritable dance on its stand.
Both the salesman and I coughed and spluttered as the showroom filled up with noxious muck out of the silencers.
'It'll soon clear up,' he muttered and choked, surely with the kind of optimism reserved solely for religious nutters who think the end of the world is nigh. The heavily polluted High Street outside the showroom came as a welcome relief, like a cold beer on a hot day. The Kawasaki sounded like it belonged on a race track, causing ped's to cringe in fear and cagers' eyes to pop out in disbelief that such things should be allowed on the road...somewhere along the line the baffles had either been ripped out or corroded to dust.
There then followed an exhilarating, exciting and dangerous ride through town, along a busy dual carriageway and a final blast through some country lanes. Mad Derrick told me to lean forward, he crouched over the petrol tank, his lips in communion with the front mudguard. And still the thing spent more time on the back wheel than on both. The acceleration and vibration added up to blurred vision and a strong feeling that I was about to die. The bike bounced around corners like the wheels were falling out, tried to go sideways whenever the throttle was opened up.
'Bit of a goer, what?' The dealer screamed when we returned. 'There, see, she's running nice and clean now she's had a blast. I really don't want to see her go out of the showroom but as you're obviously taken with her, let's settle on two and a half?'
I was speechless for a while, thinking no way was I going to lose my heart to such a vile thing. But the dealer didn't look like he'd take kindly to my walking out.
'I was thinking more around the grand mark.'
'You wasting my time, boy? It's a classic motorcycle! For cash, without a guarantee, sold as seen, I could maybe do you two grand.'
'Well, I'll have to think about it.' I got out of there fast, a little disappointed that he hadn't tried to stop me. Problem was, over the next week the bike got to me more and more. I went to see another H1 advertised for £1500, which turned out to be a real rat in shiny clothes, couldn't even get its front wheel off the ground! So back to the dealer, offered £1750 cash, right there and then, told him it was all I had. He agreed to the deal, took the money and then basically threw the bike and I out into the street. Acted like I'd just robbed him.
The Kawa triple shrieked into life first gentle kick but wouldn't settle down to an orderly tickover. Noise, smog and vibration made it seem very primitive. First time at the controls, surprisingly easy to ride at low revs and handling seemed much saner than all the stories had indicated. Got her into fourth before I gave the throttle a blast - the bloody thing reared up, blocking out my forward vision until I slammed the throttle shut, when the back wheel squirmed aggressively. The throttle's really an on/off switch and it took my instincts some time to match up to the H1's fast reactions.
But it was kind of fun. All that edgy handling, vicious power output and the feeling that at any moment the whole thing was going to let loose in a big way. And it was also a talking point, the kind of outrageous machine that had the young women eager for a trip on the wild side, though their extra mass on the back made the handling even more frightening.
Wobbling, weaving, wallowing, shaking, shuddering, shuffling, juddering, bouncing, buckling...go some way to describe the curious progress of the H1 through corners. Definite no-no's were slamming the throttle shut mid-corner and trying for excessive acceleration out of bends as the front wheel reared skywards. In between these two extremes, there was usually a bit of safe progress if all the machinations were ignored.
It wasn't so much that the frame was crap but that the geometry was all wrong and that the suspension was entirely incapable of controlling things when it went out of line. The upright riding position went no way towards making me feel part of the machine, nor getting any, much needed, weight over the flighty front wheel. However, the beastly nature of the acceleration and wonderful howl of the three cylinders kept me endlessly amused, turned every ride into a roller-coaster of an adventure. I had many near misses but was never actually thrown off the machine. After three months I'd developed bulging arm muscles and an evil little grin.
On more mundane matters, oil and fuel were atrocious expenses - if you really need to ask then you probably can't afford it! Chains were ruined in mere thousands of miles and the back tyre could be reduced to a molten mess after an hour or so of mad wheel-spinning to impress my mates and neighbours. One old chap came out of his house brandishing a walking stick and tried to clout me over the head with it, but I left the OAP eating gravel. Nothing like improving relations between bikers and the general populace (and this was nothing like...). Spark plugs were also short-lived and very expensive. In short, it was a quick road to ruin.
Now, the motorcycle market being weird and warped meant I was able to off-load the Kawasaki after three months for £1950, inspired in this act of treachery by the way the gearbox had gone all awry, with what sounded like rumbling bearings. Don't know, maybe I was just imagining it, but it didn't really matter as after that time, and 3000 miles, I was becoming somewhat pissed off with the triple; it wholly lacked a gentle, relaxing side.
There are still a lot of Kawasaki triples out there, probably because they aren't used hard by the majority of their owners - they usually end up with a bent frame if they are. There are all kinds of expensive chassis mods touted as solving the handling but I haven't come across one that didn't want to go round corners sideways. Only buy if the myths inspire you!
H.J.W.
These back street dealers revel in their own words, but I let it float over me as I took in the state of the 1969 grey import from the States. A stocker with only eleven grand on the clock but well faded, right down to the tuffs of grass on the back of the swinging arm.
'Can I have a test ride, then?'
'No chance, mate. Insurance, innit? You can go on the back with Mad Derrick, if you want. He'll give the motor a good workout for you, no doubt about that!'
