I had to take a little care with the two year old, six cylinder mammoth. Massive power mixed with excessive mass made for an interesting blend of madness. Especially when I took off in wheelie mode. The whole bike rumbled with the power. Whilst the weight gave it unusual security I knew from past experience once the balance was lost, the momentum would slam the Z down every which way.
As an astonished owner of a Mini Cooper replica found to his cost. Sitting proudly in his new auto, which had probably cost him his life savings, he was suddenly confronted by the Z1300 going sideways whilst the front wheel wobbled out of control, a good six feet off the ground. The Z had almost gone right over, the thought of the thing slamming down on top of my body sending shivers down my spine.
My startled response had sent the beast way off balance. I sort of skipped off, a pure reflex, not wanting to lose my leg between bike and car. The Z slammed down on the passenger side of the Mini, reducing British Leyland's finest to a crumpled wreck. The driver somehow escaped without serious injury but collapsed out of shock into a screaming fit when he saw the state of his car.
I tried pulling out nigh on 700lbs of metal but the two seemed welded together. I shouted at the crowd of gathered peds not to just stand there gaping. A couple helped pull the once pristine Z out of the car. What a sight, completely written off! The car that is, the Kawasaki had a dented tank and a few bent bits but looked like it could be ridden off.
That was tempting but the sudden wail of ambulances and police cars ruined such an easy escape. It must've been a quiet afternoon, there were enough cops to quell a major riot. The physics of the accident were difficult to explain, a cop scratching his head as he tried to make some sense of the scene, a mildly dented bike and written off car.
I claimed the clutch had suddenly let loose and I'd lost control. The driver babbled like a baby as he was frog-marched into the ambulance. They wanted to take me as well, only after a furious shouting match going away empty handed. I had to report the accident to the insurance company, but made no claim myself, and take my docs to the cop shop, but heard no more about the incident.
That accident happened in the early days and I thereafter applied a little more care to take-offs. However, the delivery of the grunt and kick of the wheelies (the astonished looks on cringing peds' faces was alone worth the effort and danger) were kind of addictive and became firmly entrenched as part of the day's madness.
Kawasaki market the bike as a kind of grand tourer but the reality of its consumable and fuel consumption means that only rich bastards are able to afford to take the bike on the Grand Tour. I wasn't too worried about such mundane matters because I had a cousin who worked in a breakers, able to bung me cheap tyres and pads. Commuting mileage was only a hundred or so a week, the 35mpg tolerable. In compensation all I did to the engine was change the oil and filter every 3000 miles.
The bike came with 19000 miles on the clock, and that rarest of accomplishments - a full service history. Not even that could convince me to hand over loads of dosh to a dealer for valve adjustments, the fuel injection eliminating carb balancing sessions. The six cylinder motor manages all of 130 horses at 8000 revs from 1286cc, a state of mild tuning for the engine size that had me convinced that neglect was the only way to go.
Kawasaki know how to make four strokes, although some of their watercooled fours could have troublesome top ends. The Z1300 was more likely to blow its electrics but the previous owner had boasted of extra rubber mounting of the CDI unit and ignition controllers. A rather pendantic chap who numbered train spotting amongst his hobbies and went into a lecture when I admitted to arriving on this most dubious form of transport. Exactly why he owned the Z1300 I was never able to grasp, although he muttered something about liking to run up to Scotland every year. In many ways the Z was a dream buy.
It took me a while to come to grips with its mass and width, the grumbling shaft drive intruding on the inherent smoothness of six cylinders below 3000 revs. A rush of torque and power came in thence, encouraging excessive rates of acceleration that made mincemeat out of the traffic gaps, upping the pace with which I played with the cages.
A strong set of engine bars served to protect both the motor and my feet from any misjudgements I might make as regard the relative width of the Qwack and the traffic gaps. Having once ridden a rat BMW boxer on the same route, with a much nastier shaft drive, I was able to bop along at an indecent pace. Whenever I hit the side of a car, either in error, out of boredom or from the sheer frustration of modern life, I scooted off, shrieking sucker at the startled cager. It had soon become apparent that modern traffic left me in a state of war and I took my kicks wherever I could find them.
The Z1300 was brilliant in many respects. The merest twitch of the throttle in almost any of its five gears, of which a mere three would've been more than sufficient, had the ton on the clock and a glorious growl out of the six into two exhaust. The latter I'd attacked with a drill to let loose a more stimulating noise than the stock muted wail. It wasn't so loud as to cause young cops to run after me but got me high every time.
