Honda CB160

Buying a 1965 Honda in 1992 didn't seem like a very good idea. I'd always liked sixties Hondas, though, brought back my youth. This one had been stashed away for over ten years. The engine was reconditioned but refused to start. The clock read only 18000 miles. The tyres and rubbers were perished but the rest was reasonable.

I listed down all the bits I'd need to buy. Cables, chain, battery, tyres, etc. As soon as I saw the total I decided I'd be better off going to breakers for bits. The engine was the big question mark. Was there something major wrong? Or was it just a simple fault that the owner had missed. It still kicked over with plenty of compression. I reluctantly handed over a hundred quid, including delivery.

After putting in some new oil I made up some clutch and throttle cables. The Honda dealer had just looked at me as if I was mad. I attached the car battery. Kicking over the engine a few times there weren't any hopeful noises. Checking an engine this simple is a matter of sussing fuel and sparks. Out with the plugs, there was a whiff of petrol but no sparks. New plugs didn't help.

The points were the next port of call. Aha, all black and gummed up. Cleaned up the surfaces, set the gap and timing. A nice fat spark at the plugs. Carefully screwed the plugs back in. Knowing that it was dead easy to cross-thread them. Japanese alloy of this era really is crap!

The engine made some encouraging noises. Kick, kick, kick, kick......gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp......kick, kick, kick, kick.......and so on for most of the afternoon. I was sure she was going to fire up eventually. After losing about a stone in weight, the damn motor finally rattled into life. The top end sounded like a machine gun on full fire.

The next day I fitted a new battery. Set the valves and gave the camchain tensioner bolt a couple of turns. The bolt wobbled in its thread then shot out. That was all I needed. I found a slightly bigger (British thread) screw and force-fitted this into the cylinder casting. It carved out its slightly larger thread. I took it out, coated with Araldite and then screwed it back in as far as it would go. Left to set overnight. Whilst I dealt with fitting the used consumables I bought from the breaker.

The next day I was ready for the open road. The engine was reasonably quiet and surprisingly smooth. It was just a plain OHC twin, whose basic design persisted until the Superdreams arrived. A quick run around the block revealed no real horrors. The MOT followed. A cursory examination that took five minutes.

The engine was rev happy, the harder it was used the better it felt. Smoothness was much better than some modern twins. As was top speed, 80mph on the clock. The suspension was a bit weak. There was so little movement that the lack of damping didn't matter. A slight back end wallow was the worst that could be said for it. If I ignored the pounding my spine took over bumpy roads. It was one of those bikes that makes the rider feel part of the experience. I don't like remote machines. Like to know what the engine and tyres are doing. The Honda was good on this front.

The drum brakes were not quite up to maximum speed sorties. The front faded quite badly after a couple of hard stops. The back never had much power to begin with. I tended to limit my speed to no more than 70mph. Both brakes and suspension felt a lot happier. The riding position could take even greater speed for much longer.

After the first couple of weeks, when I started going on longer trips, an engine fault developed. The motor overheated then seized up. Left to cool for an hour it freed up again. Running with no apparent ill effects. I'd already checked that oil was getting through to the head by taking a tappet cover off. I suspected that the baffleless silencers had messed up the carburation. If I kept below 5000 revs there was no overheating. The carbs obviously needed larger main jets to make the motor run leaner.

That's the big problem with running 30 year old motorcycles. Getting spare parts for them is a major hassle. I ended up buying a set of pattern silencers instead. The old ones were rusting through so it seemed like a good investment. The engine was quieter, cleaner running but still did the same overheating trick. It seized three more times on the open road.

Then it started knocking. I was 25 miles from home when it happened, didn't belong to the AA. No choice but to ride home. I didn't make it. There was an almighty bang, then the machine ground to a halt. After an invigorating two mile push I was back home. One of the con-rods had snapped. Like most Hondas of this era, there is a centrifugal oil filter in one end of the crankshaft. This was full of gunge. There was sufficient supply of oil at low revs but the bypass valve didn't work. At high revs the engine suffered from oil starvation. Hence too much heat and eventually a broken con-rod. Whoever did the original reconditioning was a complete jerk not to check it.

The Honda's crankshaft can be rebuilt. I'd found another crank which had ruined its main bearings. Looked like it was twisted out of line, as well. Only cost ten quid in an autojumble. This supplied the con-rod for the rebuild. Its says a lot for the toughness of the twin that the main bearings were okay. The chap who did the job normally only rebuilt Triumphs. He was agog at the size and multitude of bearings in a mere 160cc twin. Shows where the old British companies went all wrong.

The engine had lost some of its smoothness. Maybe because I didn't pay too much attention to running it in. There was a distinct buzz that set in from 6000rpm that convinced me to take it easy on the throttle. I found that 400 to 500 mile services were necessary. If the engine oil wasn't changed the gearbox became full of false neutrals. It was never slick nor precise but a bit of thought with the left boot usually sufficed.

The electrics were 12 volt but not very good by modern standards. The front light had me peering over the bars, wondering where the road was going. Judging by the way cars cut me up, even in town, it wasn't much good for warning of my presence. Neither was the pathetic squeak from the horn. It was better to pull in the clutch and rev the motor. It's probably unfair to criticize a thirty year old bike like this, but it was so bad that I thought I was going to die several times. The lights improved miraculously when I wired in a direct earth lead to the battery. The same trick did nothing for the horn which eventually fell apart.

The chassis reacted to the winter weather by throwing off great chunks of chrome and paint. The mudguards had slowly been rusting on the underside. The front took the opportunity to disintegrate one of the few times I went on the motorway. The wheel locked up until the guard was completely demolished. I'd lurched out of the slow lane on to the hard shoulder. I was lucky not to have been thrown off.

After that little incident I checked over the chassis very carefully. As well as a rear guard waiting to go the same way one of the shock's studs was about to rust off. The guards were easy enough to replace with some universal alloy items. A so called friend with a welding torch proceeded to melt half the rear subframe rather than fix the rust problem. He reckoned that the whole structure was all but rusted through. And the best thing I could do was throw the whole motorcycle into the nearest skip or canal.

I wasn't too keen on this idea but had to admit that there seemed no easy way to fix the frame. What I needed was another chassis that would take the CB160's engine and running gear. It'd have to be cheap and a lot newer to avoid similar rust problems. Tape measure in hand I headed for the nearest breaker. The CB160's motor is only attached at the head and the rear, so I hoped it would be relatively easy to fit but I couldn't find anything remotely in line with the engine's dimensions. I sold off the remnants to an old Honda enthusiast for £250.

The CB160 was no doubt an excellent bike in its day, but now they are so worn that they are not really a viable means of transport.

Bernie Greene

Honda C200

1965. The sixteenth year of my life when I'd somehow put the cash together to buy a six month old Honda C200. This was a 87cc OHV single, looking vaguely similar to the later C50. The chassis was similar to a late sixties Honda CD175 with leading link forks similar to the C50. This mixture weighed in at only 125lbs and developed eight horses.

This is all ancient history but what makes this particular C200 interesting is that I am still riding it. It has been used by various family members over the years but ended up back in my hands in desperate need of a rebore. Mileage has now reached 62000!

The early days were great fun. The first bike and all that. Top speed was only 60mph, after thrashing through the four speed gearbox. Such speed, on what was intended as a mild commuter, was accompanied by a chassis that had no damping and would often turn into a giant pogo-stick. Its minimal mass meant it could be thrown back on to its line.

The SLS brakes didn't help, the front could fade away to nothing. It was okay for town riding but youthful exuberance meant I ran the Honda off the road a couple of times. Bent footrests and scarred handlebars were the usual result. The Honda proved itself very tough in both these and later encounters with the tarmac.

The first rain showed up the tyres as diabolical. They slid all over the road, the 2.5 inch width on 17 inch wheels not in the least bit reassuring. They were junked the next day. Tyre wear is so minimal I've never really worked it out, probably over 20,000 miles.

Despite its low top speed it'd buzz along tirelessly at 50mph, with the ability to hold that speed in fourth even up slight inclines. At the time I didn't take much notice of economy, but the ability to return over 100mpg when thrashed is, these days, impressive. More than 150mpg is possible when riding mildly around town, which puts into question the way modern motorcycles have developed. These days I usually get 125 to 130mpg, with a tank that takes nearly two gallons that equates to a range of over 200 miles!

The seat is quite comfortable enough for that kind of the mileage in a day but the lack of speed becomes a bit mind-numbing. The seat was recovered some time in the late seventies as it started falling apart and soaking up water. The riding position is a bit upright and someone on the tall side so completely dominates the C200 that it looks like a toy-bike. The upright stance doesn't matter because of the lack of speed.

I tried a few mods to the engine, such as dumping the airfilter and exhaust baffle but they just made more noise and lost the smooth delivery of power. The OHV unit could be revved to about 9000rpm but would tick over reliably at 1200rpm. Starting was by kickstart rather than electric boot, but it was pretty reliable. The only time I had any trouble was when the electrics played up or when the spark plug needed replacing.

The electrics have rotted somewhere along the line, most of it isn't original. It's a pretty basic alternator and coil ignition set-up with lights that don't give much illumination, a Lucas rectifier (it was in the garage looking forlorn) and various bits of wiring that have replaced the rotted originals.

After two and a half years of relentless abuse the Honda was handed down to my younger brother. He seemed even more reluctant than myself to do any regular maintenance. His courtship with the horrible Honda ended after only seven months when he thought it'd be fun to see what happens when a C200 is ridden into the side of a car. Back then, cars were rather more solid than they are today - the front wheel collapsed and my brother was thrown on top of the car, helmetless. He hasn't ridden a bike since.

I was enjoying myself on a CB77 by then, so the C200 was slung in the garage until a used wheel turned up. For the next couple of years its use was minimal but it always surprised me when it came to life first kick. It wasn't until the mid seventies that the bike was put to good use commuting to work. By then my taste for speed was much diminished so the way the Honda reliably plodded back and forth to work each day was fine by me. I couldn't conceive of a cheaper or quicker way of travelling in heavy traffic. The C200 was so light and easy running that it could scamper ahead of bigger bikes.

By the end of the seventies, with over 50,000 miles on the clock rust had attacked the back of the pressed steel frame and the massive front mudguard. The shock studs looked like they were about to pull out of the frame. My brother attacked the frame with his welding torch and an evil grin but he did a reasonable job of reinforcing it which is still there to this very day. I patched the guard with GRP and put some new bushes in the very sloppy trailing link front forks. The frame and guard were hand painted black to reasonable effect.

I'd acquired a C90 as my main commuter tool but was not too impressed with this OHC engine, fuel was only 90mpg and it wasn't any faster. The centrifugal clutch was a horrible affair, I much preferred the hand clutch on the C200, even if the gearbox was a bit nebulous by then. Still, I used the C90 in deference to the older bike's age. It wasn't until 1985 that the C200 was used in fury again, by my son who was then seventeen.

