The Yam XV535 felt good. Real good. Hard to believe, maybe, but then I'd just blagged a Harley 1200 Sportster for a 400 mile blast. God, talk about vibration. All my extremities felt like they'd been pounded half to death by Iranian torturers. Luckily, I'd pulled up outside the Lewis residence - a remote farmhouse in South Wales - and rolled into the living room where I'd curled up in a fetal ball for a while. No-one to hear the terrifying screams, see.
Okay, I'd flogged the Harley into the red for most of the time. The only alternative was to be run down by crazed cagers, streaming along the M4 at 100mph. Harleys and speed don't mix at all well, as I found out to my cost. The next day I was more or less in one piece. More than could be said for the Harley, which had left a big puddle of oil over my front garden. The environmental fascists in the local council would've had a fit, but capping meant they could not run to helicopters, about the only way they'd track down my residence.
After the panic subsided - you know how retributive these Hog owners can turn - I realised that the cause of the slick was nothing more than a loose rear cylinder head. Brute force had the old girl running nicely again. I thought the Harley would suit the local lanes well - heavily policed so speed would be pointless, although that ain't a point of view shared by some GSXR boyo's who delight in 150mph sorties past the cop shop. Quite right, too.
Unfortunately, narrow roads with lots of bends, even at speeds that had learners sniffing my exhausts (straight-thru, natch), proved only that American customs should stay in the USA...the HD was heavy, slow turning and liable to run straight across bends unless I paid the kind of attention I only ever manage when some young nubile gives me the go ahead to get into her knickers (and, no, not that way, we'll leave the transvestite terrors to the glossies, thank you very much).
I struggled away until I hit Merthyr Tydfil. If I'd had any breath left after that work out I would've had it taken away by the excess of mini-skirted bints, black stockings and all, who were overwhelmed with lust for the Harley. I basked in their attentions for a while, practising my Welsh accent to avoid being beaten to death by the male half (quarter, more like...) of the population. It was pretty obvious why Harleys sell so well in this country but as a serious motorcycle? Pass the sick bucket, please.
Anyhow, I got the Harley back to its owner in one piece, though there was a slight knocking noise from the bottom end and a bit of clutch lurch. I told him, any problems, send the bill to the UMG, which he found quite impressive, not realising the total implausibility of getting any money from that source. Something to do with all the 'profits' going on plane trips to the Far East (Who me? Some mistake, surely - Ed).
I'd arranged for this mate to pick me up on his XV535 and take me home. This simple bit of planning went awry when he insisted that I take the machine off his hands for a song. He was in a blind panic. Got some young lady pregnant, who was threatening to take him to the cleaners via the Child Support Agency unless he coughed up some cash for the abortion and inconvenience. Shit, that's what you get with playing around with girls half your age, I told him, just before making a ridiculous offer for the Yam.
So, the XV felt real good after the damnable Harley. I was a bit too close to the ground for comfort and 25000 miles of abuse (if such a thing's possible on a custom) had turned the suspension to mush, but directional controllability and the general feel of security at 90mph were way ahead of the HD. I was riding between Newport and Cardiff on the coast road; infamously employed by no less a delinquent than the editor for speed testing, which probably explains the loitering cop cars who might even be responsible for the mysterious patches of gravel that occur in the middle of the hairpin bends - this road really is like something out of a zany Scalectric set (I prefer the Cotswolds, these days - Ed).
I know the curves well enough to avoid ditching it, and the straights are long enough to hit 160mph on an FZR1000, as long as you keep a watchful eye out for Farmer Fred chasing sheep in his tractor. I was feeling almost contented with my lot in life as the XV whirred away reassuringly, my only hassle trying to stop my helmet strap from doing a high speed Sweney Todd on my throat. Then, of course, all hell broke lose as the wheels hit a patch of gravel and the whole ship did the kind of wobble that threw me out of the seat and tried to tear the bars out of my hands. This in a straight line at 95mph
One possible advantage that these kind of customs possess is the stability afforded by a low centre of gravity - god knows, they ain't got much ground clearance. With the rider and engine both mounted low there's much less mass high up to get out of hand. That's my theory anyway - for what it's worth - and perhaps explains why the sudden, traumatic wobble died down as soon as the tyres hit firm ground again.