After about a year of trouble free running, bringing the mileage up to 32000, I had a big accident. This time I hit the side of a bus at about 40mph. A nubile in a micro-skirt and no knickers on a windy day was the cause of the distraction. The driver couldn't believe I failed to see him after I stopped wailing. The latter caused by the effect of the girl on my groin, which was slammed into the back of the six gallon petrol tank!
The poor old Z had cracked its front wheel and turned the forks banana shape. Luckily, these items had taken all the impact, the hefty tubular frame remained as straight as Kawasaki had intended. In some ways this wasn't the end of the world as the discs were going very thin and the calipers beginning to seize up in winter. A newish front end revived the Z much sooner than my marital tackle agreed to work again.
With its mass, shaft drive and old fashioned suspension, the Z was never going to make much of itself on the race track. In the real world, though, the bike held together well. This despite the use of part worn tyres, often mismatched and used down to the carcass. True, I didn't try doing much more than 90mph on them, nor going knee scratching in the corners, either of which would doubtless amplify the weaves into man eating wobbles. The frame and geometry seemed well worked out, able to damp down the worst machinations of the tyres.
The rubber rarely lasted for more than 2500 miles, although brand new stuff might manage twice that. I taught myself to change tyres, not that easy with low profile rubber. Modern radials being especially difficult but it's important to be able to deal with a puncture by the roadside when on long tours and I always took spare inner-tubes (annoyingly the wheels are different in diameter) - but typically never needed them.
There are tours and there are tours. I never did the mad stuff, just 500 miles in a day to get somewhere quick then lounge around in pure idleness until the boredom got to me. I favoured the South of France for the sun, sea and near naked women. Lovely and not so expensive if you went out of season, which meant coming back to a cold and dreary UK. I'm saving up to buy a chalet a few miles up in the hills, about ten grand plus site fees.
I did occasionally hit 120 or even 130mph when on a good set of tyres but the naked set-up with high bars made it all very painful and a bit pointless. Fuel dived to 25mpg, rubber went bald double quick and the whole plot threatened to dissolve beneath me every time we hit a bump. Much better to burble along at 80mph with a stately resolve and reverberating exhaust.
The latter managed to dissolve about 150 miles from home on one occasion. The baffles had rotted and fallen out, leaving the exhaust straight through and rather too loud for comfort. More like a battalion of tanks than a motorcycle. The searing acceleration was also shot as it wouldn't run above 4500rpm. My eardrums were gone by the time I got home but a pair of universal cans sufficed as a cheap repair.
By then there were 43000 miles done and the camchain was ringing a little. It might've lasted a lot longer but the risk of it snapping, the valves wrecking the pistons, was far too high. A new camchain was fitted, the tensioner and valves checked - both okay. The watercooled motor seemed deathly silent when run again but I soon became used to it.
Finish on the Z was better than other Kawasaki models but not perfect. Quick corrode wheels, flaking frame paint and rust creeping out from most crevices that were difficult to clean. I knew there was a lot of life in the Z1300, having met one owner who'd done all of 170,000 miles on what was basically a stock motor but repainted chassis plus stainless exhaust and fasteners.
The brakes do corrode a bit during the winter, as much on the sliders as on the pistons. WD40 helps if applied every week. EBC pads were slightly better than other makes in the wet, when a locked up wheel could turn a bit pant staining. I never bought a new pair but nearly new stuff went for about 4000 miles. Milder use, less cut and thrust in the traffic, might double that but there's one hell of a lot of momentum to lose.
The bike came with taper roller bearings in the headstock, which didn't last long under the heavy braking. I always knew when they were going because the front end shook furiously. If left for long after that then the handling would become dangerous, with the directional stability of a one legged kangaroo. Figure on 8000 to 10,000 miles.
Mileage has now crept up to 58000. The engine sounds fine and pulls the excessive mass just as well as before. Compared with normal bikes it takes a lot of muscle to control and a certain amount of brainless bravado to use the excess of power. It can be ridden mildly in tourer mode without ever coming close to frightening the rider, a remarkable achievement given its size. That's a bit pointless, though, as there are any number of smaller bikes that will do the same job better.