It didn't have much street cred but he seemed happy enough using it for going back and forth to work for a year until he bought a car. I did the maintenance myself but by the time he'd finished with it the exhaust was smoking heavily. Ordering a piston from the local Honda dealer was an interesting experience but it came after about a month. The rest of the motor was in good condition, which I thought pretty remarkable.

For the next seven years I've used the bike for commuting in the summer and even for the occasional weekend ride. For one year it was loaned to a cousin who was desperate for some commuting tackle. She had a lot of trouble with the gearbox but surprised everyone by passing the test first time and then buying a Honda CBR600! She even let me have a go, bloody fantastic machine but I reckon I'd kill myself if I was allowed by the wife to acquire such a motorcycle.

The C200 felt like a Raliegh Wisp when I went back to riding it for the first couple of days but I soon reverted to my sane and sensible style. It was rather like riding a bicycle, planning the path ahead so as not to lose too much momentum. Acceleration had become rather stately.

It's still a tremendously cheap bike to ride, the chain (fully enclosed), brake shoes and tyres all last over 20,000 miles. The oil's changed every 1000 miles, the points and valves done every 2000 to 3000 miles. Its build quality is tremendous, better than the C90 which seemed to be falling apart under me after 40,000 miles and expired with knocking main bearings at 44000 miles. There were a lot of bits that were salvageable for future use on the C200. The engines do look similar despite their different top ends but the engine mountings are different, so there's no chance of slipping in a modern engine.

The C200 obviously isn't the kind of bike that inspires highway madness. But it's a very worthy machine that shows how Honda managed to take over the motorcycle world. I knew loads of friends who were turned off motorcycling by their experiences with British bikes that fell apart under them. The C200 was - indeed, still is - as tough as they come.

Martin Crane

Despatches: On a GT550

I've been despatching in London for just over five years. A quick way to ruin a motorcycle, in this case a venerable Kawasaki GT550. Actually, most of the damage was done when falling off and most of the falling off was in the initial 5000 miles. Call me stupid if you like (and a lot of people do), but it took me that long to work out that the Japlops were crap in the wet and the wild slides were not necessarily normal fare for middleweight Japanese fours.

The habits of despatch riders take some describing, a lot of it as much mythology as reality, but the GT550 fits in well with the general reign of neglect, abuse and, er, madness. With shaft drive, gaitered suspension and a robust motor it's possible to get away with riding the bike into the ground over tens of thousands of miles.

The slightly bland nature doesn't help, either, as it's easy to hold the machine in utter contempt until it gets under the skin after the first 50,000 miles when it's usually too late to revive the old dear. Not that it stops running, or anything, just that it becomes so rotted and faded that there's no way to revive the sheen (of what is often merely a year old bike).

One fellow DR has achieved an enviable 296,650 miles, not out, on a basically stock GT550. The engine rattles and knocks like an old BSA single, the gearchange occasionally makes a noise like a machine gun going off and the handling is vague, to say the least, but it still grumbles into life every day and gets the job done. At the other end of the spectrum, some hoodlum blew up an engine in 32000 miles, a combination of mad wheelies everywhere and never changing the engine oil let alone the filter; a piece destructive testing that even the UMG would be proud of!

Engine bars are natural GT550 accessories, especially on OE rubber, saving the crankshaft from being written off on too many occasions on my own machines. They're also useful for taking narrow gaps between cages, the GT being a compact machine but not a particularly narrow one. Volvos are considered fair game amongst my crowd, though nothing more than a glancing blow can be indulged as they are quite tough cars, as likely to rip off the engine bars as they are to unfurl their own body panels. The density of the traffic and the layer of crud over the back end makes it impossible for cagers to wreak revenge.

All part of a DR's mad day out. The worst thing that ever happened to me was a big red bus that decided to ignore my right of way and a red traffic light. I pride myself on quick reflexes but God I'm not and there was no way I could transform Newton's law of action and reaction. By scraping past the bus I threw the bike in front of a totally shocked (senseless and reactionless) lady driver who found the softest impact area with unerring accuracy - my leg! Scream? You could say that!

I still walk with a limp and was supposed to be off work for a year but I moonlighted for nine months of that, a partially plaster encased hero. The bus driver was never traced and my own insurance company was not too amused at the revelation that I'd been despatch riding. I had no choice but to work, what with the mortgage, family and pile of money owing on the GT.

There didn't seem any way that I could've avoided the accident in retrospect, even if I'd been riding within the speed limits and not been trying to make up time. There is nothing you can do when the Grim Reaper makes an appearance, you just have to go with the flow and make the best of it. A minor consolation was that my leg, having absorbed the worst of the impact, saved the GT from any serious damage, just the usual bent ancillaries - you have to do something very wild to bend the frame, although I know one guy who walked away from a banana shaped GT. Ran, actually, as he didn't have any legal documents and there was nothing left worth salvaging.

The most hilarious moment was when the bottom yokes started to crack up! One moment I was speeding along in my usual inimitable style, the next thing I knew the front end was jabbering all over the place. I had the presence of mind to use the back brake and gearbox to lose speed. By the time I was down to 10mph, the front forks were almost horizontal and the engine was churning up the tarmac. That I didn't fall off shows what a lucky little bugger I am. Damage wasn't too great, just a new set of yokes. Well, the chassis had done 197,450 miles at that point and was on its third engine!

The crowd of pedestrians who formed to view the radically elongated Kawasaki, were at a loss for words, as were the two van loads of cops who descended on the scene full of fear of yet another terrorist incident. They at least helped me pull the stricken GT up on to the pavement, which allowed the cagers to get back to whatever they do when not playing on their horns. I got a mate to give me a ride to the nearest breaker where the necessary bits were acquired.

The GT was also quite adept at throwing off the back the larger parcels. Losing a parcel when working as a DR is likely to send one's controller into a frenzy of abuse and threats, although as I see it, any client stupid enough to expect a van sized parcel to be delivered on a motorcycle, over London's pot-holed roads, in one piece gets exactly what he deserves. This is not, though, a point of view to venture when receiving a dressing down that would put the average British army sergeant major to shame. You either take it, burst into tears or tell them to f..k off.

The latter wasn't recommended a couple of years back when there was an excess of DR's and a scarcity of work, even these days good companies are the exception rather than the rule. My third mirror helps, angled so that I can sneak a view of what's affixed out back and I've even attached an umbilical cord between myself and the parcel.

Not a perfect solution, as one box that was heavy enough to be full of gold bullion, fell off and tried to pull me off the bike with it until the bungee cord stretched beyond its point of elasticity (yes, I did go to school once upon a time), the end of the cord coming back at about 200mph and taking a great big furrow out of my favourite crash helmet. At least I was able to retrieve the box and apologize to the pedestrian who was screaming as if the flight of box into his person had broken his leg! I cleared off before he was able to stagger upright and demand retribution! Nothing like being a good citizen and this was nothing like being a.....

Which reminds me of the time I came out of a building after making a delivery to find a couple of kids trying to prise open the panniers and top box. I screamed something at them as I rushed down the steps, being old fashioned enough to believe in the sanctity of property and that a bunch of kids should be terrified of a large, leather covered person waving his hands about. The nearest kid turned around and gave me a punch in the kidneys that dropped me dead. Only a troupe of OAP's descending on the hooligans made them hop away, full of merriment and audacity. I sort of crawled my way up the GT and back into the world of the living, whilst the ancients waved their walking sticks and grumbled about the modern world - I tended to agree with them at that moment.

It's a big enough hassle just staying alert for eight to ten hours in the saddle every day without that kind of trauma. One of the advantages of keeping a bike for a long time is that the riding position can be set up to suit oneself perfectly, which along with a comfy seat that I modified myself, means it's usually not quite purgatory. I know some people who find despatching so punishing that they have no interest in motorcycling over the weekends but I've got one of the first CBR600's for kicks; it's the kind of machine that ignites passion in even the most worn out motorcyclist.

Very few DR's end up dead or, worse still, as vegetables, although almost every one has at least one serious accident - some call it character building but I reckon you only get so much luck in life and somewhere along the line the markers are called in. I'm not complaining, it's a pretty neat crack and never boring.

K.L.

Despatches: Good DR Bikes

A good machine can make all the difference between despatching being an enjoyable pursuit and turning into a malevolent, fear inspired trip. The last 15 years has turned up some good despatch hacks. The longest running has to be the GT550/750. At first glance these bikes are a bit unlikely, being heavy and slow in town but the tough engine, shaft drive and overwhelming sensible nature has converted thousands of DRs. When the boredom becomes too much they can be got up on the back wheel!

Even more unusual is the NTV600 (and lately the budget priced 650) but despite some flash accoutrements the engine is tough, the shaft drive maintenance free and the narrowness of the layout, along with a useful power to weight ratio, make them very nifty compared to the portly GT. Honda must've been shocked to see their high tech tourer thus abused but played along by slashing the NTV650's price. If you have to buy a new bike this one is worth looking at.

The NTV was a bit of evolution of the VT500 which, clutch and camchain on high mileage bikes apart, provided many a despatcher with an immensely useful hack. Its low weight and narrowness more than made up for any deficit in power compared to middleweight fours. There are still quite a few running, a testament to the basic strength of the motor.

The VT could trace its roots back to the CX500, the odd rat still seen on the DR circuit. Given their early engine problems and top heavy feel their passing popularity as a DR hack was a bit surprising but in between engine rebuilds they did run reliably and were always cheap to buy.

At the other end of the spectrum the odd step-thru is seen wobbling along the gutter. The biggest problem with these wasn't the lack of performance but the way each and every car tried to run them up on to the pavement. Despatch bikes have to look large and sound loud!

The Paris Dakar replicas would seem ideal on that score. Comfortable long travel suspension and riding position, a brilliant view over the top of cars from the tall saddle and loads of thumping torque. The Transalp is the most popular, another derivative of the VT500, perhaps because it has a better running engine than the big thumpers. The latter tend to cut out at low revs and burn out their starters; the electric boot isn't a luxury in despatching it's a necessity.

For these reasons the XBR500 didn't last for long in the popularity stakes with DR's. It was just too much work for too little return. Despatching is always a test of an engine's toughness and the two XBR500's I knew about were finished off in about 15000 miles of hardcore despatching.

I did run a Z200 for a month, which proved that a tiddler could turn in decent delivery times but thrashed relentlessly it started blowing gaskets and losing its gearbox. A few desperate characters seem to do quite well on newish GS and CG 125s. They both have fantastic economy (100mpg plus), weave through small gaps and have tough motors for the first 20,000 miles. Thereafter it's down to the breakers looking for a cheap, low mileage motor. Good bikes are available for under a grand so they are ideal for new despatchers.

