'About £250 is all he wants for the RD250LC, only thing is it's been down the road. Headlamp, clocks, that sort of thing.' Back to a July night in 1983. TWX 58W was just over two years old and seemed a bargain even with the battle damage.
Gravel rash on the tank, headlamp rim, shell, clock bracket, dents in the silencers, etc. £235 later, crash helmet with the entire aperture filled with a huge grin atop a man's body putting petrol into the tank ready for the ride home.
Another quick dip into the bank account and with the aid of the magic spanners saw the headlamp and clocks in their new home and the thing insured. Well, almost. The chrome headlamp rim had no hook to hold it in place at the top. Never mind, a bit of the old masking tape will hold it in place instead (still there after seven years).
The tank had gravel rash but no dents as such, the front mudguard was cracked and the exhaust downpipes had their once kinky black satin finish turned kinky iron oxide instead, but remember, this bike was bought as a go to work and nip around to the chippy hack.
Okay, so the finish isn't too grand but whassit go like? First impressions were that I was seventeen again, only then it was my mates who had RDs, etc, whilst I had a boring and slow CB250G5. This bike was just the opposite. I've ridden quite a few two strokes and the first thing you notice on the LC is the lack of clattering resonance.
This is the watercooling. Engineering buffs will know that this gives the ability to machine the barrels and pistons to closer tolerances by virtue of the more even heat distribution, and helps to deaden the sound. This is why the thing doesn't clatter when cold plus you get a bonus in peformance. The reed valve induction and expansion box style exhausts combine to endow the engine with decent performance for its size.
Out on the road, like any performance two stroke, the LC is very bland up to about five thousand revs with only sedate acceleration. Somewhere between five and and six grand there's a rather annoying hole in the power curve. Holding the throttle at these revs produces a stuttering, sawing motion. I learnt to go down a gear rather than ride through it.
From about six grand onwards she's a little humdinger with the sort of performance that sees off rear tyres and chains in no time. By 9000rpm she begins to run out of steam. Gear changing at 8500rpm drops the engine neatly into the power band to give vivid acceleration. Don't try any wild heroics two up, though - in traffic light GPs the engine screams, the clutch begins to bite and the front wheel heads straight for the milky way.
Fuel consumption, in general use, was about 45mpg and racing the prat in the Opel Manta turned in 35mpg. Another bit of consumption was broken speedo cables, not a disaster, though, as in fifth gear 10mph equals 1000rpm so it's easy to work out how fast you're going. Not long back the speedo drive also broke. Only one tacho cable ever broke but I stripped the plastic thread at the engine end putting the new one on.
Top speed was just under 110mph solo, which is reduced to just over the ton two up. Nowadays the old girl is getting a bit tired and doesn't quite manage those velocities. Handling, when everything's in good order, is reasonably nimble. However, the usual worn tyres, leaking forks, etc produces much white lining and a less than secure feel.
In the whole time I have owned my LC I have only had regular bitches about a few things. First, the way chains and tyres go west (my fault but I can't help it). Secondly, the front brake seizes up if not used for a few months, the bleed nipple is made of putty and the standard brake hose and seals need replacing.
Lastly, the thing is an utter pig in the rain. My complaint is not of the wild power delivery spinning the rear tyre, the back end lashing out and the handlebars wrenching themselves from your grip. No, it's the bloody electrics. Just show it a picture of a downpour and the bike becomes a a stuttering, misfiring, stalling nightmare. All good stuff when you're pulling out of that junction with a forty ton artic bearing down upon you at 60mph on a rain sodden road. No amount of effort has brought about a complete cure, not even riding in shorts and shades to kid the bike into thinking the sun's still out.
Other small gripes include poorly designed clamps on the downpipes that let the pipes blow, even with two gaskets - don't let them kid you into thinking that British bikes are the only ones that things fall off. I have lost one complete indicator, one lens and two exhaust baffles. Oh, and the quality of finish is terrible.
The front tyre lasted 15000 miles, rear tyres are finished after 5-6000 miles. Chains should be replaced at the same time but I'm a bugger for removing links to save wallet damage. In 15000 miles I've used one set of disc pads and am part way through another. The rear brake shoes are still original but getting a bit past it by now.
