Squinting through the opaque fog before my weary eyes, numbed to delirium by the hours in the saddle, groaning at the stiffness in my joints and shrieking needles in my compressed arse, I battled onwards up a dismal A1. MZ 250 and I; tired, wet, sore - but happy, very happy. Ahead of me the hazy image of my mate's Supa Five drifted half visible in the spray and mist, the two engines droning out of phase like a squadron of Blitzkrieg bombers.
It was at some point on that long, spartan road that I let my mind wander back to the old days, the bad days when, as a very raw novice, I'd first attempted the long trip from Oxford to St Andrews - with horrible, humiliating consequences...
The black MZ TS125 was only eight years old but looked like the marriage of a crushed Guinness can and the rusted barnacled hull of a derelict battleship. It had seen action, all right, its flanks bearing all the signs of having been dropped several dozen times. The previous owner had given up trying to fix it,
No-one knew if it would run. There wasn't a battery, the wiring was a nightmare of hideous bodges, the tyres were far gone - it relied on crusty windings of chicken wire for structural support. The whole thing was covered in a film of salty grime, dust and rust. I fell in love with it. My first bike. I shelled out the exorbitant £20 and we heaved the clockwork mouse into the van.
A few months later, with my CBT under my belt (a story in itself), I was on the road. The MZ had cleaned up surprisingly well; with the electrics decoded and a new battery fitted, it seemed to run all right. It was actually slightly faster than my friend's £45 TS150.
I didn't really do much riding in the beginning. I only needed to ferry myself and my cargo of pistols and ammo to the local shooting club once a week. But as the prospect of sitting the dreaded test loomed large in my mind I had to face the fact that I should ride the thing a bit more often. When the TS150 owner suggested a trip to Scotland, I decided it would be beneficial to my motorcycling education.
450 miles on an 8.5hp 125 in the middle of January. In my virginal eagerness I was undeterred. And so we set off, on a dark and frosty morning at half past five. The bikes were packed with spare bits - fuses, cables, bulbs, assorted tools. I had lain awake most of the night, unable to close my mind to the terror of the impending journey and when I did drift into a fevered sleep, my twitching dreams were full of visions of death and carnage.
Perhaps I should've listened to my instincts. My first major problem was visibility, or the lack of it. In those bad days before I discovered visor spray, I had a lot of trouble with fogging up. This, in addition to my already dodgy night vision and the flickering sepia candle-glow of the paltry 6V lights (though if you keep the contacts clean the system's fine) meant that I couldn't really see where I was going.
We left Oxford behind us and headed up the A43. Riding in pitch blackness with alternating sleet, drizzle and freezing fog, the edges of the road eluded my eyes. The TS150 was bumbling along ahead at 50 to 55mph, which scared the hell out of me - but I could do nothing but grit my teeth and follow his tail-light. At times the bobbing red beacon appeared to float in mid air.
From time to time the light would vanish as the bike rounded a corner. I was left blind, nearly crunching into a tree, not knowing what side of the road I was on, where the bend was or which way it curved. The problem became even worse when other traffic appeared and we were blinded with the oncoming lights. Trucks were the worst, none of them deigned to dip their lights and if I'd had my 44 Magnum on me at the time I'm sure I'd have used it.
Rain lashed down. My Protectrol jacket and over-trousers were reasonably dry inside but my inadequate gloves were soon soaked and my hands became numbed, wooden. This had a worrying effect on my braking ability, a couple of times I came close to rear-ending the TS150 when he slowed for roundabouts. My visor was awash with water and without the benefit of a Vee-wipe or other such wonderful gimmick I had no choice but to ride with it open.
We had our first accident, pulling in for coffee and fuel just before hitting the A1. Bamboozled by the fog, the TS150 rider pulled in too soon, hit the kerb and fell off. The light damage to the left side of the bike took a while to kick straight. While stopped I noticed that my vision was ringed with rainbow colours, like the play of oil on water; my eyeballs were horribly bloodshot and sore with all the grit and road grime ground into them by the spray from monster lorries! This problem grew worse during the course of the day, becoming a source of major discomfort; puffy, red and streaming eyes.
We hacked on with the dawn. The A1 was an interminable nightmare. Visibility became so bad that we had to slow right down. Everything was murky silhouettes and vague shadows, the TS150 shimmering ahead of me through curtains of watery haze thrown up by the screaming hordes of mad vehicles that ripped past us at incredibly high speeds.
Our second accident occurred, again at the entrance to a service station. This time I came to a sliding, scraping halt in front of all the astonished cagers. I didn't care any more, crashing was just an alternative way of stopping. A few minutes later we became completely lost trying to circumnavigate Doncaster and wasted time hacking through heavy traffic that I couldn't even see - motorways weren't possible because of my L-plates.