I quite like the GS125, which like their bigger twins, is as tough as they come. I rolled along on a GS450E quite happily for half a year and the bigger GS500E is even better for despatching. The electrics were quite reliable but, ultimately, the crankshaft bearings start to knock around 60,000 miles even if the oil's changed every 2000 miles.

Comfort, when riding for long hours for day after day, is very important. I have a King & Queen seat that I keep swapping between machines along with a large screen and pair of handlebars that suit my body perfectly. The set-up ruined the lines of almost every bike I fitted them to but it didn't matter as I was able to pull them off when it came time to sell. Much better to look like a plonker but still be able to walk after a day's hard graft.

Even better than the GS was the GPZ500, a remarkable little twin from Kawasaki. Its only real fault was the sixteen inch front wheel that would slide away on greasy London roads - at least it made sure there were plenty of bikes in breakers! As narrow as the NTV but quicker than the weighty GT750, making it a fast and furious way of doing jobs in record times. I always sold mine before the motor needed a rebuild (at about 75000 miles, though camchains can be needed at half that mileage). Some also seem afflicted with Suzuki inspired electrical foibles!

The universal hack, the Superdream, preferably in 400 form but more usually as a 250, is still used by the odd masochist, who having perfected the roadside adjustment of the balance chain (GS and GPZ's have gears) swear by them when not swearing at them. The 400's certainly fast enough to do the job but the whole thing starts to rot away come 50,000 miles; few have gone around the clock. Thank God!

Much more promising, the CB500, Honda's new twin seems as well set-up for despatching as the GPZ500 with a design that has no connection with the Superdream other than in general layout. It's too early to comment on the longevity but a few have already done 15000 miles without falling apart.

Just as new, BMW's F650, has also fallen into despatchers' hands. Its engine runs beautifully, matched by good comfort and light handling. The Pegaso, the Aprilia version, along with most Italian bikes, are rare on the despatch circuit. They are either viewed as being too expensive (although the Pegaso's cheaper than the Funduro) or too dodgy to take the rigours and abuse of continuous thrashing.

Other BMW models are quite often employed, more for their virtues of longevity and low running costs than anything else. The way the boxer's cylinders stick out is a grave limitation on fast riding through traffic, though I know at least one reprobate who reckons it's better to take off the side of cars than lose his foot or leg in an accident. I wouldn't buy one for despatching unless my circumstances were desperate.

The same goes for the old British stuff (I've yet to see any new Triumphs being ridden into the ground), although the odd one pops up from time to time. Usually a Triumph or BSA twin from the late sixties or early seventies. God knows how they hold together, although their lack of mass and relative narrowness makes them quite usable. When they aren't falling apart!

Much simpler and dirt cheap, the MZ 250's quite popular as a winter hack. Its solid handling over wet and icy roads is useful, the large cloud of pollutants obscuring the numberplate from alert plod and it is reliable for the first couple of years. As long as the electrics are covered in gunge and the motor's given regular servicing.

Few other Iron Curtain models are up to the job. I saw one guy on a Ural 650 trying to make a living, even saw him reversing down a one-way street at a tremendous rate, wobbling all over the road. After about three days he was never seen again. He'd either crashed into something or the boxer-type engine had lived up to its reputation by blowing up.

Few people have the time for the constant hassle involved in running such bikes. Wasted time equals lost opportunities. One possibility when running old hacks is to have two or three spare bikes and an engine ready to swap when the other one fails. This is a good ploy with devices like Kawasaki's GPz305. An ideal little despatch mount for heavy town work but one which can blow its engine with tedious regularity. One mate has no less than two spare engines, reckons he can do a swap in less than an hour.

Low running costs can make the difference between making loads of dosh and just getting by. Shaft drive obviously helps but the weight penalty can hasten the rate with which other consumables are ruined. It's a brave rider who buys secondhand tyres because in the wet that extra bit of grip from new rubber can avoid terminal slides.

There are lots of possible machines for despatching but no definitive ones. More than anything, choice will depend on what comes up in the secondhand market.

D.L.

Despatches: Money Blues

One week I cleared 600 notes, the next I made a third of that, then a quarter, then back up to £500 for a couple of weeks. Then into hiding as the government Gestapo came to town in force, sorting out the real from false; revelling in finding people with multiple identities. I didn't do it myself, but I knew clowns who claimed social from several different offices across London (it paid all their basic costs, leaving the DR money as pure profit). I was more worried by the Inland Revenue who had yet to realise I existed!

It helped to move from derelict squat to girlfriend's flats to the floors of long suffering friends; the constant changing of address as important as turning over the motorcycle every month. As I always had to have wheels, I could never sell my bike before buying another, but that was okay, there was plenty of room for manoeuvre in the capital and I knew enough about the way both the world and motorcycles worked to come out ahead by at least a couple of hundred quid.

I preferred the hustle of buying and selling to actually maintaining a motorcycle or fitting new consumables. In a month I'd do two to three thousand miles, which was well within the limits of neglect set by Japanese machines. All it took was a sound ear for mechanical malaise and a good eye for bent frames. I usually picked up MCN late on a Tuesday, descended on some poor guy's residence just as he was ready to go to sleep and only too happy to get rid of me by selling his fading motorcycle at a bargain price. In a sea of credit merchants I was famous for carrying my stash of hard currency around with me in a bulging money belt. Nice if you can get it.

The fluctuating income from despatching made it hard to figure how much money I'd have in my pocket at the end of the month. The key to everything was to live as cheaply as possible for six months of the year, make a large profit, then spend the six months of the winter in some hot, third world country where everything was cheap, including the women. Africa, Asia or South America were all hot spots for those inclined towards cultural imperialism and the sleazy side of life.

Not that any UMG readers would want to know about that kind of immorality.......back to the ever so wild streets of London. I'd taken the hint from the editor and fitted myself our with a Walkman (electrical interference from the radio buzzes my ears so I always know when the controller's trying to give me an ear-bashing). None of this Punk nonsense, though, Rap, Rap, Rap blitzes my brain all day long, aiding the lunatic riding style necessary to survive London traffic.

I favour 400 to 500cc vertical twins. Superdreams, GS450/500E's, GPZ500's, etc, etc. They have enough power to scare the shit out of most cages, are narrow and light enough to flip past imprudent coppers, and they have simple enough designs to suss out without needing a degree in mechanical engineering or 20 years experience as a factory trained grease-monkey.

I always go for bikes with loud exhausts; by the time the cagers have got over the shock to their minds from the noise it's usually too late for them to perform any sneaky, homicidal moves. A decent front brake, that'll shake the forks in their bearings, is another essential ingredient to successful despatching. For that reason I try to avoid bikes that will wheelie on a hint of throttle - the brake's damn all use if the front wheel's a couple of feet in the air.

The one Paris Dakar replica I owned floated brilliantly through the battlefield of potholes and bumps that the average London road represents, but I had to sling a bag of cement over the handlebars to stop the thing trying to loop the loop every time I went wild with my right hand. Just for a laugh, one time I bounced it down a flight of stone steps with some enraged stall holder throwing potatoes at my head. Well, I had a delivery right in the middle of a street market and on the way out I'd brushed against his stall. That's what happens when you give in to common humanity and decentness; as an alternative I could've run down some old granny entombed in Iranian blacks! Next time I'll know what to do.

In parts of London anything goes; the traffic lights are ignored and the Highway Code has as much relevance as morality in an African brothel. It's everyone for themselves and any cop silly enough to give traffic directions to that mad mob would be mowed down, torn limb from limb, flattened out like a dead hamburger box. So you can imagine how the average motorcyclist fares.

I've seen grandfather types on mopeds squeezed out of the gutter, thrown on to the pavement, either flying through the air or being crushed against a post box or lamppost. The cagers just sound their horns in jubilation and add another notch to their steering wheels. Kids on L-plates are even worse off, trying to keep their dignity out of the gutter they are buffeted, abused and scared silly by the cage antics.

I react to this kind of nonsense with maximum throttle and violence. I think the final solution would be to arm all DR's with .358 Magnums and let them shoot erring cagers between the eyes with Royal impunity (it's surely a Green kinda thing). You either join in with the lawlessness, show the buggers you've got a bigger pair of balls, or end up either broke, completely insane or a vegetable in a dingy, remote NHS ward. Throttle and brake craziness rules; make more noise than a pack of roving tanks and ride like you don't give a damn.

It's always interesting to see virgins from out in the sticks turn up in the capital, out to grab their share of the fortune. It doesn't take them long to work out that rather than being paved in gold, the streets are awash in grime, grease and shit; that everyone's fuse has blown and the great god mammon is as elusive as a beautiful Soho hooker.

New DR's fall into two camps after the first couple of days. There's the majority, who look like shell-shocked, napalm scorched veterans of the Vietnam fiasco. I often pick up cheap bikes off these disillusioned chaps who, on trainee rates, find it impossible to conceive of a time when they will cover their running costs let alone make hundreds a week as promised in the enticing adverts in Motorcycle News.

A small minority of new DR's come back with wild grins and tall stories. It's as if they have found their place in life; the extravagant adrenalin rush of tearing through traffic on two precarious wheels. You can see in their eyes that they will be in the game for a long time and might even, once they suss the quickest routes across London, make loads of lovely lucre. I end up supplying them with bikes as they invariably have some nasty crashes in the first couple of months.

Make no mistake, despatching is hard physical and mental graft. In the heavy, chaotic traffic you have to go for it at ten-tenths all the time; not just to survive but to beat the odds on time and mileage; set by psychotic controllers with an unfathomable sense of black humour. A slight detour from the optimum route or too rigid an interpretation of the traffic laws can all add up to a loss of earning power. The odd bottle of whisky slipped to the controller does wonders for the way multiple drops and pick-ups magically come together.

Avoiding accidents is, after the first couple of months, all down to an uncanny sixth sense. I crashed three time on the first day and six times on the next. They were taking bets on which hospital or morgue I'd end up in, back in the office. I'd crawl into bed at night still shaking from the near fatalities, get hardly any sleep from the sheer worry, yet, the next morning, leap on the bike with a true warrior's grin.

One of the old DR hands assured me that it would all fall into place after a while, that I had the right kind of spirit for the job. At times he had more faith in me than myself but after the first month my survival instincts came to the fore and my reflexes sharpened up. It's a well weird, manic kind of life but if you can take the flow and ebb of the day then it can be rewarding. But after six months of madness I'm desperate for my holiday in the sun.

K.L.

BMW R100/RT/RS/C/CS/S/T

Three years ago I came across a 1985 BMW R100RS with 80,000 miles on the clock. A tidy machine despite the mileage except for massive corrosion on the wheels and so much clutch slip that it wouldn't transmit power above 6000 revs. Stock except for a replica stainless steel exhaust, which was a bit blue around the gills but in a lot better nick than can be expected from the standard, quick rust job. Mine for £700, how could I say no?