Nothing untoward happened until the winter of '85. Then I suffered my first tumble. Yup, even the best tyres in the world can't grip on black ice. A truck driver and a nice young lady picked me up. I guess I'm what you'd call a masochistic show off. I always fall off when everyone's looking. Damage was the usual stuff, bars, winker lenses, clutch lever.
Through the start of '89 another, imminently more serious, problem started to rear its ugly head. The battery seemed to be repeatedly running flat. Being the original one, it wasn't foolish to think maybe it had cried enough. A replacement was duly purchased, installed and everything went hunky dory - then that one went flat too.
Then, strange things began to happen. When the lights were on they went dimmer as the revs increased. It was the middle of winter, it was cold and miserable - and so was I. It could be very frightening on the M62, when wagons were spewing up gallons of dirty water and no-one could see the Yam through the gloom, with cars trying to occupy the same space as the bike and I.
One night's charge would last one to two days, almost as good as my life expectancy. Something had to be done. Oddly, the engine never missed a beat as I gamely did my best to tackle this stupifying problem. I did what I could, all the block connectors were cleaned, the rectifier was checked, a secondhand wiring loom was bought, and all the fuse clips were removed, cleaned and fitted with new fuses, as the existing lot were pretty dire. Last of all, the alternator output - aha, only output on two lines. A burnt out wire next to the connector was the culprit. Thank god for multimeters.
Unfortunately, the LC was showing its age with other fits of pique. One day on the way home, the temperature gauge began to shoot skywards. My brother's house was a quick detour away, so I dropped in and found the radiator dry, topped it up with water and sped home. I noticed that what was usually a few spots of oil from the gearbox output shaft seal, had turned into a sickly green pool. I changed the oil.
Everything was okay, then one day I was a little late for work.....my reward for thrashing the bike was for the radiator to empty its contents into the gearbox again. It was either £9 for a new water pump seal kit, put the case in the oven at a 1000 degrees for four fours or pay a tenner for a used case with good innards. No contest. A new gearbox shaft oil seal was bunged in for good measure.
A few weeks later I had my own personal apocalypse. Almost late for work, I was gunning down the M1 into Leeds. I saw a car's bonnet nose out into my lane as I sped serenely along. Further down the road, I saw him flashing his lights at me. I obligingly pulled over to let him pass. Bloody yuppie in his Granada showing off, I thought.
Turns out it wasn't, though, it was a nice PC testing out his new video camera. We sat in the front seat of the car to watch a replay of life in the fast lane. He wasn't Spielberg but I looked pretty good doing a steady 89mph. The police owned the copyrights and they wouldn't pay me a percentage. One year later I'm still waiting for the charges to turn up - as the offence was committed in a 50mph zone the fine would have been huge and my life not worth living when the wife found out.
The following Monday, disaster struck again. The motorway was wet and I was following a slug's trail of diesel oil, wisely staying in the next lane. The sun came out and I couldn't see the oil any more. I decided to use the first of two possible exits, leaving the motorway by a sharp left-hander followed by a sweeping right.
The two vans were parked in the undergrowth next to the chevron marker, right on the point of the left-hander. Odd, I thought, the council must be out early. Next thing I knew I was sliding up the road to join them. I had braked to around 40mph for the tight bend, but the road was awash with diesel; no-one would have stood a chance. The audience watched with grim resignation as I ground to a scraping halt under their feet.
The bike fell quite heavily as the front wheel slid away. The old girl was still rideable but only just. The bars were bent again, the end broken from the brake lever, the forks twisted, the clock surround scuffed, a front and rear winker lens smashed, and the main stand bent into the scraped nearside silencer. I struggled into work.
Everything fixed eventually but when parked up pools of oil kept appearing under the machine. One of the casings had punctured in the fall. A strange engine rattling gave even more cause for concern. I thought that the small end might be on the way out but it turned out to be a broken barrel stud. Stripping the affected cylinder showed that it could be an engine out job. The gaskets hadn't leaked, I took a chance and rebuilt the top end and ran the motor without one stud. Also, the ingress of water had done some damage to the gearbox, higher gears are noisy at high revs.