By the time we reached Scotch Corner it was dark again, getting cold. The bike was cutting out sporadically in the wet, choking and spluttering alarmingly. At one point the TS150 suffered total electrical failure that had us scratching our heads and kicking our frozen feet in the snow by the side of the road. We'd been on the road for nearly eleven hours and covered only half the distance! We were both weary and so cold we could barely speak.
We became lost again trying to get on to the A68, wobbled and skated through arctic country lanes where we terrorized cars by our antics on the glass surface but somehow survived. We passed through a quiet, ice-locked, little place called Gainford. Then half a mile on, with the temperature dropping still further, the TS150 suddenly coughed and died.
Another electrical failure that, this time, didn't respond to bodging. We decided to call it a day, find somewhere to sleep and then carry on the next day. Leaving the 150, we rode two-up back to Gainford and asked about B & B at the local pub. At first the staff there regarded the two dripping, blue-faced throwbacks with some suspicion but we were so visibly at the end of our tether that they softened. Offered a room for the night at £25.
We were weak with gratitude. Warm beds and a bathroom. Dryness! Relieved, we went squelching back down the road to collect the 150. On arrival we found that by some bizarre twist of fate the electrics were working again. What the hell, we risked the terrible wrath of the law, rode back to the pub helmetless.
Once again I couldn't sleep. My eyes were aching too much to relax and my heart thudded at the thought of another awful day ahead. We were up again by 6.30, I felt terrible after two consecutive sleepless night. After a huge breakfast, we togged up and readied ourselves for the next leg. The canvas panniers had frozen solid overnight, the machines welded to the ground by icy stalagmites that we had to kick away.
Two miles down the road I hit a patch of ice and came off. The right-hand footpeg was snapped, the brake pedal flopping loose and the front lever was bent back uselessly. Hence, I had a bike with no brakes. What could I do? The local garage couldn't help and I couldn't think of any bodge. With an excess of hills ahead there was no way I could go on! I ended up on the train, tail between my legs.
I set the record straight this year. After passing my test I bought a rather more forgiving tourer than the 125, a 1988 ETZ250 for £50, whilst my friend swapped his TS for a Supa Five. Together, we ventured northwards once more and both made it this time. The conditions were far better but I was still able to reflect on the previous attempt and revel in my better equipment and greater experience.
Is there a moral to all this? Perhaps I bit off more than I could chew but the debacle of the aborted winter expedition taught me a lot. No regrets. From the ashes of disaster, they say, grow the roses of success - I've still got the old 125, this coming winter I may give it another go: a crossing of the Bering Straits? Anyone game?
Martin Scott
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'You want a sidepanel for an MZ?' Pizza face behind the dealer's counter was truly astounded. He shouted upstairs to his boss, who promptly rolled down all 39 steps helpless with mirth. 'What are you trying do to,' continued he, 'double the bike's value?' More laughter. MZ owners will tell you this is perfectly normal behaviour for a dealer, especially one who sold you the bike in the first place.
In 1988, poor in pocket and desperate for work, after wandering the north east coast and several wet summers on the beach, I heard there was work of sorts in Halifax. I hitched along the dreaded A1/M62 route deep in winter. With my lack of cash cars were no longer an option so I dug out the Belstaff together with an open face helmet and went looking for a bike. I felt like Rip Van Winkle, the world had moved on since I'd last owned one in the seventies. Hardly any 250s existed that did less than Mach 3 and required the rider to present his bottom to pedestrians. I would also need a full licence, and some form of training to be road legal. It was all very sad.
A guy at work sat me down and told me the dreadful truth, hardly anyone rode to work any more, bikes were now very expensive and only East Europeans made entry level stuff. He took me to the dealers to look at MZs. I could not believe that the dealer expected someone to give him money for them. So plug ugly it must've been an interesting sessions on the mushrooms that day in the drawing office. It was the exhaust that seemed so incredible to me. I mean, why is it so long?
I was desperate and I needed a bike, any bike to keep the job. There was an orange D reg MZ Luxus (the chrome choke lever I think qualifies it for Luxus status), lurking at the back of the showroom. A 125cc single cylinder stroker that looked so gross I was surprised when I had to hand over £150 but it was the best money I have ever spent on a bike.
Over the last six years I have owned and resold the little orange pig several times and spent so little on it that if it was an inflatable doll I'd still be on my first tube of KY jelly. An absolute essential is the gearbox oil change (two plugs to undo) every 500 miles, together with weekly points maintenance. Other than eating plugs and going through regulator boxes (use old Ford ones from the scrappy), it runs on air - well, almost.
The plastic OE tyres are best junked as soon as possible and those rather inexpensive mail order Chin-Sin replacements wedged on. Wing mirrors are best bought in the form of cycle ones from Halfords rather than the bar-end OE ones that give a good view of everyone laughing at you but very little else.