Not my first BMW, so I was used to the shaft drive shuffle and the high speed wallows, not that it would go much above 70mph with the slipping clutch. The rain was pouring down most days for the first month of ownership, so I thanked the full coverage of the RS fairing. The screen was stock but was too low as standard, throwing up a lot of water on to my chest. I knew from past experience that fitting a higher screen would radically drop the top speed from 130mph to 110mph. BMW designers knew a lot about aerodynamics.

I used the bike for two months before having a new clutch plate fitted (£80). The gearbox action improved considerably after this, but it was still a noisy bugger. My considerable BMW mileage meant that I was able to keep the lurches under control. Third gear, and sometimes second, would fall into a false neutral under acceleration. The valves didn't seem to mind being bounced at 10,000 revs but the vibration was something else.

Boxer vibration, even on the smaller machines, is a bit disconcerting to newcomers to the BMW way. On the R100, with those gargantuan pistons, the torque reaction from out of line pistons causes a blurred chassis up to 2500 revs, but then smooths out, only to come in again once past 6500rpm. It's never smooth to the point where it's possible to forget there's a real motorcycle engine working between my legs. But then again, it's never so bad as to cause failure of any chassis components or intrude upon the long distance comfort.

The BMW has a contented feel to its motor that works its way insidiously into the subconscious and somehow transforms even a dreary day's ride. The more I used the R100 the further I wanted to ride it. The flat, narrow handlebars are not to everyone's taste, but I found them ideal for all but more than an hour in town; their compactness heightened the feeling of being part of the motorcycle as we growled around the countryside.

BMWs are lauded as long distance tourers. Cynics might suggest that with the way their cylinders stick out it is about all they are good for......whilst it's true that they can't take the same small gaps as a step-thru, in the winter their cylinder location gives off a welcoming blast of warm air which more than compensates. Anyway, the fairing was bright white with a few red slashes, so cars tended to move out of the way thinking it was a plod-bike.

BMWs are easy to service but need more regular attention than the Japanese stuff to the valves and carbs. Both needed attention every 500 miles (newer bikes will do ten times that) but as fuel and oil were reasonable I did not take this as a sign that the motor was worn out. It wasn't until the exhaust valve on the left-hand cylinder started tightening up, needing work every 100 miles, with 86000 miles on the clock, that I began to worry.

When the other cylinder was similarly afflicted and there was a lot of banging in the exhaust I decided I'd better whip the heads off. This is an easy job thanks to their location. Not so simple was salvaging the cylinder heads. The head of the valves had broken away in places, which had also left the valve seats deeply pitted. The intake valves were looking like they were going the same way. The valves are softer than the seats, which is a good bit of design if they're replaced early enough.

I had the seats recut, the ports flowed and fitted a new set of valves. The bores looked okay so all I did was polish the pistons and cleaned some carbon off the rings. The pistons were standard so it looked like the motor was still on its original bores. Just to be on the safe side I put in a new timing chain, although it hadn't started rattling (I doubted if it was the original). Whilst the bike was apart I pulled the wheels out, took a wire brush to them and painted them matt black.

The rebuilt bike started surprisingly quickly. I took it easy for the first 200 miles then started off on a London to Edinburgh blast on the M1. The BMW was laughably easy to cruise at 100 to 110mph. It would go faster but the back end weaved and the front forks shook. I'd had a few speed wobbles on BMWs in the past so only held on to 125mph for a few moments. The RS fairing has to be praised, the faster the bike goes the better planted on the tarmac does the front wheel feel. I've never come across a bike fitted with a big expanse of plastic at the front that works so well and it still looks modern after 15 years on the market.

The front brake could be a bit vague, but when the twin discs bit properly the forks dived and twisted. BMW suspension had always favoured comfort over tautness but even as the mileage crept past 95000 there was still a residue of damping that stopped the bike turning into a giant pogo-stick.

Eventually, a used pair of progressive springs turned up for a fiver. These went in after a bit of hassle tearing the forks apart. The difference was only really noticeable under heavy braking, high speed riding was still a bit loose. Putting a large pillion on the comfortable seat helped damp out the back wheel weave at 120mph but this wasn't always feasible and I had no intention of riding around with bags of sand on the back.

Fuel varied enormously. A pillion added 5 to 10mpg to the carnage. The combination of freer flowing, albeit slightly noisier, silencers, and some tampering with the carb jets meant it was usually around 50mpg. The stock bike was doing well if it gave 40mpg under high speed cruising. Gentle riding allowed it to touch 60mpg and as this permitted 80mph cruising it wasn't as boring as it sounds.

The engine felt at its smoothest at 80 to 90mph, a speed range where high torque and power coalesced. The tank was good for 200 miles of tireless cruising at this rate of knots; the seat comfortable for even longer. I could do more than 500 miles in a day without any serious twinges of mortality. Serious touring was aided by a powerful headlamp and a horn that blasted into the consciousness of even the most sleepy cager. The panniers take all the hassle out of loading and unloading goods on a tour; I had one fall off on an earlier Beemer but the later design seems more robust.

Paint finish on the cycle parts is exceptional. Even as the bike went through 100,000 miles it would still polish up well. Frame paint went missing in a few places but when cleaned and touched up rust did not make a reappearance. I'd owned one Yamaha that shed paint almost as soon as I applied it. Because the RS fairing is still used from a little distance my bike could pass for a two or three year old rather than an old rat on its last legs.

The R100RS is one of those bikes that lets you look with disdain at those lesser mortals who change their hugely expensive Jap's every year or two. I've taken a couple of friends on the bike and given them a test ride..... despite its idiosyncrasies the way it still moves has convinced them to go the BMW way. They were a bit disappointed with their newish machines, they had thought if my oldster was so good at such a high mileage then their bikes should be heaps better - it's one of the BMW's virtues that it wears so well there isn't much difference between a 10,000 and 100,000 mile one.

Don't know how long my R100RS will keep rolling. The chassis is in excellent shape, the engine still good for 120mph on the unusually accurate clock and I've still enough faith in the machine to leap on board to head off for the open road.

Dennis Reynolds

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The Beast lived in the rhododendrons, under a very mouldy green tarpaulin. It belonged to the guy in the flat next to mine, and every morning he would uncover it, haul it out of the bushes, fire it up and roar off to work with a noise like a Panzer tank, which in certain respects it resembled. The Beast had started life in 1980 as a perfectly respectable BMW R100RT, smoke red fairing, touring bars, Krauser luggage, the lot.

Over the years a series of incidents had completely altered the machine's appearance - the fairing and panniers had been badly damaged and subsequently removed; the rear mudguard and tail light replaced with Suzuki items; a police type single seat fitted, and the front indicators looked like bloody road-work lanterns. Probably were, come to that.

The silencers were cheap Campbell universals, which gave the bike a healthy roar, to put it mildly, and the handlebars were mounted on four inch Harley risers in a token effort at custom credibility. What remained of the pannier frames supported a small and tatty top box. A cracked windscreen off a moped kept a bit of the wind off the rider, along with a huge pair of handlebar muffs. The tank had been painted matt black, most of the chrome parts were rusty, the engine casings and barrels were well corroded and the cast wheels were painted red.

In short, the bike was a mess, a great big hairy, noisy mess. I have to confess that I coveted it - yet another commandment broken. Last summer, the Beast was temporarily replaced in its owners affections by a sodding great Scania artic, which he drove all over Europe. One weekend, when he was back in the UK, I persuaded him to sell me the thing for three hundred notes - well, it had done 91000 miles, was about to need a new MOT and had hardly any brakes.

Then I gave it a road test. Slowly, down to the end of the road, and stop. Only it didn't stop. The rear brake, a single disc, didn't work at all and the front, a twin disc operated by both cable and hydraulics needed a very firm hand and a lot of forward planning. Luckily, nothing was coming. I carried on round the block, the machine felt huge, like riding a supertanker, the lack of brakes only adding to the illusion.

But it did go. It didn't so much as accelerate, it charged. The gears were slow and noisy, the back end lifted up when you moved off. It had hardly any steering lock, and apart from not wanting to stop, it didn't like turning corners either. It took me about an hour to get the hang of it, probably the most dangerous hour of my life, but in the end I won. I made it go, I made it turn and I made it stop; I rode it home feeling like I'd just won a battle. I loved it. This was the sort of macho motorcycle I could live with. Then I got to work.

The windscreen and muffs I junked. The handlebar risers went back to the seller as part of the deal, they weighed about a ton anyway. I changed the oils and filter, replacing the silly front indicators with a neat Jap pair from my bits box. Rewiring the flashers showed up a number of discrepancies in the electrical system, which bore very little relation to the wiring diagram, even allowing for translating from the German.

I sorted it out in the end and then discovered that the rear brake light switch was mounted in exactly the right position to attract the maximum amount of crud from the back wheel, having almost corroded away. I replaced what was left of it. Then I tackled the brakes. The front brakes responded to serious adjustment but the back one had to be completely rebuilt, even then it needed a very heavy right foot to make it work.

Amazingly, it passed an MOT. The next problem was where to put my passenger and luggage. I slung out the old pannier frames and top box. A pillion pad from a pre-war Beeza went on behind the single seat, mounted on brackets made up by my nephew, who does things with metal. A rack, four quid from an autojumble, fitted neatly on the back to take my Rickman top box, which had been on several bikes and all over Europe. My throw-over panniers fitted very nicely. As the machine was described on the V5 as red I sprayed the tank with some old Duplicolours, converting it from matt black to matt red.

A quick word about tyres - the front was a tatty Dunlop with an interesting tread pattern caused by erractic braking whilst the back was an Avon SM, a superb tyre both tough and hard wearing, with much better roadholding than its somewhat square section would suggest. I replaced the front with a Conti, which improved cornering by about a million per cent. Finally, I fitted a riding light. I don't like using a headlight in daytime in case it gets mistaken for a signal that I'm giving way to traffic, nor do I like riding without any illumination at all.

So, I copied an idea from a certain Swedish car beginning with a V. Incidentally, have you noticed how many Volvo estates have Labrador dogs in the back - they are the drivers' guide dogs. Anyway, I used a Halfords car reversing light (very cheap), put in a ten watt bulb and mounted it on top of the headlamp (facing forwards, idiot!), connecting it to the parking light circuit. The result was a good clear riding light.

During these mods I had been piling up the miles riding to work and was now ready for some serious motorcycling. The first long ride was to the Kent Custom Bike Show.

Remember Kent '91? Mud, mud, glorious sodding mud. The bike ended up looking like a hippo and I ended up eating, drinking and watching the girls. Motorcycle Show? What motorcycle show?

Next, I took the Beast to France. I spent several days on the beach trying to take photos of the sea, but every time I pressed the button some girl with hardly anything on walked right in front of the camera. After about a week I got really pissed off with this and left for home. Then disaster.