Even after all the abuse heaped upon her, she still ran and continued to do so right until the insurance and MOT ran out. She sits in the garage as you read this, waiting for an injection of cash and tender loving care to get her back on the road [It's still on SORN in someone's garage as of 2011!]. The tank is a mess of rabid paint and rust, the pitted forks have wrecked the seals, most of the paint has fallen off the frame, she is grimy and looks unloved. But just a couple of kicks will bring her back into life, with a choking pall of blue smoke and my helmet still fills with a huge grin at the thought of riding her.
Willie Echerlike
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I eventually found my Yam RD250LC in Blackpool. It had been stored for two years and had a bit of a dent in the right-hand exhaust, which is pretty typical of the breed - if it hasn't got a dent it's been fixed. I think I've yet to see one more than a few years old that hasn't been dropped.
This particular bike was an '80 RD250LC, completely standard with 11000 miles on the clock. The dent in the exhaust unnerved me, but the guy was willing to haggle, so a price of £475 was agreed upon. Before putting in for the MOT I decided to have a closer look at the bike to make sure it was okay. The first upset was the swinging arm bearings. These looked as if they hadn't seen a grease gun since leaving the factory, result, cream-crackered.
An interesting point to note here is that wear on the swinging arm bearings on early LCs was excessive as they were made from nylon. The later steel ones are much better and can be fitted to earlier models. The other problem was the front tyre, an original Yokohama that was swapped for a TT100 to match the rear.
After this little episode a trip down to the local MOT station resulted in a pass. For a 250 the LC pulled really well throughout the rev range. This was much more a flexible motor than the peaky road rocket I'd expected. Cruising at 50-60mph around the 5-6000rpm mark was comfortable with a totally contented burbling sound from the motor, and town riding was a doddle. This certainly wasn't what the bike was bought for, but it does go to show the LC's versatility.
First good stretch of straight road (the M6) I opened it up. Acceleration was crisp up to 90mph but to get the last 10mph it was chin on the tank stuff. 96-97mph caused the front end to go light and a slight weave cum shake seemed to be setting in. But there was no turning back, 98-99mph then the ton slowly crept up.
The next few weeks were spent scratching around my little piece of England (Wigan) and learning to pull the occasional wheelies. The bike was 100% reliable, starting first or second kick and only required tensioning of the chain and a new set of plugs now and again. The only gripes I had, in these wonderful weeks of owning the bike, were poor front brake and spindly forks, which had a tendency to flex under braking and cause the bike to weave slightly at speed.
One cold night, some months after purchase, I was returning home from college and decided to take a detour through a nearby village, just for the fun of riding the few extra miles. On coming to a slight downhill stretch I noticed three cars in front crawling along at about 20mph. I'll be past these with a quick twist of the throttle, thought I. So booting down a gear and winding on the power I commenced to shoot past the row of cars. Unfortunately, I'd timed my overtaking manoeuvre exactly with the silly cow in the leading car, who developed a sudden urge to make a right turn into her driveway without signalling.
Needless to say, avoidance was impossible and the first sign she got of my presence was the sight of a young man sailing gracefully through the air and over the bonnet of her car. If Billy Smart had been there, I'd have been picked for the trapeze act, but that's just my luck, if I fell into a barrel of tits I'd come up sucking my thumb.
A legal wrangle ensued which lasted for a full five months and at the end of that I received only £150 compensation. This little episode put me right off fast road riding. It's just too unpredictable or rather people are too unpredictable. Lesson number one, always expect the unexpected!
From that moment, in the summer of '87, my attention was switched from the road to the track. I tarted up the crashed LC and sold it to raise the money to buy a production racer. One was found for £300. This LC had a dent in each exhaust and a paint job that hid various scratches and dents from too numerous crashes. It had a full Stan Stevens engine tune, Michelin Hi-Sport tyres (£130 a pair for 300 miles of use), Goodridge brake hose which just about cured the weak braking, a very useful steering damper, heavier fork oil and fork spacers to tighten up the front end.
