It was the best of times and the worst of times. I was out and about doing what I liked most, riding my motorcycle. Even in London, choked with cars and pollution, I could enjoy myself, roaring through gaps and doing the right-hand frenzy. The jollies were provided by a Kawasaki KLX650, a weird and wacky trailster with a bloody big thumper motor and a pig of a gearbox. But sod it, I'd just dump it in third gear and play throttle games. This choice of machine was almost accidental, as a neighbour was selling just as I'd decided to go back to despatching. Coincidences like that can't be ignored.
Being very mean I'd resurrected all my motorcycle gear, which she who must be obeyed had thrown into the attic in the hope that I'd forget all about motorcycling. Ten year old gear that's been left to moulder ain't brilliant when confronted with autumn gales and a bout of acid rain.
After thirty minutes I was soaked through, right down to the kinky leather G-string that the wife insists I wear. Cute, I know, but god knows what the nurses would think if I had an accident and was carted off to hospital. By the way, I have a non-donor card! I don't believe in transplants because they cause cancer a few years down the line. I don't want anyone else's parts and don't see why I should have mine torn out.
Wet and cold on my second day back at despatching, I was not overwhelmed with good feeling for my fellow humanity......every time a caged moron got in the way I wanted to scream get lost, mate, I'm soaked through here and should have the right of way. They didn't listen, life degenerated into the war of the horns, my non-standard air-horns winning out.
One disadvantage of the KLX was that its upright riding position meant it was the quickest way known to man or mouse of being soaked and frozen. Being perched 35 inches off the road had some advantages but they weren't apparent in the gale; neither were the stickiness of the tyres too impressive on road surfaces specifically designed to be as slippery as possible. The first rain after a dry period left the roads especially treacherous and I didn't really have the inclination to concentrate when I was shivering and dripping enough water to help out a drought parched African country.
Back home, after stuffing myself with a couple of grams of vitamin C to ward off the pneumonia, I began the rather arcane ritual of proofing my Barbours, which had the wife muttering something about my building a nice little shed at the bottom of the garden where I could carry out such smelly tasks but I didn't fancy freezing to death. Luckily, there was a whole weekend for them to dry out.
I was mad as a hatter when I found that the 'waterproofs' had solidified solid and cracked when I tried to pull them on. Nothing for it but to hit the army surplus store for some clammy but completely waterproof nylons in bright yellow. Horrible, but cheap and they kept the rain at bay. That just left me with soaked feet and hands, as the aged leather was no longer resistant to water. That'd have to wait for pay day.
Before I reached that happy point I had some troubles. Mainly a matter of the KLX developing a desperate need to assume the horizontal position, which might have been acceptable on soft mud but hurt on hard tarmac with various vehicles going out of their way to take my head off. Putting a boot down wasn't that easy with the tall seat height and the need to use the rear rather than front disc, to avoid the latter wheel zooming off into eternity.
One solution to the KLX's self-destructiveness was to ride fast when the top heavy, precarious feel was replaced with a resoluteness that'd do a Norton twin proud. This went against the grain of the traffic flow (I used that word loosely) but kept my amphetamine consuming controller happy - he kept threatening to fit all bikes with a device, that linked up to a satellite, would reveal our exact progress. It was always amusing to radio in with a location several miles from the one he'd plotted in what was left of his mind. A stream of mutual abuse followed as all his plans had to be changed to suit totally ungrateful DR's. Despatching was bad enough, but the stress of the controller's job left most of them nervous wrecks, burnt out by the time they were thirty-five.
Another disadvantage of the KLX was its high level exhaust which left my panniers hanging so far out in the airstream that they would hit cars when I went for the narrower gaps in a moment of forgetfulness, and god knows there were enough of those - I occasionally wake up without the slightest idea of where I am or even who I am! I blame an earlier bout of despatching that lasted for five years.
I'd toyed with the idea of lightly attaching the panniers, allowing them to spring off without doing any damage but was immediately filled with visions of them falling off when I least expected, being crushed by following vehicles. No fun, that, so they were permanently fixed to hefty brackets. Sometime during the third week of despatching the right-hand pannier thumped into the side of a car, leaving a large dent and enraged cager.
When he turned vicious I rode off pronto, laughing to myself at his plight, which to my mind was entirely his fault for trying to drive a ruddy great Sierra in Central London. My good mood lasted no longer than the next drop, when I saw that a large hole had appeared where the plastic had cracked in the pannier. Don't the people who make these things realise that we ride in a war zone? A quick check revealed that six parcels were missing. It's just as well that the radio makes the controller sound like Donald Duck on speed, otherwise I might've had to take the harangue seriously.
For a week after that I paid the price, with seriously way out drops and pick-ups, a few of which that were so obscure it took me ages to find them. My money was almost 50% down on a good week (£400 to £500) and only with a lot of cock-sucking did I get back into his good books. I'm sure the power goes to their heads and there's nothing like power to corrupt.
The KLX was very corrupt, having bags of power and torque at the bottom end and in the midrange, exactly where it was needed for speeding across London. One of the games DR's play is racing whenever they come across each other - if there's a few yards of clear tarmac it's throttle to the stop and damn the consequences. I think the cagers must find it all very entertaining.
When the bike's loaded down with heavy packages it's even more fun, with the front wheel barely touching the tarmac and going vertical when I hammer home the throttle. I'm too old and sensible to be much of a wheelie merchant but at least the Kawasaki's quite easy to control and not too likely to come down on a car's boot - I actually witnessed one Aprilia 650 Pegaso with it's front wheel embedded in the boot of a Ford Orion. The rider ended up having the stuffing knocked out of him by a couple of cagers; I didn't rush to help as he was working for a notorious DR company that was undercutting everyone else's rates. That, and I was a fully fledged coward, which is how I've survived for so long.
After about six weeks of hard graft the KLX refused to start. I, naturally, panicked. After running around like a headless tax inspector (they have the same level of character as a chicken) for five minutes I realised that the total lack of electrics was due to either a blown fuse or dead battery. Turned out to be the latter, the bike started on jump leads to the neighbour's car (I knew there was a reason for all these horrible cages). The charging circuit was fine but the battery didn't want to know about holding a charge. I was in a hurry, went to a Kawasaki dealer on the way to work and was knocked out to have to hand over 70 sovs for a replacement. Which world are these f..kers living in? I think it was a combination of vibes and neglect (it was only half full of acid) that did for the original battery.
Other than that, as expected, the KLX was as reliable as any modern Jap bike. It was always reassuring to know that I could thrash the arse off it without worrying about the watercooled motor blowing up. When I felt fed up, thrilling kicks were just a turn of the throttle away. For town and minor roads, there's little to beat the thumping power of a big single, just so long as the vibes have been quelled by a balancer system. The KLX wasn't as smooth as a four but the vibes were never bad enough to tire me over a full day's work. The saddle, though, needed the addition of a layer high density foam to keep my backside from complaining, but that's true of many bikes subjected to despatching all day long.
I've now survived six months of madness, been soaked and frozen too many times, but keep coming back for more. Buy a decent bike and go for it!
F.T