The day began well. Well as in getting the RXS100 to fire up on the fifth kick. A bad day means summoning my brother to push start the bastard. When the smokescreen had died down to a tolerable level I figured the motor was warm enough to move off. The broken choke didn't help. The spannie and carb kit liberated an extra bit of power. Maybe all of 15 horses or 85mph on the ever optimistic clock. It's never been the same since I bodged on a Honda cable.
A quick drag into central London lit up all my senses and got the adrenaline going. The RXS had a third world air. Single seat, huge rack where the pillion saddle should be that carried a top box big enough to take a dead sheep (don't ask how I know). Mudguards and full chain enclosure off a CD175. A handlebar screen off a C70 and a brilliant set of engine bars that were well notched up with dead cars.
The all up mass was significant, requiring a CB400N twin disc front end and a pair of RD400 shocks. The tuned state of the motor meant that acceleration was adequate, at the price of a fouled plug if I tried to potter along at low revs. The stock RXS motor was nice but useless given the excessive mass that the bike was forced to carry. I'm no skinny teenager, myself, heavy enough to have the average stepthru chassis creaking like an ancient ship in heavy seas.
It had taken me a while to set up the RXS to reflect despatching needs. Early days were a mixture of near misses from pathetic drum brakes and lost parcels. I even lost a whole top box once. Yes, a real clever bugger. Gradually the RXS evolved into its current form, turning out to be close to brilliant for despatching. The lack of low end torque not that discouraging as speed, within the bike's limits, was a necessity. The lack of real high speed jollies no real loss in the compacted traffic of our great city.
I started this story on the events of a recent day because it was to turn from good to very bad within a few hours of hectic despatching. Days like this stand out from the rest and are worthy of a mention. The clock sported a genuine 53000 miles on a second set of piston and bore...roaring along Tottenham Court Road at about 50mph, weaving through the traffic like it was a fairground ride, the engine locked up.
I hammered the clutch lever to the bars within moments of the rear tyre squealing. Anyone who's ridden strokers for a while (down Ms. Silly) always caresses the clutch lever with his fingers. That left me free-wheeling through the usual aggrieved cagers (annoyed by the spannie dosing) until I managed to mount the pavement amid a fervent crowd of computer freaks. They found the sight of machine and moi somewhat confounding; perhaps it was my being on my knees praying for the motor to free up as it cooled down.
Sometimes it works. The last time the engine seized it did and I managed to see out the day's work and reach home. DR's are a terribly critical bunch, coming out with a lot of crap at the merest excuse. They had a great laugh at the RXS in the early days. They gave up when they realised I wasn't to be swayed; that the abuse just went in one ear and straight out the other. This time around the motor was as solidly seized as an Asian peasant after his first full blown pizza.
Home was three miles away and a pile of parcels needed to be delivered. Ah, simple remedy. Phone the wife, demand she bring her CB750K1 for me to use and push the dead RXS home. These modern women have their uses and she could consider the exercise as another form of muscle building. Not that she needed to get any damn bigger.
Half an hour later I was trying to come to terms with 500lbs of seventies technology. Plenty of power, minimal carrying capacity (the dear had brought her haversack) and enough width to make Transit drivers do a double take. I'd also been warned that the merest scratch, let alone an accident, would result in a pistol whipping! I'd been tempted to let her do the job and push the Yam home myself, but you have to set some limits, don't you?
The Honda was fast, quite capable of putting the ton on the clock in the time it takes to conjure up images of instant demise from the period piece single front disc that she who must be obeyed insisted was fitted with OE pads. You can take authenticity, like love, way too far. Halfway through the chores, with all my muscles aching like I'd been given a good going over by a pack of escaped lunatics, the rain started.
Yes, the Honda was wearing Jap rubber. After half an hour I was white in the face and brown in the underwear area with fright. You know that big roundabout at the end of Oxford Street? It was I who slid around it totally out of control, playing dodgems with buses and taxis. The CB eventually sorted itself out whilst I contented myself with screaming my head off.
Somehow I survived a couple more hours of madness. On the way home I picked up a low mileage RXS engine for £150. This ruptured the back of the seat, where it was strapped down. The wife was not amused but I avoided a beating by promising to pay for a new replacement. I can swap RXS engines in about thirty minutes, soon had a running machine again. The motor, reputedly, had done only 7000 miles. Just run in!
The next day was also notable as it was blizzard conditions, a downpour of tropical proportions. Thankful for the screen and Michelin tyres I made better progress than most. Shocking some loud mouthed yobs on bulky fours with the speed I managed through the traffic. A harder power delivery would, perhaps, have been beneficial and even I, at the end of the day, was soaked through. But I'd stayed the course and made a pile of money.
The replacement motor was full of zest. I hadn't realised how tired the old one had become. Rather like humping some feline young teenager after ten years with the wife (only joking, dear; aaargh.....). I was making cross town sorties in record time, causing the controller to eye my dockets with suspicion and make a few phone calls to check I'd made the deliveries rather than throwing the parcels at the nearest tramp. People are like that in London.
A few weeks later I had the almost inevitable collision with a cage. This time it was a VW Beetle, which if nothing else was solidly built. My Superdream front end was wrecked. I ran the bike with the original forks and drum brake for a while, but it scared me silly and I soon picked up some better stuff from the breakers.
The accident was really weird. Aren't they all? The VW driver was swerving all over the road with me following behind. I was split between blowing past in a haze of two stroke effluence or slamming on the anchors, letting the cage safely (at least for me) disappear. The controller squawking some obscenities down the radio made me lose my rag. Speed resulted.
Just as I thought I was going to get away with it, the VW driver did a hand-brake turn. With all the mass of its engine out back did it spin. Cruuunnch! I went through the air fast but bounced on my head and escaped serious injury. The VW driver turned out to be a 13 year old kid with his head full of video madness and his veins full of drugs. Strangely, rather than tear him limb from limb I felt high at being still alive and in one functioning piece. All in a day's work? Maybe.
Arnie Williams