Everyone should learn again on an MZ. It's truly an out of body experience, like sex for the first time with your trousers on, nothing can prepare you for the shock of it actually getting going. That horrid slapping noise and the ride quality of a drunken camel. The learning experience continues as you forget to return the stand and pogo down the road completely out of control. Accomplished riders on straight runs can actually ride for several miles without noticing. After several lucky escapes and one attempt at writing myself a note taped to the headlight shell I gave up, took it off and leaned the bike against nearby walls. Such is the confidence of the MZ rider.
I failed my test the first time, as a paid up member of the Losers Club I had neglected to practise that stupid rolling U-turn. As the MZ has a steering lock like a narrow boat I hit both kerbs on the way. Junking the piece of bent tube masquerading as a handlebar, I bought a pair of slightly raised aftermarket ones. The handling was transformed. I could ride up lamp-posts, take the bread from the beaks of tardy starlings and do the U-turn better than a government minister. Other handy mods included the well known use of pie dishes in the indicator lenses and learning the folklore about how much two stroke oil to use, a capful and a half of Castrol's finest to the full tank of petrol always worked for me.
The bike's a solidly built girder with the motor and other bits hanging off it. Its crash resistance was severely tested by Captain Volvo, who as always had the right of way, especially on the roundabout. I've never seen a grown adult look so upset as when I flung the remains of the bent sidepanel, catching him on the side of his retreating head, a bit like Odd Job might do if he rode an MZ. This impulsive action has dogged me for a considerable time, as you will discover.
Presumably they were sick of seeing me at Halifax Test Centre on a weekly basis and I passed the test, ate my L-plates and flogged the MZ on to a mate for his attempt at passing. A year later he did and flogged it back to me. This process continued with other mates until last year when I rescued it from the ditch my last customer had thrown it into. It had been abused over the years by a series of ignorant lunatics without exploding. Tough, these commie strokers.
The bike was a bit rusty and the exhaust was completely covered in a congealed black layer of oil, but was still usable after new chain and sprockets were fitted. It was time for a new life for the old dear, the local quarry beckoned and not being willing to spend more than £30 for the dubious privilege of falling off in front of 17 year old infants on RM250s, I set about restyling the pig.
I stripped out the wiring harness, junked most of the tinware and fitted a new seat cobbled together from various bits of foam and an old corset. I had already acquired an old Honda TLS front wheel and together with a trail exhaust off an old DT175, after an excess of hassles and bodging, I was ready for the world.
To cause maximum irritation I finished it off with some ancient BMW tank badges I bought at an autojumble. This provokes great amusement from the populace and an occasional query as to the bike's origin. I refer to it as the Secret BMW Single in hushed tones. New knobblies and a secondhand pair of trail bars completed the stylish transformation. Naturally, it needs to be bump-started every time it stops. This merely adds to the perverse pleasure of owning an MZ, whether road or trail.
Prospective buyers of these sturdy, and still remarkably cheap machines are well advised to join the Owners Club, surely one of the most enthusiastic flock of dyed in the wool eccentrics outside of the Brit Bike movement. This is also an excellent way of obtaining good secondhand bits for your MZ as new prices are now too ridiculous to quote.
The bike now spends every Sunday plodding around the local quarry, much to the amusement of the RM250 brigade who pretend to enjoy flying overhead to prove their masculinity or something but cast envious sideway glances at the old git with piles pinging around on a rusty little orange MZ.
The sidepanel? No, I never did replace it but I still have the newspaper clipping describing the court case and my conviction for assault with a deadly piece of former Eastern Bloc motorcycle tinware.
MZ Sidepanel
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A deserted country road seemed as good as anywhere to test out my B reg MZ 125. Its mileage was hard to determine as some past owner had fitted a Kawasaki Z250 front end. This was soft and soggy, emphasized by the power of the disc brake. The back end was so hard I suspected the shocks had originally come off some 600lb, 1000cc road-burner. This made for some weird handling, a sore bum and astonishing chain wear for such a light and mildly powered machine.
I'd mostly used the bike around town for the first couple of months, where its lack of speed matched that of the choked up traffic and its frequent breakdowns didn't require too much of a push back home. Most of the problems were down to the electrics falling apart and a worn out set of points. When I'd finally fixed those the MZ ran well enough for a week to tempt me out into the countryside.
Getting the single cylinder stroker up to 50mph was very hard going. The gearbox was so slow and agricultural that any gain made in one gear was soon lost when changing up, the engine seemed to bog down and become rather lost. If its power output was demure the level of buzzing was the complete opposite. In third gear I finally managed to push the bike up to 65mph, ignoring the shaking handlebars and keeping a brave grin on my face.