Then the wailing of a cop car drowned out all other thought. I cursed the XV, then, because I just knew that if I tried to outrun them all I'd do was end up in a ditch. The usual stupid lecture about riding like I didn't know what I was doing. I just kept quiet and looked like I was going to shit myself, not that hard after the previous wobble. I got off in the end - god knows how many people had been mugged and robbed whilst they were pissing around with their power games - with a document check. Which reminded me about the insurance...
After that little incident I headed for the motorway, sat there at 75mph for an hour, waving to the cops sat in cars on the bridges overhead. The XV made a strange churning noise in the gearbox area, probably the universal joint in the shaft drive on the way out, thought I in a despondent mood.
The Yam was almost competent in the tight Welsh curves, much better than a Harley but put firmly in its place by a raddled old codger on a re-engineered CB400 Superdream. We all told him he was a sucker to pay out serious money for such an old horror but it had just enough power and handling competence to frighten the shit out of much bigger bikes - the pilot was old enough not to be worried about dying!
I kept the XV for almost a month before selling it (within three hours of the advert appearing) at a handsome profit. The churning shaft didn't get any noisier, although the gearbox always reacted to a clumsy foot with a false neutral - at least there was an excess of torque that made playing like a drugged sixteen year old on the gearbox largely redundant. The engine had some of the rawness of the Harley, although to someone brought up on sophisticated four cylinder Japs, it'd probably be written off as a vibratory old heap.
Comfort was reasonable at sane speeds, disconcerting when keeping up with the traffic flow on the open road and disturbing in town as it was low enough to allow me to gawp at women's legs in their cages. The combination of vee-twin power pulses and shaft drive transmission, plus old age, had the thing lurching around at low speeds in a tall gear. Belt drive would doubtless be better - even new Sportsters have them!
Running costs were good - 60mpg, no maintenance chores (there are plenty to do but it didn't seem to need them) and it doesn't go through consumables rapidly. No oil used in 900 miles. Many were sold in the UK and they seem tough enough for the first 30,000 miles. Had the engine been employed in a proper frame I might've been able to take it seriously.
After a decent interval, when the worst traumas were forgotten, I fell for another vee-twin. A mighty 800 Intruder. More extreme than the XV, up there with the Harley for wanton styling. I was drunk at the time. Whilst my mates were eyeing up the sheep, I fell for the Suzuki, all glossed up in a car park full of race replicas and ancient rats; a reflection of the way British society was going - the rich getting richer and the poor more desperate. At least the sheep were still free!
I think part of my lust was because I'd been bikeless for a whole week (my rat Honda Benley's in too disgusting a state to make it as a motorcycle, these days, though when the desperation sets in it gets me to the nearest piece of civilisation).
Anyway, the next day I was woken from my drunken slumbers by a thunderous roar. I thought for a moment that Plaid Cymru had set fire to the cottage. But, no, it was the Intruder owner. I thought about letting the dogs loose on him but then recalled that I didn't have any and my cat had trouble with the mice. This chap reckoned I'd agreed to buy the Intruder the previous night and as he was much bigger than me there didn't seem anything to do but hand over the cash.
That's when things turned seriously weird. I had to pilot the plot into town with this 200lb hero on the tiny pillion pad. Weird? It was f..king frightening. These customs are set up so that the rider, bare headed naturally, ends up embraced by some well endowed biking mama. Two men on a custom's rather like...well, this is a family magazine so we won't go into that here. The Intruder reacted to this abuse by waltzing all over the shop, overheating its brakes and refusing to budge out of third gear.
The erstwhile owner skipped off before I had a chance to complain, leaving me contemplating a radiator off which great clouds of smoke escaped. I eyed the 19000 miles on the clock with suspicion but once the watercooled vee-twin motor was left to cool for an hour all was well again. There are some exceedingly steep hills in these Welsh valleys.
The Intruder has a very compact mill that just screams out to be installed in a road chassis (Suzuki made a half-hearted attempt in the VX800), vibration ain't intrusive though I always knew that two bloody big pistons were working away and, well, it just feels so right in much the same way that, on a good day (when I'm in the right mood), Harleys do. The engine turned out to be the best of these three...
Ecstasy, right? Wrong. Oh, so wrong. I just couldn't find any joy in the way the Suzuki handled or braked. The latter was just a case of remoteness, and when really pushed a lack of power from the front end, though I could skid the back wheel so fiercely that the whole bike would swing right around. A dastardly act that made it feel hinged in the middle.