They aren't expensive to buy secondhand, two grand up, and if you do a good deal privately they will retain their value well over a couple of years. That's some compensation for the heavy running costs, which can be kept down by buying used bits. Tyre choice ain't critical and pads are shared with other models. The shaft drive saves a fortune on chains and doesn't really wreck the handling once used to the slight rocking horse effect.
It's hard to define the buzz of six cylinders coming on cam, hard to define just why I love the massive brute so much. But I do, so there. It's probably down to controlling all that excess weight and power, sheer human brawn overcoming an unlikely motorcycle layout. They probably won't make bikes like this again so it's worth experiencing for the kicks.
Don Harcourt
****************************************************
Everyone says that triples sound beautiful but anyone who grabs an earful of my Z1300's six into one exhaust will find out the meaning of real spine tingling music to the ears. Anyone who happened to be in the vague vicinity of the bottom half of the A1 six months ago will have realised what a big Z sounds like on a straight through exhaust system. Ahem, yes it was me! Profuse apologies to those who had their hearing aids blown apart or double glazing shatter, but I had no idea the end of the admittedly rusty silencer was going to fall off.
Well, it was a 1982 machine that had been dragged through a decade of hard riding by various motorcycle perverts until it fell into my greedy hands at the end of '92 with 74000 miles under its wheels. Even then, I'd had to hand over two thousand notes for the dubious privilege of entering the hallowed state of six cylinder motorcycling. Hell, I loved the brutal excess of seventies superbikes and something like the Z1300 appeared much more interesting than the plastic fantastic brigade.
All the owner had to do to, really, was crank up the throttle with the aforementioned exhaust note crackling through the air - no motorcyclist with more blood than lead in his veins could resist. Readers of a more sane disposition will point out its massive girth and obese character at over 650lbs, but, then, those with a foolish lack of self-survival instincts could level the same complaints at myself, so really the big Kawasaki and I are well matched.
The engine is as sophisticated in character as it is in design (DOHCs, 24 valves, watercooling, etc, etc). The power plant is one of those units that lets you have it anyway you want. From tickover to about 5000 revs it's as mild and nice as could be, even with the non-standard exhaust (when in one piece). It still shifts okay even at those mild revs, showing most of the caged population its back end. There's no real need to go into a frenzy on the still reasonable gearbox (second to third is mildly dubious, these days).
Good for more 70mph in top without hitting on the power band, on those days when everything becomes laid back and languid, I just shove the thing into that gear and use the fluidity of the ultra smooth engine to glide along majestically. Despite its weight, the Z is so well balanced that I can roll up to a standstill feet up, holding my balance for a few moments until the thought of trying to lift the mass off my body makes me put a cautionary foot down.
Usually, though, I employ the throttle with little restraint, a slight hesitation between 5000 and 6000rpm showing up the sudden influx of searing power as it hits the latter revs. A stock exhaust might eliminate this but I feel it adds to the character of the machine. Despite the massive all up weight of rider and machine (put it this way, the combo looks so fearsome that car drivers have been known to swerve out of my path in blind panic) and the mileage now flirting with 95000 miles, it growls up to 120mph with more than enough wallop to throw innocent pillions off the back. And, if I'm feeling really nasty, I can pull wheelies that has the numberplate scraping along the tarmac. Again, the Z's natural poise overcomes any worries about the weight getting out of control, making the machine loop the loop or fall away sideways. From a spectator's point of view I've done some spectacular wheelies but at the controls I've felt quite at ease.
Okay, so it's fast enough to bring tears to your eyes but how does it handle? The first thing to do is to smack on some HD shocks, stiffen up the front forks, add a fork brace, fit decent rubber and make sure every chassis bearing is in good order (I've had wheel bearings last less than 10,000 miles, purely down to the excess mass). When all that's sorted it still weaves a little, gets upset when the throttle's backed off in corners (don't even think about using the front brake, I felt weak at the knees just writing that warning) and required so much muscle to truly dominate that it's not too surprising that most Z1300 riders look like a cross between a Sumo wrestler and an orang-utang. Myself excepted, of course.
As an advocate of big bikes for real men, that was pretty much what I'd expected from the Z1300. However, I was more than perplexed to find that putting 140mph on the clock coincided with the frame turning to rubber. After a wrestling match with the necessarily wide handlebars, the more normal queasiness was regained and I quickly pulled over to check if any essential elements of the chassis had come loose. They hadn't. Further examination of the Z's handling limitations convinced me that doing more than 130mph, even on the smoothest and straightest of motorways (and, god knows, they're pretty rare, these days) was only going to make my manifold enemies immensely happy as they cheered at my funeral.
