My appearance in school on the Cagiva Blues was met with a lot of hysteria. Large louts burst into songs along the lines of, "I've got the blues." Tiny tots pointed fingers and smirked. Even one of the teachers dropped a hint about Hells Angels. They wouldn't listen to my protestations that I'd gotten the bike dead cheap and that the owner had illegally tuned the motor to give about 25hp instead of the paltry 12hp allowed by the government.
It was the huge air vent beneath the tank that grabbed most people's imagination and sent them into wild fits of laughter. I didn't really care, I'd grown used to irrational abuse after chopping my mountain bike by putting on forks a foot longer than stock. . . The bike was a year old and had already done 23000 miles under the abusive hands of a couple of teenage hoodlums.
My motorcycle training had consisted of a couple of courses in school, which included the CBT, and riding mother's ancient Puch Maxi (remember them?) around town, wearing a dark visor to disguise my identity. Somehow, these activities had leaked out and made me the focus of even more abusive laughter, but, truth to tell, I rather enjoyed screaming the Puch along the gutter, flat out at 35mph.
The Blues was a rather different bundle of iron. The clutch had been so abused it was now a rather vicious on/off switch. The motor sulked at low revs, not wanting to do anything until the throttle was whacked wide open and the clutch dropped. With the long forks out front it was almost impossible to avoid massive wheelies on take-offs. It would have doubtless impressed the great unwashed had not the grimace of horror and screams of fear undone my attempt at a cool visage.
In the end, I had to crouch over the bars, whilst further abusing the clutch by using the back brake to slow down the rate of acceleration. I looked like an accident looking for somewhere to happen. The local back street mechanic spent an afternoon sorting out the clutch for me, which much improved matters - I could actually scream off with both wheels on the ground.
That just left the sudden imposition of 25 horses to deal with. Slogging it out at low revs usually oiled up the spark plug but at least gave me a bit of time to get used to the feel of the bike before going berserk with the throttle.
Adding to the Cagiva's weird appearance were the tiny 16" wheels which gave the bike something of a toy-town look. Despite its strange appearance the bike actually handled okay, not that I'm any kind of expert. The machine tracked with precision, held its line when banked over and could be swung through traffic almost as well as the Puch, although I did not jump up on any pavements as I tended to do on the moped (often a necessity to avoid being pulped by a bus or artic).
True, when well leant over the exhaust would hit the deck and try to lurch the machine off the road, but that only happened under truly mad riding. Like the engine and clutch, the brakes were a bit on the sharp side, tending to lock the wheels as soon as they were gently caressed, which led to all kinds of wild slides in the wet. The front sixteen inch wheel tended to loose traction extremely rapidly, needing the reflexes borne of hours on a virtual reality machine to pull back into line.
Which I didn't have, instead I slid the bike down the road a couple of times, once in front of the assembled mass of fellow pupils. A set of OE pads in the front made an amazing improvement, as did some new fluid. The back disc would probably have been improved in a similar manner, but I rather enjoyed the back wheel slides as they were always controllable and just letting off the brake pressure snapped the wheel back on to the straight and narrow. With the brake and clutch fixed, I was more or less in control of machine.
When you're seventeen and have the adrenalin high of 25 horses a mere twist of the throttle away it's hard to resist the temptation. The Blues only weighs 280lbs, so that power could be used to good effect, putting as much as 90mph on the doubtless inaccurate speedo. As I should have been doing no more than 70mph on a 12hp motor I was a bit paranoid about such mindless speeding until I'd passed the test.
No way I was going to take it on the Cagiva, though. I borrowed a nice CG125 for that and donned a bright orange waterproof to convince the examiner that I was a staid commuter. Seemed to work as I passed first time.
The previous owner had fitted a very loud expansion chamber to the bike. Depending on your point of view, it either produced an awful racket which should have led to its owner being strung up from the nearest lamp-post or a magical wail that send shivers up the spine. You can guess which view I endorsed.
Wearing a leather jacket and several jumpers to add bulk to my body, I was able to convince myself that I was the most macho guy in school. Several attempts were made to impress the girls but they usually burst into laughter, often clutching their stomach in a fit of childish giggles. Still, I persevered and eventually managed to persuade someone on the back. She wasn't my first choice, I must admit, and putting her substantial mass on the pillion made the front end go even lighter than normal with some pretty horrible effects on handling and stability.
The watercooled motor seemed to go into a frenzy of vibes and the power kick was much diminished. It was quite a turn on to having a girl grabbing hold of me in a frenzy of fear as we cut a dash through the town. One effect of the series of wheelies was to snap the backrest off. Had not the woman been holding on to me she would have been thrown off the back. As it was, my arms were nearly broken as she frantically kept herself in place. We hit the deck with a wild lurch and slewed to a halt.
She started screaming abuse and trying to whack me around my head, luckily still cocooned in the helmet. There was the stench of spilt urine coming off her and I was more than a bit miffed to have the lines of my machine ruined by the fractured backrest. Luckily, we were not too far from her residence, so she could get a change of clothes. Much to my surprise, she agreed to get back on the bike and spend the rest of the night riding around. Strange creatures, women!
With about 26000 miles done steam started pouring out of the radiator and the engine started making some weird noises. The friendly mechanic diagnosed worn out piston and bore. Luckily, I knew where there was a crashed machine being broken, so was able to buy barrel and piston quite cheaply. The small end looked a bit worn as well but there was no play so I left it in there.
About a thousand miles later the electrics started to play up. The switches weren't bad, but all the wiring had started to rot away causing the starter to become erratic, the headlamp bulb to blow up and a large fire to start up under one sidepanel. I left the mechanic to sort out the spaghetti jungle of wiring and won't repeat in these respectable pages his opinions on Wop electrics.
That sorted by a rewire, another few thousand miles were done without too many problems but I began to get the feeling that as 30,000 miles approached serious expense was on the horizon. My kid brother was kept in pocket money by the almost daily need to stop the corrosion from taking over the machine, which was another serious downer.
Although the vibes had the desired effect on the girlfriend, they were numbing my hands after as little as fifty miles, having increased quite considerably since I'd bought the machine. I'd feared that the Cagiva would be a difficult machine to sell, I'd certainly bought mine at a very low price. Especially as it only did 45 to 50mpg. With a new price tag of around £2500, after discounts, they are expensive beasts to buy straight out of the crate, which doubtless helped persuade a guy in school to hand over a large chunk of his parent's savings and give me a handsome profit on the deal.
What really clinched the sale was that I kept telling him he'd have to fight off the girls, which stretched the truth to bungee cord proportions. Still, it probably would do him no harm. I used the money with some savings from a weekend job to buy a used Harley 883, another bargain - there are lots out there if you know what you are doing.
Gary Jennings