Just south of La Rochelle, a little red light came on. Normally, I ignore warning lights provided the bike is still running but close scrutiny seemed to suggest that the electrical system wasn't charging. Brilliant! I was only about 300 miles from the ferry, with no breakdown insurance and very little cash.

There was only one thing to do - switch everything off except the ignition and press on. The indicators packed up, the tacho packed up....I refuelled at Vannes with the engine still running, and still the beast kept going. Finally, just outside a small village called St Pierre de Something, it ground to a halt. I removed the battery, legged it to the village garage and in my rusty French asked if they could charge it up. They could and did, boiling it for two hours on a large industrial charger for free.

The charge got me the 180 miles to Cherbourg, on to the ferry, off at Portsmouth, through customs and home to Surrey. Panic over.The next day I took the Beast round to my mate Del. Del is the absolute whizz on Beemer Boxers, he doesn't reckon Ks - too much electronic trickery. He had a large workshop with loads of tools and fancy diagnostic instruments with complicated dials. What is even more impressive, he knows all the correct technical terms to describe the various electrical malfunctions that can beset a motorcycle.

''Your generator's f...ed,'' annouced he.''And the rectifier!'' These he cheerfully replaced for me with ones he just happened to have in stock. And even more cheerfully charged me for. But in all fairness, a lot less than I would have paid for new parts and without the worry of going to a breaker.

In the Autumn I did a day trip to Cornwall. I came back up the M5 at a speed which could best be described as autobahnesque, which I held for over an hour, my arms getting longer by the minute. The beast didn't like it.

Almost as the mileometer turned over 99000 it started making very nasty noises and the clutch started to slip. I got home okay but I soon realised that, in economic terms, the illness was terminal. When Del offered to buy it off me for spares at a very good price, I reluctantly agreed.

Running costs - it always did exactly 46mpg however it was ridden. It needed quite a lot of oil, a litre every 200 miles - the more expensive the oil the quicker it was drunk. In 8000 miles the pads wore a bit but not that much; the back ones not at all as I never used it much. I've never had a tyre do less than 12000 miles and often a lot more than that.

Why was it called The Beast? Well, I made the mistake of parking it next to my brother's brand new 1200 Sportster, which he calls Beauty. The comparison was thus fairly obvious. Would I buy another Beemer? Yup, definitely. The Beast was terrific to ride once I'd mastered it and it oozed street cred. I'd like one with a few less miles on it next time, though.

Jim Peace

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I chopped in the Nighthawk which was having trouble going far enough without rattling, sold the Cortina Estate and had the £1750 that Riders of Yeovil were asking for the W reg BMW R100T that I bought about 15 months ago. Not the R100RT that everyone thought I meant whenever I advertised it, The R100T came out after the R100/7 around 1980, and only seems to have been in the showrooms for a couple of years.

It was the basic 1000cc unfaired BM. Narrow handlebars and almost nothing in front of you. The centrestand has to be kicked up deliberately, the first few times I rode away I thought that the engine had fallen out, but it was only the stand. It still had the heavy flywheel which means you have to get it just right in the lower gears, but gives a nice free surge changing up into top at high revs.

The gearchange had been improved by fitting a spring damper in the drive shaft to isolate shocks from the gearbox, and the change could be smooth and quiet if you were considerate. It was also possible to find false neutrals amongst the top gears when changing down at high revs and not getting it just right. The R100T had a higher final drive ratio than the previous R100/7 but they still reckon the older ones were faster than the new range of boxers.

The bike cruised easily at about 70mph, at 4000rpm. Another 1000 revs saw 90mph on the clock, the bike feeling just as relaxed - this was where the huge Bing carbs stopped grumbling at each other, going quiet and sweet. This was the speed at which the bike was most happy. With no screen or fairing the wind speed took all the weight off my arms, all you had to do was hang on until you got earache.

There was still some spare power to the redline at 7500rpm, acceleration up to about 110mph on the clock. After that it would get up to 115mph but it would all feel a bit busy and bouncy.

When I bought the R100T, it was a nine year old bike with 12000 miles on the clock. It sounded and felt like a good one compared with some other boxers I'd tried. I serviced it by the book, starting with a major service at Vincent & Jerrom in Taunton, who were prepared to let me do all I could and then bring it in for them to set it up and balance the carbs before I bought my vacuum gauges.

The boxer engine must be one of the most straightforward and accessible, the low state of tune tolerated my amateur mechanical interference without complaining until I sold it 15 months later with 27000 miles up. The bike was totally reliable, never breaking down, always starting, which inspired a deep sense of security when it was acting as an umbilical cord in countries across the Channel.

The only time it didn't get me home was a few weeks after I bought it. I went for supper in Laugharne, left the bike in the car park ignoring the warning sign about seasonal flooding and was interrupted halfway through the meal by someone talking about the tide coming in and my bike being under water....I didn't understand at first, he didn't seem to be making any sense. I remember running down the steep, twisting street to the car park which was under water - salt water!

Earlier, there had only been a river and a bit of estuary about half a mile away. My new dark blue and stainless steel BMW seemed about three miles out to sea and totally submerged except for the mirrors. The group of Welsh spectators cheered as I took off my boot and jeans, wading into the sea in Y-fronts. A group of kids splashed out with me. In fact, the water wasn't up to the exhaust outlets, although I did get water in the pipes on the way out. It was up to the sump and the front engine cover.

I had to strip half the bike off, clean off the salt water and spray everything with WD40. I'd finishing sluicing the machine down, with no sign of the AA, so started it up with the silencers off and the WD40 coming out in flames. Recalling the way the people of Laugharne had failed to warn me or rescue the bike, I rode it up and down their streets in an explosive mixture of sudden rage regained and glee and jubilation at getting it going again.

I was back at Vincent & Jerroms the next morning after the AA had finally taken me home. They told me they left their BMWs in the sea all the time; they're made to get wet. Change the oil, stop worrying about it. I calmed down a bit, stopped gibbering, went home, changed all the oil, ran it around for half an hour, then changed the oil again. The gearbox oil had emulsified and I had to change it three times but that was all. I ran it another 14000 miles without any problems until I sold it.

I'm not sure if there's a connection but 12000 miles after this, checking oil levels before a trip to France I found the gear oil emulsified. I don't know why. I changed the oil and that was that. I always checked all the oil levels before long trips, having pretensions towards thoroughness. Sometimes the drive shaft level was down, or seemed down, as the means of checking isn't very precise. There is a problem, on some bikes, of oil migrating from the shaft drive to the gearbox.

The clutch started slipping after 3000 miles, in Brittany. But it got me home and through most of the winter. At first it was intermittent and adjustable, it was replaced at the 20,000 mile service - it's unusual for the clutch to need replacing at such low mileages. Other niggles were a couple of electrical parts. Also, at 20,000 miles, just after the service, coming home late at night the day before leaving for a work trip to Norway, the regulator went - usefully indicated by the standard voltmeter and, more luckily, noticed.

Late last summer, on an incredibly hot day, I stopped in Cornwall, to sort out the incredible directions to where my brother was staying. A policeman stopped and I wondered how long he'd been following me. He asked if I was lost and when I said no he told me to follow him, sonny. When I started up the engine sounded like shit, nails rattling around in a bucket.

I switched off but the engine and the starter motor kept on going! I pulled the plug leads off and it kept going. I switched the petrol off, although that wouldn't make any difference, whilst the brain went into warp drive and dislocated again as logic didn't work. Eventually, I gingerly disconnected a battery lead, push started the bike and carried on.

The solution was to have the starter overhauled at an auto-electrical shop where they didn't touch bikes. I took the starter in anyway and pretended it was out of a car; it was big enough! I'd previously checked the starter relay and the solenoid but both were okay. Just a starter jamming on for unknown reason. I wondered if I'd been too liberal spraying WD40 under the tank in the winter, and the lubricant had settled around the starter and just gummed up.

The speedo was, I suppose, reasonably accurate up to 90-100mph where it became erratic; eventually the needle gave up all pretence of giving a legal reading of road speed and just skittered about like a Jack Russell on a leash smelling a rat. I renewed the cable at some point but it didn't make very much difference, and apparently it's a common and accepted boxer trait.

The fuel consumption was about 45mpg, or more if I was out with a pillion and riding considerately. The five gallon tank regularly went on to reserve at 180 miles on the trip mileometer and then would go to 220 without causing me to panic, and once to 230 miles. You can get a get a couple of extra petrol tanks from Harman Services that fit into the space where the sidepanels usually are - each tank takes a gallon which would give seven gallons in all, giving a range of 350 miles taking it easy, which is almost enough to make me want another boxer!

I put Metzelers on instead of the mixture of Continentals and Roadrunners that were on when I got it, and they did about 5000 miles on the back and 10,000 miles on the front - the bike's very sensitive to worn tread and tyre pressures; it wobbles and skips about if things aren't just right.

There are things about the boxer that you don't miss until after you've sold it. Those huge cylinders sticking out each side do keep your feet warm. A huge fishtail at a roundabout on my next bike as I gently touched the back brake lever made me realise that the R100T doesn't have much of a back brake. The plunging boxer forks made planning ahead much more comfortable than actually using the power of the twin front discs, although they were relatively old fashioned in design and action.

After getting back from Norway with a pillion and luggage on the back along mountain and fjord side roads that sometimes weren't wide enough on the hairpins for the bike and the tanker coming the other way, I washed the bike and found a leaking oil seal with one fork half empty; taking it as further evidence of my ignorance and the forgiving nature of the bike.

Later on, I tried different weight oil in the forks when I imagined it was bumping about a bit more than usual on long, fast bends, but it didn't make much difference, so I went back to the oil recommended. I thought about fork braces and upgraded suspension but finally sold it instead.

The headlamp was okay and you can reach over to adjust it whilst travelling if you've got a pillion and don't want to dazzle other drivers. The switches work okay once you become used to them. In spite of its idiosyncratic little drive shaft wriggles, the way the rear skips about on white lines or other road imperfections and the wobble at the front at about 40mph if the tyre's worn, I found its handling easy and forgiving. For a Rubber Cow, anyway.

All the weight is low slung, it's easy to balance in traffic. I used to rub my feet down on the ground without trying and know others who've worn the pots away touching them down. At least once I was grateful for all the inherent stability and tolerance, when a coach came out of a tunnel and I had to do everything wrong to get round the coach and round the bend into the tunnel.

Some people thought that I was always working on the bike, and that might have been because it was ten years old and some bits were just getting tired; or it might have been that I enjoyed working towards getting one small circumscribed area of life just right and reliable. The despatch rider with the R80 used to come round and just chuckle at me. I always felt it was a bike that benefitted from regular attention (like everybody) but I know others who like them because you never have to touch them.