So, I was a bit disappointed at the limited top speed. No amount of messing around with tyres, suspension and chassis offered any sign of a cure, although if anything wore out then the mighty wobbles would occur at much lower speeds.
Mere wimps will find the cruising speed limited to about 80mph by the amount of arm strain from the wind pressure. I can tolerate 110mph for about an hour at a time, the ultra smooth engine is some compensation for the lack of natural comfort from the riding position. Flat bars would make town riding more than painful. Even with my excessive posterior padding, the seat turns hard after about 90 minutes but I've done three hours in the saddle without ending up staggering around like a gay boy after a particularly wild night in a Rio jail.
As a high speed tourer, on the Continent, I've done a 1000 miles in a day but my body felt like it had been given a good kicking by a bunch of enraged Angels for a few hours after I finally staggered off the Z. Petrol under that kind of abuse turned out to be a wallet shattering 30mpg against a more usual consumption of 40mpg. Tyres and brake pads, for some reason, usually lasted more than 10,000 miles, which given the mass and power I always found a little amazing.
The brakes were fine, but then they had been uprated with later stuff. Had they been original they would probably have gone the usual way of early Japanese brakes - corroded calipers and warped discs (that was the state of the OE rear disc which was thus rarely used to no great loss, there's so much mass that the lack of the normal stabilising act from the rear brake doesn't matter). With so much mass and power, riding with anything less than perfect front brakes is just a quick way to an early grave.
The engine hasn't caused any problems despite the oil being changed every 3000 miles and a coolant leak meaning I'd almost run it on an empty radiator. Even when the end of the exhaust blew off, the carburation was still quite clean (up to 70mph, any more threatened to blow my eardrums), more a function of its mild state of tune (120 horses but 1300cc) than anything else. Keeping an eye on the oil level on long runs is the only real chore, as it can suddenly disappear below the minimum mark. The motor neither smokes nor leaks so this is a bit of a mystery.
One long run, 2000 miles over a weekend, with the wife on the back (she won't thank me for saying she's similarly hefty) was enough to ruin both the rear shocks and the wheel bearings. The Z was only marginally controllable at 30mph, so the 200 miles it took us to get home in that state led to a massive loss of hair and a cursing fit that lasted for days afterwards. The woman was reluctant to swing a leg over the bike after that, not helped any by the last 50 miles being through a violent storm.
The Z feels pretty good below 70mph on wet roads, a nice feeling of security, though it's a good idea not to use maximum power in the first four ratios. Not unless you want to wrestle with violent skids that can turn the Z ninety degrees to the required course. Fun until you fall off. At higher speeds the tyres feel like they are slithering over a grease covered road. With the riding position I quickly end up completely drenched at high speeds, so the whole act is self-limiting. I have to admit, even though the Z's my only means of transport, that I don't like riding this, or any, motorcycle in wet weather. Maybe I should change countries.
It would certainly help the cosmetics, which, as mentioned before, are a bit tired, mostly down to alloy rot, paint fade and runaway chrome. The silencer's demise was just one item in a long line of minor ancillaries that had corroded so badly that they fell off. The silencer's replacement was the usual bodge, buying a can from a breaker that looked roughly the right dimensions and using some cut up beer cans to make it match the downpipe's diameter. Sounds dodgy, but it worked well enough. I gave up trying to polish the Z when I realised that a weekend's worth of elbow grease wouldn't last out the following week.
I'll be interested to see how long the motor will keep running, for now the Z1300 is a great way to keep ahead of the pack and keep a wild grin on my face.
Clive Tinney
****************************************************
The Z1300 is a good hacking bike. Fact or fiction? I can hear the guffaws, but let me put the record straight. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to say one way or another. What I will do, though, is tell you of my experience with the beast and let you decide for yourself. I picked the bike up brand new, my bank balance considerably depleted to the tune of over three grand. It looked like a large bike should - big, black and beautiful.
Six chrome exhausts thrusting from the matt black, fuel injected lump of engine alloy. I think I drooled idiotically when I first saw it in the flesh - either that or the mechanic gave me a funny look because he thought I was a prat. Anyway, it fired into life first time I touched the button, a civilised purr from the smooth and silky six cylinder, watercooled engine.
