This tale of highway insanity started back in 1982 with a two year old Yamaha XS1100. I was a nineteen year old hoodlum who'd just graduated from an XS500 twin. By any sane account the machinations of this weird but not wonderful vertical twin should've put me off Yamahas for life. Also, the fact that the big four cylinder XS1100 had 49 thou on the clock and three past owners should've warned me that it could turn out to be big trouble.
The test ride convinced me otherwise. It didn't last for long. I was on the pillion for what seemed like mere seconds when there was this great roar, an explosion of power and acceleration that promptly threw me off the back! The landing hurt but my bones were young enough to survive and my mind was promptly convinced that any machine that powerful must be okay. My shaking body and fuzzy vision ensured that the check over was very cursory.
After the deal was struck I was left with the curious problem of lifting the Yamaha off its sidestand! I weighed nine stone and would only scale five foot eight inches in a pair of platform shoes. The XS weighed 550lbs and was slung way over thanks to the adverse camber of the road. The result of my tender ministrations was a machine which suddenly shot over on the other side, but narrowly avoiding breaking my leg! Lifting the machine to the vertical did in my back.
Another aspect of the mass was the fitment of huge tiller-like bars, necessary to afford leverage at low speeds. The wide engine gave a top heavy feel at low revs, resulting in my completely messing up on my first ride through traffic. An Escort with a ruined side will bear testament to the speed with which the bike would suddenly fall over. Again, my leg was only narrowly saved from breakage. Town work always left me a nervous wreck.
In its favour, was the power. From 3000 to 8000 revs the engine really knocked out the gee-gees like nothing else I've tried. Some of the intoxication was undoubtedly down to it being my first big bike, but in retrospect neither the Z1000 nor GSX1100 came close to matching the sheer ball busting, eyeball popping accelerative abilities. Cars flew backwards, OAP's had to hop out of the way and I slid along the saddle.
Top speed was only 130mph. Maybe a little more, but the riding position meant my muscles just weren't up to it. I experimented with a set of ace-bars but they made the handling like I was riding through a couple of feet of fast setting concrete. To use it like that I'd have to trailer the bike to the nearest motorway!
Falling off was easy. There was so much power ready to flood in at the touch of the throttle, that the cheapo Dunlop tyres and stock suspension gave up with sudden ease and speed. On one of my favourite series of bends there were a lot of bumps that turned most bikes a little queasy but had the Eleven's back tyre trying to overtake the front. I had a moment to think that this was well weird before the brute threw me off with all the elan of a horse stalling at a jump.
After a month and four tarmac bashings I did what people usually did back then. No, not put a match in the petrol tank, but fitting decent tyres, Koni rear shocks and tightening up the front forks. On examination the latter turned out to be pitted with worn bushes and sagging springs. I'd often wondered about the ease with which it'd turn into a 550lb pogo-stick! After some phoning around I was offered a cheap GSX1000 Katana front end. This didn't fit straight on but the two weeks worth of effort was well worth the effort and bloodied thumb.
An XS thus modified is much more useful, about equal to a stock Z1000! Weaves and wobbles there were aplenty but none of the unexpected slides previously endured. It was still a troublesome beast in town, more inclined to go straight through cages rather than around them. With a noisy four into one exhaust, cagers were frightened out of their wits and often twitched their coffins out of the way.
The wild life went on for 18 months and 32000 miles. With 81 thou on the clock some heavy knocking noises came from the bottom end. The secondary vibes, always heavier than other DOHC across the frame fours, were all but buzzing the pegs off the frame. Being desperate and lazy at the same time - maintenance consisted of changing the oil whenever the box had more neutrals than gears - I changed the oil for the thickest I could buy. The noises diminished to a level where the local dealer offered me a handsome sum.
The XS1100 has the dubious benefit of being the most expensive bike to run that I've ever owned. 25 to 30mpg, tyres in about 5000 miles and front pads in 4000 miles (because desperate braking was often needed to set her up for the corners). For sure, the shaft drive saved a bit of dosh and a lot of maintenance. Overall, I enjoyed the throttle abuse but the rest of the experience only served as a substitute for a laxative.