The next thing I knew there was a locked up rear wheel, which freed when I pulled in the clutch. I'd halted the skid just in time to stop the madly pulsating bike from throwing me off the road. We rolled on to the grass verge where I propped the bike against a fence. Two hours later it had cooled to the point where the piston freed up and about twenty kicks later the engine exploded into life. The level of rattles appeared identical to before the seizure, so I slowly rode the 30 miles home.
The next month it was used to do the commuting chores. Apart from a bit of violence on my spine because of the solid rear shocks, it started and ran quite well. Fuel was 90mpg and nothing wore out, although chain adjustments were a daily chore (someone had dumped the chainguard). Then I had some fun with the voltage regulator, the mechanical version with points that can be adjusted but in this case they were burnt. I cleaned them up and the electrics went back to working, although they are not exactly first rate even when new.
I had cleaned a lot of rust off the frame and touched it up with black Hammerite. The tank and panels had already been resprayed, so from a safe distance the MZ looked passable. The next long distance journey blew that impression out of the water. I had no illusions about doing any more speed testing, was content to whirl along at 50mph, which was about all the chassis was good for. After two hours of this I was almost falling asleep at the controls, abruptly awoken by the back wheel going into a skid. My hand had refused to leave its grip on the clutch lever so this time I caught it before it had a chance to even scare me silly.
This time the engine refused to free up and I was about a hundred miles too far from home to push it! There followed much amusement as I flagged down vans, trying to persuade the drivers that it'd be fun to take the bike in the back. In the end, the MZ was transported using three different vehicles. Once on the top of a Volvo estate's massive roof rack, where it decided to come loose as we were bumping along at 50mph. We stopped before it fell off. The next was a Transit driven by a lunatic who tried to take every corner on two wheels with the result that bike and I were thrown all over the shop. The final part was on a car trailer, the bike laid down on its side and brutally dented.
MZ125s are easy bikes to work on for the most part. It only took half an hour to knock the cylinder off, revealing broken piston rings. The bore seemed passable so I carefully pulled the old rings out of their grooves and fitted in a second set I'd bought some time before, having been alerted to this possibility by the huge clouds of smoke spewing out of the silencer.
I bedded in the rings by screaming around in second gear for a day, pleased to see that the clouds of pollutants had diminished to a marked extent. Had the MZ been a bit faster the smokescreen would've been ideal for hiding the numberplate from hidden cameras. The engine needs a blow on the throttle every ten minutes to stop the plug oiling up in town and the spark plugs don't seem to last much more than 500 miles.
Decoking the silencer is another frequent chore, ignoring it stops the bike from revving and limits top speed to about 35mph. Apart from oil and points there isn't much other regular maintenance, apart from going over chassis bolts to make sure the vibes haven't started undoing them.....I've lost a numberplate, back light, indicators and even a stand before I started checking everything once a week.
After putting in the rings the bike ran well enough for another two months in town until I decided, once again, that it would be able to take a country road saunter. This time I even got 65mph on the clock without a seizure. All was well until we came to a bloody great hill, which started off steep then seemed to go vertical. I was down to about 5mph in first gear by then with great waves of heat coming off the engine that distorted my forward vision.
The bike seemed to be clanking rather than running, great tremors running through the chassis as the motor fought against the untoward gradient. Clonk, clonk, clonk, grrrrrrrrrr.......as I grabbed the clutch the MZ seemed to lurch backwards, threatening to tumble down the road. I held it for a while, swinging it round at a right-angle on the brakes then laying it down and pulling it up again as I got it pointed back down the hill; a very precarious move that I was lucky to survive, a lot of that down to the light mass of the MZ.
Freewheeling down the hill, when the bike gained 20mph I let out the clutch, hoping to free up the engine and bump the mill into life. The first two times I just had a locked wheel, on the third try she freed and fired but made an unholy racket. I motored home, engulfed in a foul smelling cloud of pollutants, at no more than 5mph. Three hours later we made it.
This time the piston had broken, a large bit of skirt had somehow managed to find its way out of the engine. The bore was scored so I had to buy a secondhand barrel and piston (£10). The bike was off the road for less than a day and was soon back into the daily commuting.
A week after that the engine sounded like something serious was amiss with a grinding noise like the crankshaft was running without any oil. It increased with revs, which is when I noticed that the rev counter was flipping all over the place. The tacho drive had worn at the engine end, the gears not meshing properly. A whole unit had to be bought at some absurd price and the only way of getting the thing out involved some intemperate use of the hammer that destroyed what was left of it.
I'd always wondered why they bothered with a tacho as it was pretty obvious what the engine was doing from the vibes. The solution was to blank off the hole with some alloy plate, Araldite and self-tappers. It's oil tight but looked rather poor until a mixture of road dust and oil obscured it - I had little inclination to clean the MZ.