With a gentle twist of the throttle - so light and responsive to the touch - I rode it cautiously from the shop, head high and leathers tight, posing to the best of my abilities. It was as I was riding away from the dealers that I hit my first snag. The time was about five in the afternoon, midweek, and the rush hour traffic around Newcastle was starting to clog the streets, a never ending mess of four wheeled expletives queuing to get home.
I joined the traffic and, shock-horror, waited with them! The bike was too wide to go down the central gap in traffic, too ponderous to weave in and out, too heavy to throw into the gaps that exist for only a split second. So, I sat and moved with the cars, other bikes of numerous denominations scampering past me. Well, I didn't care, I was still getting used to the bike and I didn't feel like thrashing it with so much traffic on the road.
I arrived home later (much later) and showed it to the missus; raised eyebrows the only welcome. So, enthusiasm dampened, I started the long, boring haul of running it in - a thousand miles of unforgettable tedium. To spare you the pain, I will pass over it completely.
The day arrived when I could thrash it, 1001 miles on the clock. This was it, I thought. The time had arrived, I took it out on the A1(M), just short of Newcastle and pointed it down the long road. The engine felt good, smooth and clean. I opened it up in every gear, hitting the edge of the red line.
It didn't falter, the power effortlessly piling on. The steering held true and firm, not a twitch, even at over 130mph. The only thing I noticed was a slight wallow on tight corners when the rear end started to drift. I put that down to the shocks being wrongly adjusted. I stopped and twisted the top of them, adjusting the air damping - even on full the bike still wallowed. Next, I cranked the spring up 3 notches, which appeared to cure it.
The bike roared around the corners, sticking to the line I set with ease. Gaining confidence, I started to do silly things, like dropping the clutch at over 6000rpm - the rear wheel snaking as the tyre fought for grip, finally snapping into place, my arms nearly wrenched out of their sockets as the bike hurtled off.
With the suspension set properly, the handling was transformed in another area. The bike, long wheelbase and all, was heavy, but it laid into corners with only a minimal amount of effort - and it wasn't just a case of the whole plot about to fall over as will be explained by the next event...
I was riding back from London with the better half on the back when I misjudged a bend, the line tightening dramatically. Under normal circumstances it wouldn't have been so bad, but I was doing 130mph, the power delivery not affected by the weight of the pillion. The bike went lower and lower as I tried to ride it through, fearing to brake in case I lost it completely.
The bike went lower, the ground creeping closer and closer when it happened - the pegs touched, and I rode the entire bend at a 130mph, with a shower of sparks from the OE footrests. As I came out of the bend there was still ample power left to roll on the throttle as the behemoth came up, bringing it vertical without needing to flex my fear filled muscles. The hardest bit was trying to convince the wife that you'd planned it that way all along - not easy when you're hobbling around a garage forecourt after being kicked between the legs; hell hath no fury...
The next incident that surprised me was again when I had the wife on the back. We all know how the handling changes with a pillion passenger, but the Z1300 is one of those bikes that is so big and powerful that it's easy to forget. It still has the same low end grunt (many's the time I've pulled away in third in heavy traffic because I couldn't be bothered to go down through the gears) and virtually the same acceleration.
Except for the time I was stuck behind a bus in Newcastle when a gap opened up in the traffic. Doing a sedate 30mph, in what I assumed was fourth, 'cept I was in third......I dropped two cogs and then whacked open the throttle. Without a moment's hesitation, the bike surged forward in first, the front wheel lifting clean off the ground into the air by a good couple of feet. We sailed past, the bike on one wheel, startling passengers who looked at us whilst my sphincter muscles fainted, the two of us screaming our heads off. It wasn't until we were past the bus that I could bring the front wheel down again. I always checked my gears after that.
There's one thing I'm not really certain about, but I will mention it anyway. It might be a good point or not. The engine is watercooled, the radiator thermostatically controlled with a huge fan. In cold weather revving the engine caused the fan to cut in, blowing hot air past your legs to warm you up. The only problem was that it did the same thing in summer - the wife refused to wash my socks and my friends showed a marked reluctance to let me into their homes if the sun was shining. It did keep the engine cool at all times, though.
To be fair, I must mention some poor points: there are quite a few bad points. Being a shaftie, whenever I changed down gear quickly the back wheel would momentarily lock up. I went through rear tyres every 3000 miles, becoming the favourite customer of my local tyre dealer who could run his Jag on the back of the Z1300's consumption of tyres. The rear shocks rotted, the enamelled numbers on the dampers rusting away completely, although they still worked after a fashion.