1984, 21 years old and some motorcycle kicks needed, please...I was going to buy a sensible 550 but an immaculate Z1000 turned up. Another 550lb machine but it appeared relatively svelte even if the brutal power delivery was missing. These pluses and minuses added up to a bike that could be ridden faster, especially in town and on the curvy roads out in the country.
The one thing I didn't like about the Z, regardless of the make of tyre fitted, in the wet the back tyre would slide out without any warning and for no sane reason that I could fathom. Some interaction of weight distribution and steering geometry made wet weather hustling well dodgy. I received some odd looks and verbal abuse from my friends when they clocked my weird wet weather riding technique. As well as going very mild on the controls I tried to keep the bike as upright as possible, giving rise to a similarity to a toddler trying to walk for the first time.
Just to make life really exciting, the cylinders started cutting out in the wet. So disturbing was this trait that one poor cager was so distracted by the sight that he drove right off the road. The cause was a set of coils on the way out; WD40 kept them going for a few months until I saved up for a new set. I'd been warned that so finicky was the ignition system that it wouldn't take car coils or even used items from other Kawasakis...so widespread was the problem that there were no Z1000 coils in breakers.
Wet weather attacked the whole bike and after the joys of the XS1100's shaft the shitty drive chain was driving me mad, what with all the adjustments, oiling and replacements. Don't expect more than 6000 miles from a chain and sprocket set.
Handling was somewhere between good and frightening, its least desirable trait was the way it would suddenly twitch from a sane stability into a frenzied camel imitation. The one that really sticks in the mind (or gut) was the time a 100mph motorway saunter turned into a vile speed wobble. Even the XS never quite matched the way the Z1000's frame suddenly turned plastic. We were all over the place, the only thing my brain could think of was how much hitting the tarmac was going to hurt; visions of blood and gore running before my bulging eyes. Just before the bars were going to snap off the wobble died out of its own accord.
Another item of note was the saddle, and the way the riding position compounded its pathetic padding. 50 miles was sort of okay if you didn't mind walking like you'd been bummed by half a dozen sex starved Arabs. 100 miles was worth a dose of piles and 200 miles was equal to ten years' ageing. Perhaps I exaggerate a little, but it was the nastiest ride I've yet to experience and that includes some pretty horrible commuters. Even with an aftermarket seat there were still problems after a 100 miles of hard riding. I never really adapted to the big Qwack and it has to be the least comfortable of this bunch of reprobates.
It also turned out to be the most reliable. They are rumoured to need camchain and clutch attention around 40,000 miles, but my bike flew through that mileage, powered on to 75000 miles with hardly a hiccup. By then I was convinced something must be about to go wrong but the new owner extracted another 20,000 miles before selling the bike, thinking that the crankshaft was about to go...I reckon the damn thing's probably still running to this day!
However, the general finish was the least impressive, needing lots of polishing and touching up to stop the rot. A week's winter riding aged the bike by about a year unless daily cleaning was done. The XS was a much easier bike to keep clean, helped by the dirt free shaft drive and a superior pair of mudguards. Still, even the most reluctant bodger can keep a bike clean.
1987, 24 years old, surely some semblance of sanity between me ear-lobes? Nope, just a large pile of dosh that was blown on a mildly tuned GSX1100, circa 1981 and 18000 miles. The chassis had been given the once over - box section alloy swinging arm, fork brace, expensive Metzelers, flat bars, rear-sets and taper-roller steering head bearings. The engine had open carbs and straight thru 4-1 exhaust.
First impressions were interesting. Below 6000 revs the bike wasn't any more impressive than a good 550 but hitting those revs caused wild, wild acceleration. The bars shook, not because the handling was naff, but because the front wheel went way up into the air...both the XS and Z would wheelie but needed a lot of muscle combined with throttle and clutch abuse. The GSX would go airborne any time the throttle was used in anger.
The big Suzuki turned out to be the fastest of the bunch, regularly putting 140mph on the clock. Stability was good on smooth or mildly bumpy roads. The stiffened suspension couldn't cope with the combination of speed and large bumps. It was dead easy to end up with a disturbing weave, some resonance in the chassis turning this pretty vile at 125mph! Put it this way, the poor old cagers scattered as quickly as they could when they clocked the antics of the chassis. Despite this, the bike never turned in any terminal wobbles.