Mad Derrick turned out to be six and a half feet of youth in an oil splattered set of bright orange overalls. His ancient Griffin helmet had a large crack in it and huge areas where the GRP had been worn down to the matting. Wraparound shades so densely black that even a blind man would've complained. He was dribbling with enthusiasm as the silencers crackled into life and the H1 did a veritable dance on its stand.
Both the salesman and I coughed and spluttered as the showroom filled up with noxious muck out of the silencers.
'It'll soon clear up,' he muttered and choked, surely with the kind of optimism reserved solely for religious nutters who think the end of the world is nigh. The heavily polluted High Street outside the showroom came as a welcome relief, like a cold beer on a hot day. The Kawasaki sounded like it belonged on a race track, causing ped's to cringe in fear and cagers' eyes to pop out in disbelief that such things should be allowed on the road...somewhere along the line the baffles had either been ripped out or corroded to dust.
There then followed an exhilarating, exciting and dangerous ride through town, along a busy dual carriageway and a final blast through some country lanes. Mad Derrick told me to lean forward, he crouched over the petrol tank, his lips in communion with the front mudguard. And still the thing spent more time on the back wheel than on both. The acceleration and vibration added up to blurred vision and a strong feeling that I was about to die. The bike bounced around corners like the wheels were falling out, tried to go sideways whenever the throttle was opened up.
'Bit of a goer, what?' The dealer screamed when we returned. 'There, see, she's running nice and clean now she's had a blast. I really don't want to see her go out of the showroom but as you're obviously taken with her, let's settle on two and a half?'
I was speechless for a while, thinking no way was I going to lose my heart to such a vile thing. But the dealer didn't look like he'd take kindly to my walking out.
'I was thinking more around the grand mark.'
'You wasting my time, boy? It's a classic motorcycle! For cash, without a guarantee, sold as seen, I could maybe do you two grand.'
'Well, I'll have to think about it.' I got out of there fast, a little disappointed that he hadn't tried to stop me. Problem was, over the next week the bike got to me more and more. I went to see another H1 advertised for £1500, which turned out to be a real rat in shiny clothes, couldn't even get its front wheel off the ground! So back to the dealer, offered £1750 cash, right there and then, told him it was all I had. He agreed to the deal, took the money and then basically threw the bike and I out into the street. Acted like I'd just robbed him.
The Kawa triple shrieked into life first gentle kick but wouldn't settle down to an orderly tickover. Noise, smog and vibration made it seem very primitive. First time at the controls, surprisingly easy to ride at low revs and handling seemed much saner than all the stories had indicated. Got her into fourth before I gave the throttle a blast - the bloody thing reared up, blocking out my forward vision until I slammed the throttle shut, when the back wheel squirmed aggressively. The throttle's really an on/off switch and it took my instincts some time to match up to the H1's fast reactions.
But it was kind of fun. All that edgy handling, vicious power output and the feeling that at any moment the whole thing was going to let loose in a big way. And it was also a talking point, the kind of outrageous machine that had the young women eager for a trip on the wild side, though their extra mass on the back made the handling even more frightening.
Wobbling, weaving, wallowing, shaking, shuddering, shuffling, juddering, bouncing, buckling...go some way to describe the curious progress of the H1 through corners. Definite no-no's were slamming the throttle shut mid-corner and trying for excessive acceleration out of bends as the front wheel reared skywards. In between these two extremes, there was usually a bit of safe progress if all the machinations were ignored.
It wasn't so much that the frame was crap but that the geometry was all wrong and that the suspension was entirely incapable of controlling things when it went out of line. The upright riding position went no way towards making me feel part of the machine, nor getting any, much needed, weight over the flighty front wheel. However, the beastly nature of the acceleration and wonderful howl of the three cylinders kept me endlessly amused, turned every ride into a roller-coaster of an adventure. I had many near misses but was never actually thrown off the machine. After three months I'd developed bulging arm muscles and an evil little grin.
On more mundane matters, oil and fuel were atrocious expenses - if you really need to ask then you probably can't afford it! Chains were ruined in mere thousands of miles and the back tyre could be reduced to a molten mess after an hour or so of mad wheel-spinning to impress my mates and neighbours. One old chap came out of his house brandishing a walking stick and tried to clout me over the head with it, but I left the OAP eating gravel. Nothing like improving relations between bikers and the general populace (and this was nothing like...). Spark plugs were also short-lived and very expensive. In short, it was a quick road to ruin.
Now, the motorcycle market being weird and warped meant I was able to off-load the Kawasaki after three months for £1950, inspired in this act of treachery by the way the gearbox had gone all awry, with what sounded like rumbling bearings. Don't know, maybe I was just imagining it, but it didn't really matter as after that time, and 3000 miles, I was becoming somewhat pissed off with the triple; it wholly lacked a gentle, relaxing side.
There are still a lot of Kawasaki triples out there, probably because they aren't used hard by the majority of their owners - they usually end up with a bent frame if they are. There are all kinds of expensive chassis mods touted as solving the handling but I haven't come across one that didn't want to go round corners sideways. Only buy if the myths inspire you!
H.J.W.