I thought about buying all the goodies for it to make it faster and better handling but decided that wasn't the point of the boxer twin. I've stayed fond of it, though, and if I could afford six machines the R100 would be one of them. But I can't, so it isn't. Now, there's a D reg GSX1100 hunched up outside in the especially extended garden shed. I've had flu ever since I bought it.....

Anon

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There are few bikes that wear as well as BMWs. That's what I thought, anyway, when I viewed the twelve year old R100CS which looked like it'd only done 5000 miles rather than 35000, and only had one owner rather than four. My feeling of happiness was intensified when I swung a leg over the Beemer, a superb riding position that made me feel at home straight away.

I stalled the motor first try. It felt really fearsome, the engine shaking in the frame and the heavy clutch very vicious. When first gear engaged the whole bike trembled as it clunked home. My left hand strained against the force of the clutch. When it stalled the mill had a terminal reverberation that hinted that the engine had seized but it fired up okay.

The 1000cc boxer engine knocks out about 60 horses. Not much but it was immediately apparent that there was a wide spread of power, although the motor felt disgruntled below 2000rpm. The legendary gearbox was as awkward as I'd expected, but to be fair it wasn't difficult to engage gears just that there were a lot of noises, lurching and the general expectation that the box was about to lock up.

Test rides are always a bit dubious. Short of time and on a new machine only the most obvious problems are noticed. As well as the gearbox I found the twin front discs were having screaming fits and were wholly lacking in smoothness. The vendor reckoned they were an acquired art, a concept I completely destroyed when I cleaned the dirt off the carrier to reveal a big crack! A hundred quid off the price and I took it very easy on the ride home.

BMW discs are not the longest lived in the business and it took a few days to track down a replacement. The next hurdle was a new MOT. The bike failed on shot steering head bearings although I hadn't found any movement when I checked it over. The tester reckoned the steering stem was done up too tight. Sure enough, when I whipped the forks off the bearings were all cracked up. It was just as well that I found the fault at this point as it could've turned the BMW a little wild at speed.

Disgusted by the past owner's bodging, I checked the valves out (electronic ignition had been fitted) - the exhausts' were tight and the inlets' were miles too loose. I also balanced the carbs and changed the oil. I found the bike needed a service every 3000 miles, which I thought reasonable.

The clutch and gearbox took a lot of getting used to. Town work, in the early days, was a series of lurches and frantic braking that bounced the forks on their stops. The width of the engine was also very limiting. I had to stop myself charging through narrow gaps and taking a snake-like path through traffic was a definite no-no. On the plus side, the riding position was comfortable and the grip of the newish Metzelers reassuring. It took me over three months to become used to low speed running and I still can't keep up with small bikes in traffic.

Luckily, my commuting route is mostly on reasonable A-roads, twenty miles each way which gives the engine a chance to warm up and myself to blow away the cobwebs. Top gear needed 50mph before the engine and transmission stopped grumbling, which encouraged me to ride a little faster than I really wanted. Again, with that engine width I had to take a bit of care with the gaps between cars when overtaking, but flashing the headlamp seemed to help.

90 to 100mph was a reasonable cruising speed, topping out at 120mph. The handlebar fairing worked well with the riding position except in the wet when I received the usual soaking. As the wet weather arrived I began to lust after an RS or RT set-up but their used prices were too high, a comment on their popularity.

After three months I was generally happy with my purchase. Then the battery went flat. The CS was no fun to bump, with dragging discs and 450lbs to overcome. BMW batteries are far too expensive so a Varta replacement was fitted. The battery has a hard time in cold weather, the engine churning over on the starter for a few minutes before it fired up. Thinner oil helps in the winter.

The front forks were stock, dived under braking but were good at absorbing bumps and potholes. Any vagueness in the handling came from the back end, and then only above 80mph when the swinging arm mounts seemed to be flexing. As the rear Metz wore out (about 8000 miles) the weaves became much greater in amplitude and I became frightened of doing more than 80mph. A wimp? Well, the frame felt like it was turning to plastic. There wasn't any movement in the swinging arm bearings so I was forced to fit a new tyre which removed the weaves up to the ton.

I had one speed wobble that left me a gibbering wreck. I was pushing the R very hard down some fast A-roads. The speedo was flicking between 100 and 120mph; I was close to scraping the cylinder heads in the bends. Hitting the top speed also brought in some vibes, even the petrol tank was gently thrumming. Flicking up for the next straight, throttle to the stop and head down behind the screen, the wheels suddenly hit a rough bit of road. The bars went wild in my hands, the CS going all over the shop. I thought I was going to die but we lost some speed and hit some smoother tarmac, a combination that pulled us back from annihilation.

Weaves and wobbles came in with a vengeance if too much mass was placed in the capacious panniers, although it was okay up to about 80mph. A large tank bag was used to carry all the heavy stuff when on tour. The seat was comfortable for 200 miles at a time, the bike being implacable when touring and safer than most when the weather turned bad.

Except for those twin discs, which always seemed to need attention. Whether it was the pads only lasting 5000 miles, the calipers seizing up or the lever going all spongy. The wet weather lag was predictable but once or twice a month the braking power would fade away, leaving me frantically pumping the lever, whilst stomping on the back brake and changing down through the box. That left the BMW hopping around like an irate kangaroo.

After six months I was deeply in love with the CS. It had really grown on me and I could be found, every weekend, polishing it up until there was a deep sheen and happily doing the regular services. Pads and back tyre aside, it was also quite cheap to run, with about 55mpg and minimal oil consumption. The shaft drive needed a yearly change of oil and grease of the splines when the rear wheel was taken out but was otherwise way ahead of nasty chain drives.

After about nine months I had some problems with the handlebar switches. WD40 worked for a while but in the end I had to buy a newish set. The next electrical hassle was a naff generator, fixed by exchanging it for a renovated one, although if I'd been feeling brave I could've repaired it myself. The front light and horn, by the way, were excellent.

I've now had the CS for just over a year and added 22000 miles to the clock. The engine runs beautifully, the finish is as new and I find it the most practical bike I've ever owned. The only cloud on the horizon is that I've fallen for the new R1100RS. Betrayal? Nah, I'll keep the CS as well!

J.L.

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I tweaked the throttle like I used to do on my RD350LC, give her hell and ride out the consequences. Okay, the big Bavarian lump was in neutral and I just wanted to see what happened to a huge horizontally opposed twin when the throttle was snapped open. The bike's one and only owner, an ancient army type, cringed and would have gone for me if he'd been younger.

The 124,000 mile engine tried to leap out of the frame, the noise caused about half a dozen burglar alarms to go off and the vibration had me fillings about to pop out. Gor, this could be fun, I thought, until the old geezer nearly broke my hand when he slapped down his walking stick. He looked hopping mad, the way the senile get, so I thought I'd better hand over the 600 sovs. I'd already had a mild blast on the pillion, which turned up no surprises.

What was an ex-RD jockey doing looking at a fifteen year old BMW twin? It was the only thing going cheap within a hundred miles and I'd had half a dozen four strokes since I crashed the Yam. The BMW wasn't even on my shopping list but that's what happens when desperation sets in.

BMW's marketing hype would lead you to believe, unless you read the UMG, of course, that their twins are highly sophisticated pieces of machinery that only the elite can aspire to. My 124000 mile R100 was a pile of shit. It had the world's worst gearchange, a cantankerous shaft drive, disc brakes that were on/off switches, a mind bending weave every time I tried to hit 80mph and softly, softly suspension that did the pogo-stick dance every time the brakes or bumps were hit.

Thus the 20 mile ride home was somewhat revelatory - I never thought I knew so many swear words. Out of all this I concluded that the only things the bike had going for it were astonishing longevity and a marvellously comfy perch, that made a mockery out of the usual limitations of naked bikes.

A product of the engine noise was a lot of tapping and rattling from the mill, which back home seemed to quiver in the frame like a dog in search of a bone. Bloody thing was getting to me already. It was a bit faded around the edges but no actual rust or corrosion, the old guy probably spent half his time keeping it clean.

As I didn't have any spare dosh I rode around on it for the next few months, doing little more than adding fuel to the tank, which was quite often as it was turning in 35 to 40mpg during my urban commuting. The most obvious flaw in the design's the way the bloody big cylinders stick out, threatening to kneecap pedestrians and rip the sides off cars.

It was dead easy to forget they were there, saunter up to easy gaps only to suddenly realise that they weren't wide enough to accommodate the massive engine width. Jamming on the brakes and slamming the throttle shut turned the bike into a huge rocking horse that tried to spit me off.

I soon concluded that the bike was a bit of a no-hoper as a commuter, felt almost as wide as a small car and needed much effort on the bars to keep it under control. I usually ended up swearing my head off and going a bit psycho on the throttle, which helped matters not one jot.

The first long run started out in the sun and was full of joy and anticipation of the journey ahead, mostly motorway trawling. Theoretically, the R has a top speed of around 120mph, but my worn out example was limited by horrible handling and vile vibration to no more than 75mph (at which it turned in around 50mpg). This meant everyone and their dog tried to run me down...one cager weaved all over the shop as he screamed abuse at me for sticking to the speed limit on the M1!

Neither did things improve dramatically on A-roads, where the bike felt hinged in the middle when floating through the faster bends, cars trying to cut me up on both the inside and outside, more abuse from their horns. Amazing, considering the thing was weaving across one lane of traffic.

I know it's not really fair to complain about a bike with so many miles under its wheels but it's probably typical of most high mileage Boxers, so worth stating and you always feel better after having a bit of a moan, don't you?

I cut short the journey and headed back for home, tail firmly between my legs. No point suffering when you're supposed to be enjoying yourself. For the next couple of months the commuter mileage piled up (about 40 miles a day) and I did little else to the bike, though I kept my eyes open for a replacement.

Then the timing chain went all clattery. A common problem with Boxers. The clutch was also starting to drag and slip, whilst the top ends were pinging away like there was no tomorrow. But it was still rideable so I rode it some more. I just knew that if I started to take the engine down I'd find a long list of expensive mechanical horrors. That I needed like a holiday in Iraq.

The next little trick up the Beemer's sleeve was a propensity for oiling up the spark plugs. They never went together, but the sudden absence of motive force on the one side, caused the bike to swing sideways with a sudden death-wish. This amused cagers and pedestrians no end, finding a bloody great cylinder suddenly flying at them. Luckily, I'm a pretty good off-road rider and I used some of those techniques to keep the mad monster from going completely out of control. The solution was pretty simple, a new set of spark plugs every 500 miles.

Even new plugs didn't help the starting on even mildly cold mornings. BMW's have and need huge batteries but there's so much inertia involved in turning over those two dinner plate sized pistons, that it's dead easy to end up with warped battery plates and no choice but to hit the wicked bit of machinery with the largest hammer available.