And the services. Even the simplest cost over a £150, those 6 cylinders. But the thing that got me the most were the brakes. They were good, I must say that, two discs at the front and a single out back, but as soon as it rained they just refused to work. Fortunately, the bike still went around corners okay.
At one point, the black box failed. The injection system gave up and I had to coast to a halt on the motorway's hard shoulder (with the wife on the back...). A quick, ignorant fumble under the seat, where it was all kept in a neat cluster, revealed merely a lead detached. Luckily, it never happened again.
The petrol consumption made me think I was running Concord. 30mpg around town, 40mpg cruising at reasonable speeds. There was a little switch on the bars with cruise marked next to it, but in use it had no effect...the dealer said it only worked in America and a nasty letter to Kawasaki UK was not answered. What a load of crap.
By far the worst thing to happen was the rear disc cracking. It actually cracked! Can you believe it? The bike was less than a year old and it had a whopping great crack cleaving through it. I dread to think what would have happened if it had sundered when I was on the bike. It took six weeks for the new part to come from Japan.
So there you have it. The pro's and cons of being the proud owner of a big Jap six. I don't want to put anyone off, but I traded it in for a Kawasaki 1100; such sweet bliss.
David O'Neill
****************************************************
The grease-ball was something out of an American movie. All baseball cap, leather jerkin and denim jeans. Fat poured out of him in all directions and he had enough chins to do a reasonable impression of a Bulldog. He was slapping a screwdriver into the Z1300's ignition lock. It's my great fortune to look like a steroid abuser, though I'm not. I also do martial arts! I tapped him on the back of his neck, hard enough for his legs to turn to jelly but I spared him vegetable status - only because I didn't want hassle with the law. In a proper, fair society all motorcycle thieves should be killed on sight. But no hope of that in the UK where big time crooks get away with fines or derisory prison time.
Fatboy collapsed in a heap, his upturned face showing a rare look of astonishment until I broke his nose, just to remind him who was boss and who was dross. I fingered the screwdriver, which was still sticking out of the ignition - I damn well knew where I'd love to shove that! Fatboy was howling like a three year old by then, so I managed to restrain myself. It says something for the basic toughness of the big Z that the ignition key still worked. The engine roared into life, a psychopath's dream...
I suppose an eight stone wimp could just about get around on the six cylinder behemoth, but they probably wouldn't enjoy it. It's the kind of bike that needs excessive muscle to enjoy and total dominance to keep on the pace. I know, it's suppose to be some kind of tourer with its excess of cylinders and mass, plus the shaft drive, but 660lbs and 120 horses don't add up to a sensible tourer, at least not to my power sated mind.
Get vicious on the throttle, the handlebars will try to poke your eyes out or the back wheel will try to grind itself into the tarmac. Scorched earth territory! One friend, who assumed the bike was somehow mild, went wild on the throttle and looped the loop. Fortunately for him, the machine landed atop his spread-eagled body, saving it from any serious damage. The chap was never the same again, having received severe irritation to the groin area, only able to get sexual kicks from dressing up in woman's clothing!
The watercooled six cylinder engine gives out oodles of power at most revs, but goes really berserk at six grand - on degutted exhaust and airfilter. The bike blasts through the ton like there's no tomorrow, hikes up to 125mph in a couple of seconds, only to give into the aerodynamic forces - and they are of muscle building proportions - with 130mph on the clock. I've seen 145mph, a speed at which my crash helmet tried to throttle me and left its strap marks imprinted in my neck. Cool!
All this stomp made my lady friend somewhat nervous, as in wet pants and weak knees. She denies being turned on by excess speed but she seems definitely hornier after a long, fast ride. The sheer excess of the Z1300 means that a few times some strange women have approached me and demanded a ride. Being a gentleman and a scholar I could hardly turn them down, could I?
Whilst the engine's all smooth sophistication in its massive, monstrous way, the chassis is a basic, brutal bit of tackle when taken to the edge. For normal riding it's nowhere near as bad as you'd expect, being well enough planted on the tarmac and not really prone to any wantonness, despite the potentially intrusive presence of the shaft drive. Maybe the sheer smoothness of the six cylinder power pulses gives it an easier time.
With its high and wide bars, there's enough leverage for even a wimp to swing it around in town, though it would probably be a bit tiring after half an hours fun and games. No problem for me, but the sheer width of the engine does limit the kind of gaps into which the monster can be thrown, though with the engine bars fitted it's much more likely to take the side of a car off than actually suffer any damage.