The winter had set in by then which meant the Kawasaki's calipers needed stripping and cleaning every other week and I was freezing to death despite the vibro-massage effect of the engine. The little MZ still got going easier in the morning than I did and it stopped cutting out in the wet when I put on a new HT cap. One morning it refused to start which I soon traced to a broken choke cable which I rigged for a couple of days until I bought a new 'un. A week later the lever broke in half making the engine reluctant to start unless it was bumped. My body soon grew so tired of this procedure that the lever was replaced within days. MZ 125s don't like to start in the cold without the choke.
I've talked to people who have owned newish MZ 125s and they have nothing but praise for the way their bikes behave; they don't seize every time they hit the open road and do about 65mph and 100mpg. It seems they go well for the first 25 to 30,000 miles and after that you can expect problems similar to those I've experienced. The chassis is simple, worthy and more comfortable than you've any right to expect, so the best bet if you buy an old one is to fit a newish engine from a crashed bike.
Rod Deal
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If you can take your hands off your handlebars and lean your whole body at a 90 degree angle off the bike and still keep the machine upright, then you know there is something a touch awry with your iron horse's handling capabilities. In this case, the forks on my Suzuki X7 250 were wildly out of touch with most of Newton's theories and defied any gravitational pull to keep them upright (bent as a nob jockey they were). I decided that this was probably the worst bike I had ever owned (not a patch on the X5 200), was too thirsty, too dangerous and too knackered for my 30 mile a day plus weekend use. So one rainy day I wobbled along to see a new mount advertised in the local rag.
The owner expressed amazement that an X7 owner should want to buy his red six year old, V reg, MZ TS 125 with 7000 miles on the clock for £150. The bike was in excellent condition, had a rack, legshields, windshield and those wonderful mirrors attached to the end of the bars, so you can actually see people laughing at you behind your back. Mine for £130.
Unfortunately, I had no extra money for petrol and the tank was empty. However, the owner kindly gave me a whole pint out of a milk bottle, and didn't even charge me for it - how kind! Surprisingly, this took me all the ten miles home where I could properly inspect the bike.
For a small bike it was unbelievably robust and, totally devoid of plastic. Even the sidepanels are a good deal tougher than yer average Honda camchain. The paint was excellent, although the bike had a couple of quite deep scratches it hadn't breached the tank paint to the undercoat. The only sign of rust was on the rear suspension springs - everything is well made with a wonderful simplicity.
My first few miles were rather disappointing, as I had a top speed of only 45mph, and the top two gears seemed rather far apart. This was cured by taking off the windshield, after which the bike accelerated much better and had a top speed of 60mph. The other problem was the brakes, which were not exactly up to disc standards. Once the drum were taken apart and all the dust cleared out, they became perfectly adequate for the performance - this is a fairly regular task, though.
One of the bike's cute little foibles is the petrol cap which doubles as a measure for the two stroke oil which must be mixed with the petrol. Another is the owner's manual which is written in very bad pigeon English - tyre changing is highly uncomplicated, etc. Probably the most ridiculous feature is the ignition key that can be replaced by a nail, lolly stick et al.
Economy is good as long as you don't use the throttle as an on-off switch. I averaged 85mpg, never wore the chain out in 10,000 miles and never had to do anything except put petroil in and ride it. The bike was misused, abused, disregarded, driven in all weathers and took it all in its stride, never minding the abuse and always coming up like new when cleaned. The only time when it seemed inadequate was when carrying a passenger, the suspension is very soft and the whole thing bounced along, but so slowly as whatever edge there was to the acceleration had disappeared under the increased mass that it was not very dangerous.
However, all good things must come to an end, and after only 17000 miles the engine started getting noisy and rattly in a big-end kind of way, so I ran her into the ground and eventually seized the engine 15 miles from home. An MZ seizing after only 17000 miles is quite a rarity as they usually go on for ever, unless the previous owner had lied about the mileage....surely not.
Although I had enjoyed my time on the little tractor, I decided there were too many bike snobs on the IOM and so bought a Honda CB400/4 for my next holiday. I sold the MZ for £40 to a bloke who thought that for some reason an MZ with a seized engine would be a great present for his daughter's 18th birthday.
I have since owned the 400, a Guzzi 500 (don't believe what you read, it was brilliant) and a Honda 750, but I can still appreciate the wonderful simplicity of life with a Commie commuter.
Stuart Pitt
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There it was, in the local dealer's, W reg MZ 125 £120. In amongst the crashed YPVS and seized two strokes was TWW 428W (still on SORN at the back of someone's garage as of 2011!). It looked in good condition. After a few kicks the MZ coughed into life, died, and then a cough and a splutter. I feathered the throttle which stopped it stalling and it reluctantly settled into a rough idle. The bike sounded like the small ends were shagged and there was an excess of piston slap; all quite normal for MZs.