The GSX was very susceptible to worn tyres, preferring 3mm of tread. A bald front tyre would have you off on the first serious curve and a dodgy rear left the bike wagging its tail like a poodle about to be serviced by a Dobberman. Tyre life was thus 3000 to 4000 miles. Some money was saved on fuel, which like the Z1000, was between 40 and 45mpg. Quite impressive as many a mediocre 250 couldn't better it.
I loved the growl out of the exhaust, a really deep bass that sent the shivers up my spine. It was quite decimating when I hustled through town in second gear, just rolling the throttle on and off to control speed. Some pedestrians reacted poorly, putting fingers in their ears and doing a passable impression of someone in the throes of torture. At least the cagers knew I was coming...
I couldn't believe it when some clown opened his door as I was roaring between a couple of lines of trapped coffins. There was no time to do anything. He woke up in time to jerk his body back into the car. I screamed, opened the throttle and tore the door our of its hinges. Unfortunately, the loosened door wrapped itself around the front end. The bike stalled dead and I flew through the air at about 40mph.
Another car softened my landing, escaping with a few bruises and brutalized neck. About six cars were damaged but, amazingly, the GSX survived with just scratches and dents - Suzukis of this era were tough old brutes, unlike the later mono-shock version. Luckily, I didn't lose my no-claims bonus because I refused to pay the ridiculous premium. I waited for the moment to do a runner and got away without a beating or ticket.
Bad news caught up with me at 37000 miles when the clutch started to rattle. It always chattered a bit a tickover but this was much more intense. Naturally, I ignored it for while, only to be rewarded with a case full of clutch bits! This happened about thirty miles from home, on one of my early morning, helmetless outings. A few desperate phone calls secured a tow behind a GS1000, ridden by a true maniac who got bored with speeds below three figures. I'd started out bright eyed and bushy tailed; ended up goggle eyed with all the physical grace of a one legged kangaroo. So would you if you had to put a foot down at 50mph when the lunatic hustled through a series of nasty bends.
The clutch drum had cracked up... GSX clutches ain't the toughest in the world, although I'd thought I'd given it a fairly easy time. A used replacement was persuaded in, lasted for all of 4000 miles before the rattles came back. This time I had the clutch out before it could explode. I splurged out on new drum and plates. This rattled all the time but didn't explode, probably poor clearances.
At this point I became a bit worried about the secondary vibes between 6500 and 8000 revs, just where there was a brilliant concentration of power. The pegs and bars buzzed away, even the seat sending my bum numb. Pillions complained bitterly and the bike would fall off its stand if I left it ticking over.
I was distracted by all three calipers seizing up. The GSX had the worst brakes of the five big bikes I've owned. No power unless really stomped, so little feel that they often locked up without warning and almost useless in the wet with a heart thumping delay. Engine braking was impressive and despite weighing 530lbs it could be hustled around cars with a much greater ease than either the Z or XS.
Usual story with the calipers, seized up solidly with a disinclination to come apart. I gave up after I whacked my thumb with the hammer. I hit three different breakers to secure a full set of working calipers. Goodridge hose was added in the hope of improving their response and did, indeed, secure a slightly better feel. Just when I was feeling good at a job well done, I noticed a crack in the left-hand's disc carrier! It was enough to make me throw up in fright! More phone calls to breakers saved the day.
By the time 50,000 miles were up, the top end was tapping away so loudly that the clutch's rattles were obscured. A couple of cam lobes, on the exhaust side, were breaking up. The only thing I can think of causing this was that I was doing a lot of town riding and not changing the oil for 2500 miles. Under that kind of abuse the oil has a chance of emulsifying and water ain't much of a lubricant! A used camshaft was secured for forty notes, the breaker reckoning that such failures were very rare. As I had it all apart I had no choice but to set the clearances of the eight valves to perfection - for the first time! The carbs, though, needing setting every time I changed the oil.