A loud, large motorcycle with someone who could intimidate (I didn't say imitate, sonny!) a gorilla on board makes would be assassins (or blind car drivers) back off even more rapidly than if I was the plod! For a lot of the time, then, I was able to bamboozle my way through traffic, gaps suddenly appearing out of the ether.
One nice thing about the Z was that it was such a heavy old bitch that it'd float majestically over the ruined road surfaces, only taking a slight hit from the more desperate potholes. Suspension was from a set of hefty air-shocks out back and heavily braced (inspired by the Forth bridge, I think) forks out front.
By the way, the standard stuff was worn out within 20,000 miles. Worn out as in letting the bike go into massive wobbles above 80mph and weave at ridiculously low speeds. With the shaft drive the back end definitely needs a taut pair of shocks, something off a tank or artic. Anything substandard's soon worn out, which goes for the rest of the chassis as well.
When everything's in good shape, it rows along jolly nicely, with hardly any effort from my well attuned muscles and reflexes. When I ride really hard, just about anything can go down. There's no one element of the machine that's consistently bad, the evil seems to sprout at any and every point in the cycle.
The worst time was when the back end felt like it was breaking up. 125mph on the clock, a bumpy A-road and a juicy babe clinging on out back. Brilliant! The bike started shaking, wobbling, jerking from side to side of the lane I was trying to keep it in. The babe screamed, I swore and the bike threatened to run right off the road. The bars tried to break my wrists off as I hammered on the front discs, not the most punctual of stoppers at the best of times. By the time I'd pulled out of the wild wobble we ended up on a patch of gravel by the side of the road. The girl on the back turned into a pure bitch - well, she was An American Goddess.
Another time, the old girl almost lost the front end on what seemed like a perfectly textured curve. I think it was just too much acceleration causing it to go all light-headed at the front end. A grappling match with the bars followed, pure instinctive gut reaction rather than any rational skill. I pulled out of it, much to my amazement.
Just two of more worrying instances of chassis degradation, there were loads more but I never actually came off. Ride within the laws of the land, there's no problem, push the old devil as hard as the throttle will let you, then be ready for some harsh reactions from the chassis. In other words, wimps should look elsewhere.
To be serious for a moment. Fuel's around 40mpg, tyres need replacing every 5000 miles (Metz's are best) and front brake pads every 3500 miles, down to some necessarily desperate braking. Engine maintenance's optional, mine's done 87000 miles with regular oil changes and minimal valve checks. A lot were bought under the impression they were sensible tourers (hah!) so some very good bargains out there. I'm keeping mine until I break through the 100,000 mile mark. Mainline kicks for the asking.
Nick Bracken
****************************************************
Heaviness, width and smoothness were my first impressions of Kawasaki's six cylinder behemoth. Then came the surging acceleration that wound the tacho needle around the dial quicker than I could blink in the first three gears. Then fear set in as I found I was going a lot faster than I really wanted, the loose feel of the five year old front suspension demanding constant correction of my trajectory.
My spirits rose with the efficiency of the recently refurbished twin front discs, able to knock speed off safely yet rapidly, plenty of feel pulsing through the lever. The ever so wide bars gave the Z1300 a stately feel, though despite their width the steering was as languorous as a vintage steed.
A bumble around a housing estate revealed that I could live with the Kawasaki despite its obvious excesses. The dirty deal was done and I flew home in a rare state of euphoria at finally breaking into big time motorcycling. Only when I overcooked it in a slow corner, the big brute almost crashing down to earth such was its top-heaviness, did I wonder if I'd really done a sane and sensible thing in buying the Z.
That feeling was reinforced the next day when the engine stayed dead despite a battery flattening 15 minutes on the starter. No sparks, the ignition black box was dead, its rubber mounting had perished - why it went the first day after purchase was totally beyond reason. Even when I spent ten minutes screaming abuse at it, the ignition failed to revive. A used one and some more rubber had the Kawasaki running again.
The clock read 21000 miles, to my mind not much more than running in mileage for a watercooled six cylinder engine. If it was genuine, which judging by the nice state of the chassis it most certainly was. A week went by before I had any reason to doubt this assessment, a week in which I had untold fun hurtling the Kawasaki along fast A-roads and motorways, where there was a display of splendid competence in the use of excess speed and stability.