Which was also how it handled. Not at slow speeds, when it felt okay. Not on motorways, at least not up to 90mph - which was the most my poor body could take with the sit up and break your spine riding position. But when the going got curvy I felt a little weak kneed with the way the back wheel shuffled around, fighting the combination of 60 horses, 450lbs of metal and a fairly direct shaft drive that could turn wild if I didn't pay attention to the throttle and gear level, especially on down changes.
Yes, I know, I should've just laid back and enjoyed the scenery, the beat of the vee-twin's exhaust was, after all, pretty relaxing, but boredom hovered with a death-wish and the engine did have an enticing mix of torque and power that I found more fulfilling than the Harley's and far more fluid than the XV535's. I am strongly tempted to conclude that, just like 500cc is the optimum size for a vertical twin, 750 to 800cc's the optimum for a vee twin.
It's all Harley's fault, of course, having defined the vee twin as a custom motor that can only be doled out in excessive sizes - the only way they can make their antique designs churn out the torque. It's a pity more note wasn't taken of the Vincent vee-twin, although I suppose the amateur efforts of Guzzi and Ducati have forever ruined the vee-twin engine as the centre of a sports machine.
After about a week of near death experiences on the Intruder, having ended up looking a bit ragged and grey from all the weaves and wobbles, I did, indeed, back off a bit and consoled myself with a remarkable improvement in fuel economy that resulted from riding in the 70 to 80mph range rather than 85 to 95mph. The 'economy' went from 30 to 60mpg! The Harley was doing 40 to 45mpg and XV535 around 60mpg, although the latter was more a result of riding slowly due to the chassis than any sign of advanced design in an engine that had its top end inspiration in the SR500 (or should that be XT500, as I think that one came first).
I thought the Intruder was the neatest looking of the three. This wasn't an opinion shared by the female population - all I received for my pains was the odd snigger and giggle. I suppose that a company that produced such horrors as the GN250 can't be taken too seriously. As the whole bike was painted in a rather naff shade of red, I think a few cans of matt black paint might have improved my chances with the frails.
Overall impression of the VS was of a good motor looking for a proper frame (which is something that could be said about most custom vee-twins)...a couple of brief blasts on a VX800, whose owner was thinking about buying an Intruder (and was put off by my example), convinced me that a decent chassis was the way to go.
That's not to say that the VX was an excellent motorcycle. It was long and heavy (480lbs), with a riding position that whilst sporty wasn't too comfortable - doubtless, extended exposure would allow me to adapt to its reach and the odd shape of the handlebars. Stability and suspension were much better than on the Intruder, giving me relative confidence in bopping along at 90 to 100mph, though the engines were similar, the VX was harder charging between 5000 and 8000 revs with no deficit in torque at lower revs.
The bike would be transformed by the combination of a 100lbs less mass, a radically shortened wheelbase and belt drive instead of shaft (because the twists in the drive-train are very inefficient in terms of both power delivery and frugality - it doesn't matter so much in customs as they usually aren't ridden fast).
To be honest, the VX conjured up more admiration than both the XV and VS, which together with its better chassis dynamics, makes it a much more sensible buy for anyone interested in both posing and riding. The owner was impressed with the finish (unblemished after two years) and total engine reliability. Around two grand buys a very nice one.
Back on the Intruder, my discontent was almost total. I even started pulling wheelies! Its geometry was all against such nonsense but the torque and somewhat vicious clutch made anything possible. After about a week there was a knocking noise from the gearbox area, so I bunged in some thick oil and traded in at the local dealers.
The only bike they had that wasn't wrecked or extortionately priced was a grey import Honda 650 Nighthawk. This is a mild custom but one easily sorted out with a tauter pair of shocks, flat bars and decent set of Avons. Being able to cruise at 90 to 110mph without feeling sick from the handling or physically wrecked from the riding position, was a sheer joy. Had me high every time, though it's really a bit of a dog compared with a CBR600, and the like. I've grown tired with it already but have a buyer lined up - I should survive these three bikes with a small profit at the end of the day, so I ain't going to complain too loudly!
In retrospect, the only custom that makes any sense is an 883 Harley with belt drive (and all the minor mods to lights, carb, exhaust, brakes, etc, that makes them that much more usable) as it's smoother than the 1200 but still draws the frails like the pop star of the moment. Can't think of any other reason to buy a custom except if they turn up at a bargain price!
Dick Lewis