All that does, though, is sprain your wrist just when you need it to carry the used battery home! The breaker tested the battery by putting a screwdriver across its terminals, thus assuring me with a pat on the head that all was well, though at a mere ten quid it didn't carry any kind of guarantee. Luckily, it worked okay.

By the time that happened the bike had clocked up all of 141,000 miles and really sounded like all the bearings were shot. My mate came round, who's an expert in these matters, changed the oil for SAE10 treacle and told me to get the amazingly quiet motor down to the nearest dealer's for a trade-in before it seized up!

That turned out to be a new, naked 600 Diversion at £3650, with a grand off for the BMW despite the fact that the thick oil made the clutch drag and thus the bike hop along like a kangaroo. The clocked R100 was polished up and given a £1600 sticker price! The XJ600N's a relatively brilliant piece of kit compared to the old Boxer.

Stephen Edmongton

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There's nowt so funny as folk and the guy on the BMW was a real laugh a minute. He looked about seven feet tall, making the flat twin seem like some Dinky toy way beneath him. He was all bone, no muscle or fat on him - reckoned he had to sell the BMW, a machine famed for the excellence of its ergonomics if nothing else, because his spine couldn't take the riding position. It fitted my more modest dimensions like a glove.

What I didn't like was the godawful torque reaction in the shaft drive every time I used the throttle or gearchange. It could only be described as agricultural, if not outright dangerous, though newer bikes with less than the R's eighty thou might be more sophisticated. Worth checking to see if you can take it, anyway. The owner reckoned they were all like that, I reckoned that they couldn't be or BMW would soon have gone out of business. Perhaps I was being a little bit naive!

Ended up paying £1200 rather than the £1750 demanded. Not bad, as it had new rubber, stainless steel exhaust system and a complete electrical rewire, including all the black boxes. I rumbled home on the bike, still in two minds as to whether I'd made a wise choice. The general condition was of a well looked after machine, but the mileage was very high in motorcycle terms and that wretched transmission held me all agog.

To be fair, the cogs always went home, if with a rather loud bang and horrifying lurch. The owner reckoned it was an acquired art, though I don't think it was one he'd mastered judging by all the lurching I'd felt on the pillion. It was a bit discouraging to find a machine I'd always lusted after was so fundamentally flawed. The engine also shook away to itself, never really finding a range of revs where it smoothed out, but unlike the gearchange this soon faded into the background.

The BMW had a couple of fundamental faults. Though horizontally opposed, its pistons were offset, allowing a rather large torque reaction. This combined with the crankshaft being in line with the frame, led to all kinds of jerkiness in the shaft drive. Every time I tried to ride off hard, the back end jack-hammered upwards, trying to kick a hole in my spine. Softly, softly on the throttle was the order of the day, feed the power in like you were taking a hot little virgin, or something.

Unfortunately, I never really mastered the gearchange, slow speed work a series of lurches. I thus didn't enjoy riding the BMW through the capital. The most obvious other worry being the sheer width of the Boxer mill. A couple of times I almost forgot myself, charged the machine through a gap that would've impacted the heads. Hard on the brakes and pray...

Braking wasn't that brilliant either. Twin front discs that needed a handful of muscle but then made the forks turn into pogo-sticks. With the back end jack-hammering and the front pogo-sticking I began to wonder about riding a buckling rocking horse - some helpful cager stuck his head out of his window to tell me I was a stupid prat to ride a bike with loose wheels! Hitting the rear disc didn't help as it was halfway to being seized solid - not surprisingly, later Boxers reverted to a rear drum that's much superior.

The famed ergonomic perfection of the BMW series at first appeared most commodious but half an hour in traffic, fighting the bars into submission, had too much weight on my wrists, which ached in protest and tried to seize up my digits. The clutch suddenly became very heavy, which made my already pathetic attempts at a clean gearchange even more derisory.

Although the front end was long travel it tended to bottom out when confronted with the deeper pot-holes, even if it rumbled over the minor abrasions in a thoroughly reassuring and civilised manner. The forks seemed to become coil-bound, stick momentarily then come loose with a violence that threatened to whack the handlebars deep into my jaw!

The first few weeks were pretty fraught with all these horrors. Soon, though, my wrists toughened up, the gearchange became a touch less traumatic, the shakes went into the background and I began to compensate for the engine's width when rushing through traffic. Even so, I managed to dent and scrape a couple of cars with the cylinder heads. I didn't stay around to swap insults, most of the cagers in London are deep into a psychotic road rage that results in massive violence.

Having spent a couple of months in the daily commuting grind, I decided the bike needed some fresh air. The best place to ride this kind of BMW's on wide, fast A-roads or motorways. Despite being naked, 90 to 100mph can be held without much body strain and the ability to dump it in top gear, just using the prodigious torque to vary speed, came as a blessed relief.

Comfort was excellent at high speeds, the forward biased perch being radical enough to brace me against the wind. My only worries were fuel consumption of less than 40mpg and the back end weave that came in every time I went over 90mph. BMW's are famous for this, probably down to a weak swinging arm mount. If you look at the frame closely enough you'll see a strong resemblance to the old Featherbed trellis, though it's odd given the sheer bulk of the engine that BMW didn't do away with most of the frame.

Whatever, ton plus work could become very edgy indeed. On two occasions, when heavily loaded up at the back end (thanks to the excellent Krauser panniers), the bike went into a speed wobble around 120mph! I know some brave UMG contributors think nothing of such wild moments, but yours truly dropped a brick or two and slammed the throttle shut, with the result that the bike almost jumped off the road! It didn't die out entirely until 80mph was back on the clock.

After the second time I gave up going over the ton, it just wasn't worth the risk - the engine also vibrated like it wanted to leap out of the frame. Sometimes I wouldn't go over 90mph, when the road was so bumpy that the normally moderate weave threatened to escalate into a speed wobble. Below 90mph, though, the BMW was very secure even in treacherous conditions.

I would've quite enjoyed riding in the rain, save that those front discs were very vicious and could induce some lag. Slamming the throttle shut made the back wheel hop in a threatening manner and the rear disc just gave up the ghost. So how do you stop 500lbs of lumbering machinery in the wet? Well, sometimes you don't...I ended up sliding off when the front wheel locked up on me.

The right-hand cylinder dug in, flipped the bike over the other way where the same trick was repeated. After that I parted company with the bike, a 40mph human missile that barely missed being crunched by an artic and landed with a terrifying crunch that almost broke my neck.

Just as I was going to stagger to my feet, a red faced, twenty stone cager held me down on the floor, screaming that I shouldn't move. I saw him off with a knee to his groin and managed to get upright. The bastard BMW had somehow ended up propped on the side of a well battered Volvo (revenge!) and was still ticking over in its unique grumbling manner. Damage was superficial. I declined the kind offer of the ambulance crew to be ferried to the nearest hospital - they turned quite nasty, threatening that I'd have to pay for the ambulance anyway! After an hour's interrogation by the plod - some seven cages were damaged - I was able to ride off on the BMW.

That happened nine months and 6000 miles into my ownership. Routine maintenance every 2000 miles was all I'd done to the bike, there still being some tread on the tyres and, of course, no chain and sprockets to replace. Only the heavy fuel consumption, rarely better than 40mpg caused any great expense. I decided the old wreck had to go before it killed me off.

No trouble selling the bike for £1500. You know what, the new owner - some lifelong veteran of the marque - shot up the road with beautifully precise, smooth and quiet gearchanges, as if the bike was waiting for someone worthy of it to come along before it behaved! At least I came out ahead financially.

Cecil Jay

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It seemed like it took forever to come, my last grant cheque and travel expenses for the year. The Suzuki GSX400 was lying out in the shed feeling sorry for itself, requiring much money and time spent on it. I now had the funds, but still no time to work on her as my finals were approaching.

The plan was to drive down to England, and choose from a much larger range of used machines available at relatively cheap prices. Huh, so much for that, it was more a case of the best laid plans of mice and men. It was the Wednesday 'yellow paper' (similar to Loot in England) that did for me.

There I was ready to embark on the adventure the following day, when I came across the ad. I was looking for a good reliable big bike and when I saw the dub, a BMW R100S, advertised at under a grand, I quickly telephoned the owner.

'Is it reliable,' I asked. He said he had owned it for years and had successfully driven it all winter. I think that should have given me a clue as to its appearance.

However, it was taxed and Mot’d and he was only getting rid of it as he had bought one of those contradictions in terms, a sport-bike BMW, the R1100S.

I drove the 15 miles to see it; first glance of it parked in his drive. F..k me, it looked like he’d never washed it all winter, it was covered in all sorts of road grime. I’m one of these sad optimistic persons (or mug, for short) and started to look at the potential of the bike. He offered me a test drive, I opted to take it to the end of the cul-de-sac and back. At low revs it felt like I was sitting on a pregnant camel whilst operating a jackhammer.

This was strange to me as the Suzuki was an old 400 four model, but user–friendly for novices. I’d never driven a cycle this big before, so I foolishly supposed that all older big bikes were like this. As I negotiated the BMW back to his front door I put my foot on the back brake pedal - nothing there, help! I grabbed a handful of front lever and it bit like an alligator, nearly throwing me off in the process. Again, I naively attributed this to my inexperience with bigger bikes.

As I’m one of life’s bargain hunters who buys all kinds of junk that masquerades as an investment, I thought that although I didn’t particularly like it I would make an offer so low that if he started (a) laughing, (b) crying, or (c) swore at me, I wouldn’t be too bothered.

'What was it in the paper for? (I knew fine). '£950,' he replied. 'Well it needs a lot of work, I’ll give you £500,' I said. He replied, 'I can get £500 scrap money for it!' He implied that the bike dealer where he was getting his new machine offered such a price. Instead of moving in for the kill with that’s my final offer scenario, I played the bidding game and ended up with the faired, panniered and top-boxed relic for the princely sum of 700 notes.

Next day I picked it up and rode the 15 miles home. It still vibrated like an old dumper and the brakes, or lack of them, would have been the death of me. The main problem was the gearbox - now, I’ve driven countless dodgy vans and cars and I’ve still never come across anything like this.

Foot down - clunk! - into first; foot up - where is it? - clunk! - second – a few more revs later - foot up - no clunk!- it doesn’t seem to want to go into gear - wait a few more moments - clunk! It goes in, now what gear am I in? Pass! I could tell that this was going to be a bit of a problem, the biggest hassle was that I had a bad feeling that it would lock up on me at speed and I’d be wiped out for sure.

Once home, I fitted the back brake shoes, adjusted them until they were spot on but they still made little or no difference to the stopping ability of the bike. A couple of weeks later and a few small runs under my belt gave me a bit of confidence in the machine, enough to try out an 80-odd mile round trip with the missus

Into the Perth hills. The bike performed well enough and I was pleasantly surprised with its stability at speed and the protection offered by the fairing. With the bike back at base in the afternoon, I started to tinker with the Suzuki. I could not get the GSX to rev over 5500, just as I was doing this my brother-in-law happened to appear.