The next problem was the exhaust disintegrating at the silencer end. Suzukis often do this, even to stock exhaust systems. Strangely enough, I never had any problems with the other bikes. Must be, again, using the bike in town too much, as I never got the chance to do any really long runs on the GSX. The longest day was 220 miles, which revealed the bike as the most comfortable of this bunch (fixing the cam had radically diminished the vibes). The only strain was riding in the dark when the square headlamp turned out to be entirely inadequate.
Some welding and a used can fixed the exhaust problem. There was a price to pay for the cheapness of this solution, a flat spot between 5000 and 6000 revs. As it made the power band all the more prominent I soon learnt to live with it. General chassis finish was more than reasonable, with just the engine cases and cast wheels going off.
I ran the bike to 65000 miles. It was in such nice shape that I sold it at a profit! Good timing, two weeks later the new owner turned up complaining about that most common of Suzuki maladies - total electrical burn out. Not just the charging side of the circuit, either, the ignition modules were also fried. Must've been the regulator letting 30 volts through the system. Worse still, the battery had burst its seams, spraying the surroundings with acid.
The owner wasn't amused when I refused to give him his money back but I did put him in touch with a breaker who I knew had the bits. Electrics apart, the GSX's probably the safest buy of this bunch but be aware that the handling of the mono-shock version can be dire when some wear gets into the suspension.
1991, 28 years old and still a hoodlum at heart. However, a new XJ900 on special offer caught my eye. It was the shaft drive that sold this bike, I'd just about become pissed off with messy chain drives. There was something cool about buying a brand new machine even if Yamaha were lying about it making a hundred horses at 9000 revs. There was no way the XJ had the same kind of power as the XS or GSX or even the CB900.
The XJ900 was just a very civilised motorcycle. Tough as they come, dead easy to ride first time out and general handling that was the best of this motley bunch. Fast it wasn't, the power doing a runner as soon as 120mph was on the clock, despite spending a very tedious 1000 miles running the bugger in. Even when I got down behind the ugly half fairing, there was no way it'd break through the 130mph barrier even on a long, flat stretch of straight motorway.
Obviously, the lack of power stressed the chassis less, my only complaint a slight amount of head shaking above the ton. Never fearsome, I always felt in control, doubtless helped along by the relative lack of mass. Despite running a hefty shaft drive, the XJ hit the scales at 480lbs and was as easy to sling through the curves as a GS550 (no great accolade, perhaps, but after the other bikes quite a lot of fun).
I got a bit carried away when going wild in the Scottish mountains, the general comfort and civility of the XJ encouraging me to take my hols on the Yamaha. I cursed as a caravan tottered around the bend, causing me to heel over until something dug into the tarmac. The back tyre was hurled off the ground, machine and rider dancing with the tarmac.
The XJ bounced off the side of the caravan and went over the edge of the mountain. I somehow missed the caravan which was threatening to loosen its shackle on the cage and flip off into outer orbit. I was bruised and bloodied but nothing was actually broken. Don't know about the caravan jockey, he didn't bother to stop. I could just see the 4000 mile, once immaculate XJ, embedded in thick gorse some hundred yards below.
Not a total disaster as it was only a few feet from another track. I was able to hobble down and pull it out. By then I looked like a tramp who'd been given a good kicking by bored pigs. The XJ had cracked plastic, no indicators, lacerated seat and a battered exhaust. The paint had aged by ten years.
The ride back to Inverness was fraught with visions of various limbs falling off, death from blood lost and total incapacitation from falling off again. We staggered into town in a bad way, the XJ running on three cylinders (merely, a plug cap had come adrift but I couldn't be bothered checking) whilst I was so far gone that I rode straight past the hotel without realising it! Sleep was fitful that night.
I patched the bike up the next day, fitting used indicators and half fairing. The latter was hanging off its brackets, the plastic cracked every which way. After that little adventure the bike didn't ride so well. The bars shook from lock to lock under anything other than a death grip. The fall from grace had knocked the steering head bearings loose but I didn't figure that until I reached London! Not amusing.
A week later the bike was stolen. I'd only left it for five minutes to buy some fish and chips. No insurance but the police recovered it ten days later. When I finally got my hands on it I could've burst into tears. Looked like a well abused twenty year old! Eventually, I sorted out the cycle parts, fitted a straight set of forks and Motad four into one exhaust.