They were firm on the price and I signed some papers which said the bike was only fit for scrap. There was an MOT with two months left on it. I was off for a spin around the block; bloody hell this thing was fast. After stalling it three times I managed to get it back home. I went off to work but did not a stroke, I couldn't wait to get home to play with my new toy, so I buggered off early. At home that evening Rupert and I set about the MZ. First off was the carb; whipped off the float bowl and removed a load of crap.
That sorted we then took off the head, quite a lot of carbon was clinging to the head and plug but the cylinder bore was okay. The carbon was removed and the head torqued down by the technical method of tightening it until it nearly snaps then backing off half a turn. What a difference this made, the bike revved a lot smoother - if that is possible with a MZ. The machine had a little more pull; no race bike, I grant you, but it was better and I was chuffed.
I taxed the MZ the next day and that evening I hit the road. You know how it is when you get a new bike, you want to ride it, so you visit your mates but only stay long enough to show them the bike before making some pathetic excuse to leave before riding the long way round to visit another mate.
To be honest, I was a bloody danger on the road and was lucky not to have been picked up by Mr Plod. Looking back I now realise how fortunate I was to get home under my own steam and not in an ambulance, as I was really unable to control the bike in traffic or on the open road at anything over 35 to 40mph. I started to get used to the MZ, for the first three days it was too fast, for the next three days just right and from then on dog slow. After about ten days I was used to it and I was safe.
I started to ride the MZ to work, and for some very enjoyable solo evening runs. One such evening I was on my way home when I experienced a sudden loss of power when the throttle was fully opened. I stopped and checked for the obvious causes of such faults, HT leads, loose plug cap. These were all okay so it was back home at 5mph on third throttle. Back in the garage I dismantled the carb to find the main jet taking a holiday in the bottom of the float bowl. A bit more crap was removed and off I went once more.
Not long after I let a mate, Chris, have a go on the bike - he had not ridden for about ten years when he used to have a RD200 - about ten minutes later he returned with an enormous smile on his face. He was bitten by the biking bug again. Three days later he'd spent most of his redundancy money on an '85 Honda H100. I now had a racing/riding partner.
MOT time arrived and the bike needed a new tyre. I purchased an IRC from the local MZ dealer. Same as they put on RD Yamahas, I was informed. Back home, I removed the wheel - easy job - but try as I might I just could not get the tyre off. I was bending my tyre levers and was afraid I would crack the alloy rims. After about two hours of pissing about I took it down to the nearest tyre depot and for £5, which went straight into the guy's pocket, they removed the old and fitted the new tyre.
For the MOT I took it to another dealer - I was trying them as I'd heard they weren't too precise. "Oh no, not one of those," said the tester as he wheeled my pride and joy around the back of the shop. Ten minutes later he reappeared with a certificate - it had passed, I had not heard the engine run nor the horn sound.
All went well until returning from an evening's run with Chris I had a puncture. I continued on the rapidly deflating tyre, completely knackering it in the process. A Michelin M38 was fitted to the front which totally transformed the handling of the bike - the original tyres really are crap.
As it was summer and the evenings were long and warm, Chris and I spent a lot of them racing around country lanes. The MZ and Honda were well matched in performance, the H100 having the edge in acceleration due to its extra gear, revvy engine and light weight. On the handling front the MZ would hold its line easier and could be banked over further, some of this was due to the Honda's square section tyres.
As well as the evening jaunts we also took the bikes on longer, all day, trips during the weekends. This really tested these little bikes' comfort factors. Both were surprisingly good for an hour or two at 55mph before a numb arse set in. Flat out, the MZ would indicate 65mph, the Honda just under sixty. In practice, they were neck and neck, I would say that the actual top speed was around the sixty mark. I did once have the MZ up to an indicated 75mph down a very steep hill, the frame felt okay.
Thoughts of putting in for the Part One test were soon forgotten by the pair of us as winter drew in. We continued to ride the bikes on our evening trips, the lights on the MZ giving the best vision. I'll never forget one of our winter Sunday rides. It was a clear, dry but very cold afternoon and we'd been in the saddle for about 60 miles and were really cold, so we headed for Selby to try to get a cup of tea or coffee. When we got there, though, the whole place was shut as tight as a nun's nasty. By the time we arrived back in York we were frozen to the bikes.
Another time...I could go on for ages about the trips Chris and I had on these bikes, none were boring for us but they would probably bore the tits off those reading this. Although we rode the bikes quite hard there were no breakdowns and neither machine had a particular appetite for petrol. The MZ had a voracious appetite for mirrors - when I bought the bike the mirror was missing, I bought a new one at the extortionate cost of £5.26. About a week later I stopped in a lay-by, put my right foot down a hole as I came to rest and fell over. Well, it was dark! Apart from feeling a complete twat I broke the mirror.