I knew there was something wrong the moment I started up the motor. A gurgling sound came from the radiator and a knocking noise from the engine. I had no time to wait on the whims of the bike, though, ten hours of work beckoned and there was only one way of getting there. I took it easy, there and back, but by the time I was home the engine was close to melt-down. Turned out the water pump was knackered, another trip to the breakers necessary to find a replacement.
This got me wondering just how many miles the old bastard had really done. I poked around a bit, took the cycle parts off, to find that some of the wiring was so old that the insulation was dropping off. I looked closely at the frame, beginning to discern where the paint was patched up. The tank and panels shone with a now suspicious newness. I had noticed that parts of the engine and the wheels were caressed with corrosion, but had put that down to normal wear and tear, but it now became the patina of a 100,000 miles, or more, worth of abuse.
I phoned the old owner up only to be told he had moved on, no way I could go around there with a few mates to kick the truth out of him. There's nothing quite like the suspicion that the engine is about to blow up to completely spoil a relationship with a motorcycle. I stuck the Z into the unlikely task of commuting until it blew up, determined at the very least to get some kind of value out of the deal.
The Z is heavy and wide for constant battling through town, but it accelerates like a Ferarri and brakes like a race replica, a combination, laced with my own anger and disgust at being ripped off, that led to some predictable madness that managed to simultaneously break every law in the land and frighten the stuffing out of me.
The baffles had already fallen out of the silencers, so it was a loud, brash lout of a motorcycle that easily intimidated the average cager into getting out of the damn way because I was going to charge through regardless of the consequences. After two months of successfully cheating both death and the motor's expected demise, my admiration for the Z1300 knew no bounds.
It was then I decided that some open road work was in order. Running along at 90 to 100mph suited the Z1300 fine as long as no serious corners were involved, when a quick stab at the brakes was needed to halve the speed. Long, fast sweepers were handled with a minimum of weaves and wobbles unless a particularly large bump was hit when the whole bike would flutter and flicker, more down to the worn front end than anything else.
A similar effect was noted above the ton even in a straight line - curves I was never brave enough to try at those kinds of speed. Country bends, and the like, were much more disturbing as low speeds brought in the top-heaviness with a vengeance, the width of the engine meaning it was highly placed. I was never quite sure how it'd react to a bump, the undercarriage grinding away or a bit too much pressure on the bars. It was as sensitive as a Catholic virgin and reactive as a Russian nuclear power station.
That said, a bit of arm muscle employed to keep the machine in check with brute force often worked wonders on the predictability of the path. Wimps can handle the Z1300 without becoming NHS statistics, but only if they are willing to contemplate speeds that even a CB400N rider would laugh at. To get the most out of the machine arms like Popeye and a half doped mind are the basic necessities.
I was quite surprised to extract 12000 miles out of the engine without having to pay out any serious money (fuel was around 35mpg and tyres lasted 6000 miles). My happiness was lacerated by heavy smoke out of the exhaust, a sign that the exhaust valves were burning out. Well, I never did get around to checking the valve clearances, so as likely to be my own neglect as from doing a high mileage.
The cam lobes and valves were in such a state that it made much more sense to hand a breaker two hundred notes for a nice cylinder head than try to repair the existing one. Extreme care's needed when bolting down the head and new gaskets are obligatory. Really a dealer job but I blackmailed my mate, a car mechanic, into doing the deed. The bores, I'm glad to say, were pristine enough to suggest that the mileage was in fact genuine.
For some reason, the Kawasaki had lost a little of its zest after the transplant. God knows, with 675lbs to shift it really needed every one of its 120 horses to be in perfect shape. I think it may've been poor synchronization of the fuel injectors but their extreme complexity was too much to contemplate examining - and I've heard tales of their control boxes going up in a puff of smoke!
After a year of worry and fun I'd really had enough. The weird pricing of used motorcycles meant I got back almost every penny I spent out on the Z1300, so from the viewpoint of cheap motorcycling it was ideal. On the other hand, putting a huge six cylinder engine in a motorcycle chassis seems to produce many more problems than plus points. Even in the tourer role that its size and capacity suggests, confined to the open road, the Z's less than ideal due to its conspicuous consumption of consumables. Overall, I wasn't that impressed and wouldn't be tempted to buy a genuine low mileage example unless the price was a real bargain. The replacement's a CBR1000, which beats the Z1300 dead in every area.
K.L.Y.