Lamentably, the bike didn't run as well as before. Where the motor had been smooth it'd become rough above 6000 revs and was reluctant to do more than the ton. The motor felt like it was fighting massive frictional forces. Fuel went from 40mpg to 30mpg. I suspected that the thief had thrashed the bike relentlessly into the red. I was all for claiming under the guarantee but the dealer had changed his trading company, disclaiming all knowledge of his responsibilities despite the fact that he was operating in the same premises with the same staff. He took one look at the state of the Yam, laughed out loud and walked off in disgust.
Fair enough, I suppose, it wasn't Yamaha's fault that the bike had been nicked and trashed. Feeling brave, I took the mill out myself, found a couple of pistons with the rings seized in their grooves. XJ's have been around a long time, no problems finding used replacements. I used the old gaskets, had no problems putting the engine back together with a little help from a friend who knew what he was doing.
That was more like it, acceleration and top speed back on the pace, but the handling was unsettling. Every time I slammed the throttle shut, when the weaves and wobbles became too much, the back end tried to come unwound. For the first time I really began to notice the machinations of the shaft drive. The directness of its action left no room for pissing around.
The back wheel was way out of line, the swinging arm bearings loose and the rear tyre badly worn on the one side. The back wheel was cracking up! God knows what the thief had done to the bike during his brief tenure. Another visit to the breaker, who couldn't believe his luck as he had a whole stack of back wheels.
I never had much faith in the Yamaha after that experience, though it was no fault of the bike. If I ever catch the thief I'll probably end up with thirty years in prison for grievous bodily harm if not murder. I put about 15000 miles on the clock in two years with no further hassles but I was deriving my kicks from an RD350.
That was how the XJ ended up wrecked. I'd jumped off the RD on to the 900, forgetting that they were two very different types of motorcycles. Trying a bit of hit and run on the big four, in heavy traffic, I cocked it up completely. Played metal to metal with the side of a car. The XJ lost out in the stability stakes, ended up being crushed by a following lorry. I ended up in plaster! Only from a sprained ankle that refused to bear any weight.
The upshot from that contretemps was threats about being locked away from the police and a completely written off XJ900. That left me in big trouble, hardly any money in the bank and legal writs flying around all over the place as I had no insurance. What I needed was a cheap, fast bike on which to do a disappearing act. At the end of 1993, at the momentous age of thirty, I bought a worn looking Honda CB900 DOHC four. 62000 miles and not out.
Reminded me of the XS1100, same kind of blood and guts feel and if it lacked the ultimate wildness of the bigger four, there was plenty of madness available at just the twist of the throttle. After the blandness of the XJ it was a real thrill to ride.
The handling had been sorted by stiffening up the suspension to a state where old Ducati owners would feel at home. The chassis rumbled over bumps but went where I pointed it, the steering heavy but precise. Not as bad as the XS or Z, about the same as the GSX.
130mph was possible, maybe more but I chickened out then. The rush of wind, shaking bars and large weave rather put me off. I hadn't lost my nerve but was worried about the cost if I fell off again.
Within a week of buying the CB, I was on the road for Dover and the Continent. I'd sold everything I owned to fund the Great Escape. Before I left the country I experienced total electrical failure, all the fuses blown. The rain started to pour down and I cursed the eleven year old machine. Luckily, a loose wire from the generator waved itself at me when I peered at the motor.
The worn tyres skidded all over the shop, the road threatening to turn into a river. As if the forces of nature were trying to stop me leaving the country. The CB900, incredibly, weighs nearly as much as the XS1100 despite having one of the most recalcitrant chain drives in the business. That weight, a lot of it top heavy, gave the Honda the body language of the damned about to meet their maker.
Nevertheless, we slouched on to the ferry and into a howling gale in the channel. I was tossed around, threw up and head-butted the deck a few times. The CB proved itself as a tough old beast, knocking a couple of expensive cycles over without doing much damage to itself. I moved the Honda before their owners turned up, wrenching by back again.
The plan was to hide out in Amsterdam until things cooled down in the UK. I was ensured of free accommodation from an old friend. I ended up staying there for over a year (not bad going as I'd originally asked for a bed for the night). I ended up despatching for a back street company who paid so well I suspected that I was carrying drugs!