I gave him my spare lid and gloves (I regretted that move later) and we set out on both bikes to see if the revving problem would clear as the Suzi had been lying in the shed for quite some time. We both set off towards a particularly curving back road, which is virtually plod-free, and set about trying to coax the little bike into better performance.

We couldn’t thrash the bikes as the BMW wasn’t up to the twisty back roads and the Suzi still wasn’t going properly. Things were going great until we were approaching a hairpin bend at a reasonable pace and the front wheel of the BMW went into a deep pot-hole. Off I went. As I had no gloves on, my knuckles were skinned badly and my watch busted.

An old codger, who was eating a sandwich in a layby opposite, nearly swallowed his false teeth when he saw me hurtling towards him. We picked the bike up - the only visible signs of damage were a bent engine protector and a few scrapes on the fairing.

Now I don’t know if that episode had any bearing on the matter, but about a week later I was travelling to my colleague's house on the dual carriageway when I had to overtake a skip lorry. As I dropped a gear to pass the huge vehicle - crunch... grind... whirring noise - no further forward motion.

I can tell you I was most relieved not to have been travelling at peak time as some sales rep would’ve shunted me down the road. That night the bike travelled along the highway without vibrating or clunking – on the back of my mate's pick-up!.

At this time I should have cut my losses - a reconditioned gearbox would cost me around £300 for an exchange unit. I phoned all the breakers in desperation and managed to locate an older style 4-speed unit. The breaker asked £100 for the gearbox and even accepted an old CB200 field bike and some other spares rather than the money.

When I returned home, I phoned the previous owner. 'It won’t fit, I know 'cos I’m a mechanic!,' he said . I’m afraid that I took this as a direct challenge, being in my final year of a Mechatronic degree and having several years experience as a maintenance technician. A few spacers here, a shave off there and bob’s your uncle! I got it to fit and work.

This appeared to suffice, although the gearbox whined louder than my dog and soon I got to thinking it would last as long as a snowball in a furnace. About two weeks later on the way to work the back wheel locked up on me. I was only doing about 30mph, approaching some traffic lights. I instantly clutched it and fished around with my left foot - as you do - until I could find something that would get me home.

That was that - I love life too much - I put the bike back in the paper at a vastly reduced price, got flooded with calls and finally sold the monster to a guy from Glasgow called Billy, who wants all the readers to know that he’s just as much of a sad b*****d as I am when it comes to buying junk and when his nightmare is over, he might write part two of this story!

On reflection, the bike was okay before the gearbox came to grief. If it wasn't for the rip-off merchants who want a fortune for BMW parts I would have kept it. The charm of BMW’s is that the buggers grow on you and before you know it you're hooked.

I’m suffering withdrawal symptoms already, god knows what'll turn up next. In the meantime I’ve got a temperamental Suzuki GSX400 to keep me company!

David Hamilton

****************************************************

Exactly why I went with the deal, I don't know. Must have been one of those days! Some BMW's are hardy survivors, this old dear had made it around the clock, plus another 20,000 miles in the hands of a DR. The engine knocked and clattered, the gearbox made the whole heap leap a yard in the air and the front end had a mind of its own that was best described as psychotic. 300 notes was the only good thing about the deal... oh, and the tyres and brake pads were only half worn. The shaft meant no nasty chains but there was loads of wear in its joints that belied its reputation for Teutonic quality - Titanic was more like it!

The ride home needed some delicate work on the gear lever, brutality on the clutch and a mad determination on the bars - the bike veered so heavily under what was left of the acceleration that I almost caused a mass pile-up on my exit from the vibrant city of Oxford. Steady as a drunken camel at 80mph, I felt damn lucky that the vibratory Boxer mill didn't really want to rev any higher in top gear. After a fashion, and wearing a stoic grin, all was well for the next few miles until I had to stop in a hurry...

Slamming the throttle shut in a cavalier fashion gave every impression that the back wheel had fallen out, so I had little alternative but to hit on the front discs which squealed and screamed before locking up the wheel. Given that I had hardly any idea which way the tyres would skid, this wasn't exactly fun. Even less so when I discovered that the brakes had locked on solidly! Speed was dissolving rapidly as the whole bike slewed across a couple of lanes of traffic whilst I battled with the bars; the day only saved by getting both feet down.

Had I not been wearing heavy-duty boots, both ankles would've been broken rather than merely sprained! The machine made it to the side of the road in one piece but it took an almighty effort to keep it from falling on to one of the heavily scarred cylinder heads. It was at this moment in time, body and mind overdosing on adrenaline and fear, that the engine cut out with a solid clunk. BMW batteries are infamously intractable devices that live by rules yet to be defined by the human mind.

What that added up to was a battery that ground the electric boot over for a few seconds and then gave up. My idea of a perfect way to spend a summer evening - bump-starting an ancient Boxer twin with a pair of nearly broken ankles! Freed the front calipers with a couple of kicks. After a few desperate hundred yard dashes, we rounded a corner and sighted a charming pub set in the middle of rural England. I was so knackered I thought I might be hallucinating but, no, the 'No Bikers!' sign reassured me that I was in the 20th century!

I was dressed quite respectably (by motorcycle standards), just had to lock the helmet on the Beemer and saunter in all innocent, like. A few bottles of Newcastle Brown whilst I waited for those nice chaps in the AA to turn up. Word had evidently gone out, though, the barman - an ex-army type gone to seed but still at least twice my mass - searching through the crowd for the motorcycle hoodlum. I passed muster!

The AA guy arrived, jump-leaded the bike and she fired up first go. The guy grimaced at all the engine racket and said he would follow me home for the next few miles, sensing that the mill was about due to seize up. Before I could exit the car park, the barman appeared, screaming abuse, asking if I could read and enquiring about my parentage. I muttered something about riding a BMW and almost ran him over when the clutch lurch caused the bike to veer way off line.

An interesting time followed, riding a bike with no way of stopping, barely controllable handling and an engine that clunked, threatening to cut out again. The AA vehicle was nowhere to be seen in the madly churning mirror. I took it easy but still ended up in a rare sweat by the time the merry town of Colchester was sighted. The one good thing about the Beemer, the still excellent front light had cut a dazzling path through the countryside. This proved that the charging circuit must be okay, merely a knackered battery playing up.

Sure enough, the item when extracted from the rusted chassis was actually seeping acid!. It actually smelt like piss after a particularly heavy night at an Indian restaurant. The battery compartment was cracking up under the onslaught and parts of frame looked like they were just about to corrode through. Charmed and uplifted by this thought, I barely restrained myself from taking a hammer to the heap. Instead, a welding torch was waved in its general direction and a few bits of old car door (they have their uses, see, though what the neighbour thought of the hole in his Ford's door I never did find out!) welded in with an artistry that would give Heath Robinson inspiration.

After a brief look at Halford's prices for a small car battery (didn't even think about approaching a BMW dealer), Runter was despatched with instructions to procure a used one. Runter was one of those motorcycle characters who lives in a cellar (mine, actually) and has regular sessions with the local Plod. No doubt, some poor cager came back to find his car wouldn't start and the AA guy would be amazed to find an empty space where the battery should've been.

Runter had become famous way back when VW Beetles were popular- he could swap engines between cars in about 15 minutes, would buy an old wreck and half inch a motor off something that actually ran, the owner wondering why his auto was suddenly rattling and knocking just like the Boxer... which had me wondering how long it would take to swap over BMW motors. That would be a lark, though Runter, commendable chap that he is, doesn't mess with other people's motorcycles.

Runter has a passing proficiency as a mechanic - he's the kind of guy who delights in putting a 450cc cylinder and piston on one side of an R65 mill - so was despatched on the R100 once the battery was hammered in (literally as it was a tight fit). Runter's testing methods are pretty simple, full throttle, drop the clutch and see what happens. If nothing breaks it's a good one. Despite a year's worth of despatch abuse, the venerable Beemer didn't take too well to such outlandish madness...

The BMW reared up on its back wheel, then veered sideways, before crashing down, sliding along the ground before twitching back and forth from cylinder head to cylinder head. Fortunately, it was a hot day and the softened road surface was brutally ripped up rather than the machine being torn asunder. No, more damage was done by Runter, who having been spat off landed on his head (thus avoiding any serious injury), leapt up and gave the bike a good kicking with his genuine army boots.

An evil bastard, was his description after I'd stopped pissing myself with the laughter. A very long list of things needed doing but I narrowed it down to new engine/gearbox/shaft drive oil, new steering head bearings, valve clearances and caliper strip and clean. Runter was reminded of his rent free status, with plenty of muttering and a crate of beer, was left to his own devices whilst I motored around on my other steed - a much modded and rather lovely 1972 Honda CD175.

The BMW emerged from all this attention much improved. Far from perfect, it went where it was pointed, ran up to the ton before threatening to expire, and braked predictably if with unknown ferocity (students of Japanese engineering will recall that the CD175 came with a SLS drum front brake, so the comparison between the two machines was all the heavier). The state of the engine was shown up in heavy oil consumption (never worked it out, just kept adding cheap recycled stuff every day) and fuel around the 35mpg mark, as well as a need to cut out below 2000rpm.

The latter was probably the spark plugs, which refused to budge - we just knew that they were so well corroded in that if serious force was applied they would snap off in the cylinder heads, causing a major trauma. Runter suggested he could whip the heads off and clean them in situ, but I was too worried about all the mechanical mayhem that might be found inside the engine. Just rev the beast in town, the growl out of the rusted exhaust system something else!

Given that the CD175 was ideal for hustling through town, and with modded air-filter and exhaust could bumble along at 75mph on the open road whilst turning in 80mpg, what exactly was the BMW good for? Well, it scared the shit out of the ped's and cagers, not to mention myself when I forgot just how wide it was. Those cylinder heads appeared designed specifically for ripping the sides off cars and I felt rather happy that the bike was still registered in the old owner's name (the one before the DR) who was probably going grey and frail with all the irate punters and Plod turning up on his doorstep!

The open road was where the BMW was meant to shine, but a serious weave from 80mph onwards rather took the joy out of it. Mates, following the spectacle, reckoned the back wheel looked like it was about to fall out of the frame! Oddly, it never went into a frenzied speed wobble even though I was often convinced it was only moments off going wild! With its heavy fuel consumption and the way it tore through the Metz's, it wasn't a cheap bike to run (by the way, the fully enclosed chain on the CD lasted for more than 20,000 miles, so even the shaft on the BMW wasn't much of a bonus).

When some vague acquaintance offered me 600 notes it was time to say goodbye to the Bavarian bouncer. Despite listing all the faults, the guy had to have it, and he's since got the clock up to 144,000 miles!

Charlie K.