All went well for a month until a speeding Transit van removed another mirror as I was overtaking a line of stationary traffic whilst on my way to work. I rode straight to the dealers and handed over yet another £5.26. At 5.30 that day I went to the bike to ride home only to find the mirror hanging limply from the handlebars, it was broken. Some bastard had tried to have it away and bust it in the process. A piece of sticky clear plastic prevented the glass from falling out - this is how it stayed until I sold it.
Three years went by, the MZ kept running with the minimum of attention as did Chris's H100. I decided to take Part One before the new test came in. Part One was passed first time after a morning's instruction and some time later I was able to pass Part Two. That night I took my wife out for my first legal pillion trip. Spring arrived and the weather was so fine that we had many trips in which the poor old MZ was thrashed mercilessly.
Fun though the MZ was I longed for something bigger, so I bought a 400 Superdream. I sold the MZ for £65 to Rupert. I was later to be present when it seized solid, Rupert and pillion, all 27 stone of them, had tried to stay with the Superdream and failed. Rupert fitted a 150cc engine but the machine refused to run - I eventually bought this bike off him for £35.
The quality of the alloy puts the Japanese to shame, as after all the time spent in the shitty weather we have in this country it looks just the same as when I bought it. Only the exhausts have rusted slightly. Back in my garage I charged the battery, replaced the plug, cap and HT lead and set the timing. Choke on, a swift kick and bugger all. When I found the points were not closing properly, a quick bend in the vice and off it went. It's not exactly a RD500 but it moves.
The MZ is now waiting for me to take if for an MOT. I hope it passes as I need something to ride because the 400 needs a new balance chain. Oh, the joys of biking on a low Budget!
Huw
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First impressions count for a lot. My £100 hack was acquired in the depths of the night, although I'd been able to inspect the machine to my heart's content in a lighted garage. All seemed okay, so cash changed hands and I pottered off on the 30 mile trek home.
The bike felt solid on the road, with none of the wandering that could be expected from its utilitarian appearance. The motor vibrated all the time, somewhat disconcerting from a mildly tuned 125cc stroker, but we plodded along at 30mph with the only worry the minimal level of illumination emitted from the front headlamp.
Whatever technological advances the East German factory might have claimed for themselves in the design of two stroke engines, it certainly didn't apply to the electrical system, which was a pathetic 6 volts when all the connections were free of rust and the battery holding a charge. I was muttering to myself about communist plots, when the front headlamp went out.
Brakes, I screamed out loud. At that low speed the SLS drums responded well. I stopped just before the bike was about to launch itself off the road into a ditch. I knew this because the light had not actually gone out but fallen out of its holder. It dangled on the ends of its wires, illuminating the fetid ditch inches away from the front wheel.
I shoved it back in, sort of securing the reflector with a bungee cord wrapped around the headlamp casing. This did nothing for illumination but held until I was able to roll up at my house, somewhat bleary eyed and shaken up by the experience.
The next day I wandered out to the garden to find the MZ had disappeared. Bloody hell, I muttered, who the hell would be silly enough to nick one of those. No-one as it turned out, the thing had fallen over on its stand, hiding behind a low stone wall in the garden. I pulled it up without too much of a struggle, and could find no discernible damage to the already battered form.
Not a good way to begin a relationship. Starting turned out difficult. The previous owner had managed a nonchalant kick, but it took me the best part of thirty minutes to make the motor stutter into life. It did get better as I learnt the technique, four or five desperate lunges were all that were needed to light the fires when the mill was cold.
I ignored the headlamp, went for a fast thrash to see what the communist iron was made of. It wailed up to 50mph without too much hassle, but then acceleration slowed so much that I thought we were going backwards. A ten mile long straight revealed that top speed was 65mph. Hardly worth all the drama, as the engine was vibrating away like a jack-hammer. Coming back, performance all but disappeared as we battled against a strong headwind, not much more than a pathetic 40mph available, with the stroker sounding like it was about to explode.
The bike was six years old with only 16000 miles on the clock. Just the one owner, who had assured me it had only been used as a summer commuter and, apart from the time the speedo cable broke, the mileage was rather more than less genuine.
Handling turned out strange. It felt firmly planted on the ground in a straight line. So much so that it was reluctant to go around corners. When it did eventually decide to lean over it did so with a rather vicious lunge that threatened a violent dose of tarmac rash. The tyres didn't help, some Far Eastern crap, but they were probably no worse than the Pneumats that were original equipment.
It took about a month to develop the necessary reflexes to throw the little MZ around corners. In town, it was somewhat easier, although by no means a lightweight, as at commuting speeds the TS responded in a more predictable manner to steering inputs. The bike was slow enough to get in the way of cars in the traffic light GP.