All that would have been needed was a fork brace to cure the slight amount of flexing left under heavy braking and the normally weak and flimsy LC forks would have been transformed into really useful stuff, but aftermarket fork braces aren't allowed in proddie racing.
The point I'm trying to make is that the bike I bought was in far better mechanical condition, better handling and braking, and generally superior to my road bike which I'd bought a year before for more money. A proddie racer could be a cheap way of getting a fast roadster.
I've since sold this LC and am now looking for a 350LC or YPVS. As far as I'm concerned the LC was and is a good bike in all respects, with a few cheap mods can be made into a great bike (I was actually out cornering an RGV at our local tight and twisty track). The sixties will be remembered as the time of the big Norton and Triumph twins, the seventies the big Kawasakis, Jotas and Dukes, but the eighties belong to the LC. Hooray!
Rob Bartlett
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You've heard it a thousand times before - He only paid a pittance for that, the owner just got bored with it. It's always someone else who gets that elusive bargain. Always someone else who was in the right place at the right time. I, on the other hand, end up with, Oh, my immaculate TZR? I sold it last week for £300. I'd been trying to sell it for ages.
God finally smiled upon me in June '89. I'd heard stories of a really wild Yam LC from a friend who had it on long term load. He said the owner might be thinking of selling it and only wanted £250. After the most agonising three weeks I finally got hold of the owner's telephone number. He was not really interested, but after a lot more telephone calls, including much begging, he finally agreed to sell it for £300.
The bike was a W reg LC350 but with Stan Stephens stage 2 250 barrels, welded crank, close ratio box, IOM replica alloy tank, single GRP seat unit and ace bars. The frame and wheels were a lovely shade of lime green, the GRP white and the tank was bare metal. The overall effect was stunning - a guaranteed head turner and granny frightener before I'd even started it up.
It came to life second kick; even with 29000 miles on the clock, it sounded crisp - probably something to do with the Allspeeds fitted. I let it warm up and then cautiously pulled out of the drive. I've owned a lot of bikes in the past, including an RD400 and a YPVS, but this was tuned so I prepared for blast off. Within a few minutes I was in deepest despair - it would not pull and at 5000rpm was positively flat.
Oh God, I thought, I could almost hear it barking - I'd bought a dog. I struggled along; it was gutless. I watched my friend disappear towards Bristol on his YPVS. Then, just as I approached a roundabout, the needle on the tacho crept past 6250rpm and suddenly it took off. The first thing I remember thinking was that I was sure the front wheel was on the ground earlier. The second went along the lines of, WAAAAAAH!
Suddenly, the back of my mate's YPVS was getting very close. In panic I grabbed the front brake lever. This was when I found something else on the bike had been altered. As the front tyre stopped screeching and the rear wheel came back down to earth, I noticed Goodrich hose and a chromed but standard brake caliper. Well, at least the brakes work!
That was over a year ago. Since then, I've covered 6000 miles, mainly on short journeys and only for pleasure as I have a cage for work. It has never let me down, consumes a gallon of unleaded every 40 or even 50 miles and a litre of Silkolene every 900 or so miles. Top speed is over 100mph. An interesting weave and a desire to hold on to my licence means I have not tried for the previous owner's claimed top whack of 120mph. I've only managed to use top gear twice since I've owned it and then I only changed up to make sure the gears were all there. I really must get around to changing the sprockets.
Last September I found myself with two weeks holiday, little money and a yearning for cheap wine, sun and long pointy sticks of bread. Yes, it had to be Tasmania - well, this holiday was planned after four pints of Ruddles. By the following day I'd settled on France and aspirin for my head. A few problems did spring to mind, like where I was going to put my luggage and after a journey of well over a 1000 miles, would I be able to walk? Even a hundred mile trip left me doing a passable imitation of John Wayne from behind.
A pair of fairly large throwover panniers, which just cleared the exhausts and even my feet on a good day, answered the first problem. A cushion off the sofa, covered in a plastic bag, seemed my only option to help cure the comfort problem.