The Honda wasn't too keen on Dutch winters. I had to wear several layers of clothes, leathers and then waterproofs as well as a Balaclava under my helmet - and that was just for walking about! Much amusement was had from the way the motor kept cutting in and out, the tyres sliding every which way and my need to blow the blues away by getting her up on one wheel. Dutch police weren't very understanding with regards to these antics, nor the noise and totally degenerative appearance. I waved totally fake papers at them which they couldn't check and was never locked up.
The engine suffered a shot camchain and tensioner, blown clutch and a set of carbs that filled up with so much sludge that they couldn't be cleaned out. I had to have them sent over from England because the prices in Amsterdam were silly. The airfilter was impossible to fit so the bike was run without it. The exhaust fell apart when I took it off and every screw retaining the clutch cover ruined its thread when I forced them out. The bike was sliding into death by the end of 1994.
I had enough cash to spend the winter lounging around, indulging whatever sexual whims came to mind. The CB was left to rust outside, shackled to an iron railing. Towards the end of January I needed to make a quick exit before I had my head kicked in by a bunch of dissolute Irish. A whole day was blown push-starting the Honda into life. I think there was more water than oil in the sump, the main bearings knocking ominously.
Riding through Holland just at the moment dykes were bursting their banks was a nightmare. Thousands of vehicles fleeing the scene like something out of a bloody African coup. Bits of road falling away, rain falling in a tropical downpour and the poor old Honda coughing like it was on its last legs - which it was! Progress was tediously slow, my mind reeling with the damp, cold and muscle needed to hold the Honda in line.
One of the most curious aspects of riding the 900 was that though it always felt like it was tearing itself apart, like the tyres were down to the carcass, I could always sense the point at which they were going to let loose completely and pull her back from the slides. Belgium wasn't in much better shape than Holland, I just stayed in the motorway slow lane and prayed that I'd make it back in one piece.
I did! Amazingly, the second day in February had the sun shining bright as I rolled back on to English terra firma. The only spoiler was the staccato beat of ruined main bearings and a silencer that fell off the end of the four into one. I smiled as I hid alongside a coach whilst the police looked up shocked from telling off a bunch of Angels. We made it to London where the engine seized solid, dripping litres of oil over another friend's drive.
Money was running short again and any decent bike was expensive; the cheap stuff turned out to be far gone rats. The CB had 93000 miles on the clock, really deserved a decent burial. Instead, a used engine, new set of chassis bearings and bargain priced set of OE exhausts were employed to give the old girl a new lease of life.
This nearly lasted a mere minute after I turned on the ignition - a crackling noise came from under the seat, smoke billowing out. I saved the day by turning off the ignition. My own fault, I'd connected up the wires the wrong way around, shorting out the system without blowing the fuses.
After sorting that I was left with a bike that was equivalent to a 50,000 miler. Went well, vibrated harshly and handled okay with a bit of muscle. I nearly threw it off the nearest cliff when the camchain tensioner broke after less than 2000 miles. Fortunately, the bits weren't distributed throughout the engine, replaced by one from the seized mill. About the only bit remaining that wasn't completely knackered.
The CB lasted for six months and 19000 miles, some of it harsh despatching in Central London. The main bearings blew again and, worse still, the rear subframe was rusting through. Not surprising with a chassis that had done more than a 100,000 miles. Despite all the problems, the Honda was the favourite of this bunch, it was such a live-wire device that it got into my soul. I was so impressed I bought a low mileage CBX750, its modern replacement - and even better.
The XJ900 was the least impressive. Highly competent and the cheapest to run, a certain blandness and remoteness spoilt the experience; its soul had been engineered out. The XS1100 was the most compulsive in terms of brute force; if you're of an evil disposition you can throw pillions off the back. The rest was bad news but most of them are tough; a few have major crankshaft problems.
Of the Z1000 and GSX1100, the choice comes down to how they've been used. Both are tough, fast and can be made to handle reasonably. I wouldn't buy either now, modern bikes, like the CBX750 have progressed too far, but when I see a Yamaha XS1100 my blood quickens and heart flutters. Maybe...
H.L.