The brakes were surprisingly effective up to 40mph. Higher speeds predictably enough led to overheating and fade. In the early days I had some close shaves, with the dodgy brakes and weird handling causing me to run right off country roads. After a while, I was impressed with the toughness of the chassis, which appeared capable of taking out bloody great trees, but weary of the bruises.
After the first month I deemed it necessary to pull out all the wires and start again on the electrical system. Even after I'd secured the glow-worm front light, it loved to blow. Also, fuses would burn out with religious fervour and I once had the horn come on continuously until I'd maniacally pulled out the offending wires. The indicators didn't even try to work so they were chucked. After much ritual abuse I got everything working again and had fitted used Jap switches and regulator.
The incredibly long silencer was degutted, the air-filter thrown away and a new spark plug fitted. Starting improved but it was still a slug once past 50mph. I stripped one of the cylinder head studs whilst attempting a decoke but fixed it in with Araldite. The decoke did not help performance but got fuel up to 75mpg.
For the next five months the bike was more or less sorted with only the odd fault, usually with the ignition, annoying me. Come 24000 miles, the rattles increased and performance became even more appalling. Honest, it was hard pushed to do more than 35mph!
Even I managed to work out that the engine was in need of attention. There followed a lot of painful action as almost every bolt I tried to undo had corroded in place with Jap-like efficiency.
At first I thought it was just going to be the piston and bore, but the crankshaft turned out to have shot main bearings. Talking to breakers I found out that most engines were in trouble between 20 and 25000 miles. Given the choice between doing a complete rebuild and bunging in a fifty quid engine from a crashed bike, it was pretty obvious which to chose.
The replacement engine had slightly less rattles but was identical in performance. To celebrate the successful transplant, I decided to take the MZ on a tour of the Lake District, this in September. I lived not that far away, so it was an easy run to Lake Windermere. Or would have been had not the rucksack flown off the back of the bike, ending up at the bottom of a cliff.
In a foolish flood of optimism I scrambled down the near vertical rock face only to nearly have heart palpitations when I realised it would not be half so easy to climb back up again with a huge rucksack slung on my back! Fortunately, walking down the valley for half a mile revealed a path back up to the road, but with the way the tarmac winds in the Lake District it was a two hour's hike back to the MZ, which amazingly was still ticking over where I had left it!
I was so done in by then that the first bit of green grass I came to was deemed perfect for an impromptu campsite. The next day the need to keep hauling on the front drum to avoid leaving the road, turned it very grabby. After about five miles it stopped working altogether, just producing noises piercing enough to make the sheep cringe. When I went to take the front wheel off the thread stripped, so there was no way it could safely be reassembled. The brake turned out to have cracked linings with no braking material left. Oops.
It was out with the Araldite again to repair the thread, then up with the tent whilst I let it set overnight. Nothing for it but to ride home five days early the next morning. The bodge held out okay, and might even have lasted much longer, but no way I was going to risk having the front wheel fall off when the bits could be picked up for next to nothing from a breaker.
Even with a newish front wheel and set of shoes the front brake thereafter retained its grabby nature, sometimes being a real bugger in the wet, sending the front wheel off into a heinous slide that had sparks flying off the chassis and flesh torn off my poor old battered body.
After one particularly vile slide, the MZ added a new party trick to its repertoire. The first I knew of this was when I'd got the old heap up to a reluctant and somewhat vibratory 60mph (the speedo needle was actually flicking between 55 and 70mph). I started to roll off the throttle for an approaching corner only to find the damn thing jammed wide open.
In a sudden burst of power, the MZ careered forward another 5mph, with the motor feeling like it was about to leap out of its mountings. I panicked, not a coherent thought in my brain, then just before it was too late pulled in the clutch.
That together with locking on the brakes, lost sufficient speed to let us bounce around the corner. The cost was in the engine revving to about 20,000rpm, giving off enough vibes to have the petrol tank split apart at its seams and then lock up solid. I already had the clutch pulled in so all I could do was haul up pronto, hoping that the leaking fuel was not going to catch alight.
Despite the ferocious heat pouring off the engine, it didn't turn into a fireball. I had a couple of hours to contemplate my life as I pushed the stricken MZ home. In retrospect, I was quite impressed with the way it had cornered with the brakes locked up solid and no stabilising power getting through to the back wheel. What was even more impressive was that the engine started fifth kick the next day and ran just as well, or badly, as before! Tough!
The throttle was treated to a large amount of grease after that but still seized up a couple of times, but at low speeds, so easily survived. After nearly a year of playing with the TS I was becoming tired of its lack of predictability and paucity of performance.
When the engine started losing power again, I was almost jumping with joy after selling the heap for £120. Old ones are a bit too strange to learn on, not reliable enough for serious commuting and too slow for anyone used to something faster than a C90. As a cheap hack that can be kept going on a minimum of money they have their uses, but I am a lot happier with the rat Yamaha RXS100 I bought as a replacement.
Jerry