The plan was simple. I bought a return ferry ticket for £65, Green card insurance for £22 and, after a lot of searching, travel insurance from Endsleigh. I decided to go from Plymouth to Roscoff overnight, as I'd be able to travel down from Bristol after work on Friday night, sleep on the ferry and ride to Carnac via the back roads, hugging the west coast of France.
I had friends renting a gite in Brittany during the second week I was there. This had the added advantage of being able to leave my camping gear and anything else I didn't need for them to take back in one of their vans.
It started reasonably well. After a few attempts, I managed to get everything in the panniers and set off for Plymouth to catch the ferry. There was only one major downpour which stopped the instant I had finished putting on my Belstaff trousers after turning out both panniers to find them. The ferry trip was uneventful save for the ferry workers trying to amuse themselves by tying a Goldwing to the LC.
The LC, despite its outrageous appearance, coped pretty well with French roads and crackled through deserted countryside, most of the French having gone off on their annual holidays. Admittedly, the riding position did not make much sense below 80mph and even the cushion did not entirely hide the basic nature of the seat. A couple of hundred miles was the most I could manage before needing exercise - as this coincided with the need to refill the tank it was no great hardship.
Carnac was wonderful despite, or perhaps because, it was half closed down for the holidays. Next, La Rochelle, which was one of those places you mean to stay for a night but end up staying a lot longer. Cheap French wine, French bread and excellent beaches were all in plentiful supply but it was all too soon time to move on to Redon.
Riding on the wrong side of the road proved no great problem and the police did not heed the unusual appearance of the Yamaha. The watercooled twin buzzed along happily enough, its tuned state doing little to impair its reputation for reliability. If rushing up and down the gearbox could prove tiring, the wail from the Allspeeds more than compensated, whilst the tall gearing meant it could be cruised through towns with a police presence in fifth gear on minimal revs and an acceptable noise level. Vibration levels were nothing compared to the lack of comfort resulting from that damn seat.
I'd covered 240 miles and had about 10 miles to go before reaching Cadon (where the gite was situated) when I had my worst moment with the Yamaha. Because I had got away later than planned it was now dark. Now, I am no fan of night riding, especially when my lights featured a dipped beam that ended two feet in front of me and a main light that was good only for owl spotting.
I was on an interestingly twisty road going through thick woods when the red reflective bollards I'd been keeping to the right of me vanished. Before I had time to panic they appeared 100 yards ahead. Relieved, I speeded up and aimed to the right of them only to find trees and no road. Those clever froggies had only moved them to the opposite side of the road. I adjusted my underwear and carried on, thankful for the chuckability of the LC, its inherent stability and excellent brakes.
The second week passed. More cheap wine, pleasant company and fantastic weather, plus the discovery of an interesting draught lager that turned us into all dancing, all singing, all falling out of windows, loonies (much to the delight of French locals).
Unfortunately, the time had come to head home. I loaded up the Yamaha again, kicked it into life, clouded the village in blue smoke as the motor settled down and headed for some more highway insanity. I actually slept on the ferry which docked in Plymouth at 5.30am on a cold and dark Sunday morning. The one major advantage on a bike is that you get off the ferry first - no silly queuing for me. It also meant I got to the customs first. Anything to declare? Just six bottles of excellent Muscadet in one pannier and 25 bottles of beer in the other.
It's good to be home, I thought to myself, as I stopped to find my Belstaff trousers only to recall I'd left them behind in France. Oh well, C'est la vie, as I headed up the motorway in rain that would have had Noah himself reaching for his two by four and a hammer.
Peter Beer
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One Sunday I was bored, which is not unusual, coupling this with my love of RDs (having now owned ten of various types) led to the purchase of a W reg RD250LC. I only had to hear the alluring cackle from the expansion chambers and the bike was sold. The fact that the machine ran on pre-mix, looked like it had been painted during a kindergarten lesson, along with the vendors earnest assurance that he hadn't made any money on the deal, should have signalled one thing - an ex racing machine.
Riding home, made lighter by 300 pounds (sterling) confirmed this. One minute all was normal, despite a distinct lack of power, but come 7000 revs and the bike entered warp drive which rapidly progressed to insane mode at about 10500rpm. Power was a simple on/off affair which could be likened to, say, switching on an electric drill. If desired it would pull beyond 12000 revs, but by then things were getting silly as the temperature gauge would join the revs in the red zone.
Were the pistons being pissed upon? I decided that having a bike this quick with my valuable but vulnerable body on it, I'd better check the engine out. The strip down revealed a new big-end was in order, so off to Stan the Man with crank and barrels. One look at the barrels and he told me the engine wasn't really suitable for road use.
I had a rebore, as like the chicken and the egg syndrome, I wasn't sure if piston wear had damaged the crank or that the crank may have worn the pistons. The work was completed to a high standard and the engine slipped back into the frame. Engine strips are relatively simple provided you have the right tools, and can be done in half a day - I was to find this out several times.
During the running in phase I had time to check out the rest of the bike. The headlamp consisted of a wire from the parking bulb to the dipped beam and no main beam. Was the week old MOT for real? A question best not asked. The problem of the light turned out to be corrosion in the switch. All seemed well until one night I was left in darkness, luckily near home. The battery was flat, which was odd as the bike still ran and the alternator refused to charge it. This meant charging the battery and running the bike on total loss which wasn't too bad in mid summer as I could ride until about eight o'clock before heading home.
On changing the oil what I thought was some kind of flash racing oil turned out to be a shagged oil pump - water had leaked past the seal and combined with the oil to produce a creamy white substance. New pump, new seals. The problems were soon forgotten when the running in was complete. Off to the nearest stretch of road, the A21, to see what she could do. Downhill along a straight, I backed off at 110mph, possibly due to me wondering what it was like to tackle a car at that speed. I had once stacked a 350 into the side of a car at 40mph and that was bad enough. 110mph may not seem much for a tuned 250 but I hadn't even reached the second power band at 10500rpm!
Would the frame have even taken sustained speed? I'm not sure but with a distinct forward stance and very quick steering the bike had a habit of trying to flick you off its back unless it was given 100% input. On returning to the house after the run I was met by a pool of oil which I initially thought to be petrol. This was due to the gearbox seal dislocating itself. Rebuild number two showed it to be due to vibration, something the bike wasn't short of, so a new seal was glued in with Superglue, which cured it.
During the next few weeks yet more problems appeared. Oil would leak from around the plugs which themselves would only last perhaps 200 miles. Carbs would leak from the overflow, causing one pot to cut out during running, due to sticking float valves. Droplets of water would seep from between the head and barrels - wet and dry applied to the surfaces cured this.
Strip down number three was the result of a race with a TZR250. I like to think that on the straight up to the roundabout he was falling behind but maybe he was just humouring me. Anyway, later that day I noticed that beads of water were bubbling out from between the front crankcase joint. I never did find out where the water came from, but hard setting gasket cement ended the trouble. Every time I parted the cases I had to marvel at the way the surfaces had been butchered with a chisel resulting in several hairline cracks.
Maybe the mad antics of racing had extended to the previous owner's work on the bike. Riding through Croydon one day, I noticed the stolen recovered carcass of a 350 in some guy's garden. A deal was struck and I spent a day transferring my engine and other parts into the remains. Although I now had twin discs, I thought the braking with a single disc and Goodridge hoses was better. The handling was transformed, more civilised and less of a strain on the neck and arms, due to the standard bars, pegs and seat rather than the previous race stuff.
The alternator worked so the old wiring or rectifier must have been at fault. I now had an expensive, half decent bike but despite this its fate was disposal as I never knew what might pack up next.
The performance didn't seem to outweigh its lack of reliability any more. Time was spent whipping off filters and pipes, returning the bike to standard exhaust and induction - the difference in performance was unbelievable as the state of tune would do nothing for this set up. It actually felt slower than a standard LC. A new coat of paint and it was ready to sell.
To top all the past aggravation during the night it was nicked. In a way I preferred it being stolen to knowing I was selling a complete pig to some unsuspecting buyer like myself. None of the other RDs I have had were this much trouble and I would still buy another LC....but not one that had been previously raced.
A.J.Cox