Travel Tales: Euro Rat

The GSX550 had been out of use for a horrendous three months, due to my foolish desire to evade the rigours of winter and to cancel my insurance in expectation of wads of reimbursement. Infuriatingly, the insurer only coughed up £77 and not the £170 as they had pledged on the phone. I was later to discover they had no method of calculating the sum and merely guessed. After sending countless letters, a mysterious and unexplained cheque arrived for £20.

Preparation for the voyage to Barcelona involved a lot more than a new five minute paint job and baptism, though it got one anyway and was christened Samson owing to its undying strength. I only had 24 hours to get it packed and road worthy, requiring an oil filter change, tappet check, new rectifier (used Z550), fork oil and a new gearbox sprocket which could only be fitted by removing the clutch pushrod cover which had been welded, requiring application of an angle grinder to remove it.

The Spaniard who usually did this kind of skilled bodging, charging £4/hour, could not be traced so I had to resort to riding 30 miles to a derelict barn in the middle of nowhere where a greebo biker was installed. This character was playing groovy music and dramatically ignited the blow torch after telling me of his mate's untimely death. I only had three hours to reach Newhaven, which agonizingly elapsed as the clutch pushrod assembly collapsed, the cable was found to be too long and the gunge build up phenomenal. When all was reassembled I had no clutch and an hour to travel 150 miles.....so I got the next night's boat despite the booking.

I am glad that Britain is an island because the ferry is always a brilliant way of psyching yourself up and building the adrenalin that accompanies a trip into the unknown. Some people say that taking out recovery service is cheating, stripping the trip of its adventure that makes the travelling so damn exciting. If the bike blows a big-end or its ignition unit then simply file away the serial number and use the number plate to hitch home, whereupon the insurance company should be told it got stolen in Calcutta. Alternatively, you can steal an old farm truck like Happy Henry and drive to the city of choice for a comprehensive rebuild.

But make no mistake, Euro touring is the most filthy, unhygienic lifestyle ever invented. 12 hours in the saddle in six layers of clothing mudcaked from road dirt and rain water, covered in oil from the last chain adjustment and battery acid from the last top up and petrol from the last siphoning sortie and French bread and brie from the last munchie attack, only made worse when you detour into the nearest appropriate wood when darkness falls and crash out under the stars and drizzle without shelter of a tent because you're too knackered to put it up.

I found my hands got soaked in oil and therefore all the food I ate was covered in oil which got into my eye, transforming me into a cyclops and the paranoia about sleeping rough is soon dispelled by not giving a shit any more, and that few people would approach an evil looking biker unless drunk or in a crowd, which was not very likely in the back of beyond unless you stray on to military land. Ted Simon must have smelt like a bear's arse after four years on the road!

I was amazed at the lack of traffic in northern and central France, just the odd dishevelled 2CV winding along at a snail's pace. I took the back roads all the way down and was amazed at how strange local people sometimes looked and behaved when asked for directions, bizarre hooters were standard equipment as were Ken Dodd gesticulations. Travelling solo led to a non stop pace but I still managed to coincidentally meet some friends who were hitching down in a drunken stupor after their VW Beetle expired. The south of France was wind swept, arid, more populated and ugly in contrast to the Dordogne which was steaming and idyllic but full of English ex-pats who had given up the rat race.

The Pyrennes were fast and furious, the hairpins being difficult because of the grooves worn in by scratching undercarriages. There was still snow on the road on the Spanish side, which added to the inferior road surface led to a front wheel slide that drew premature baldness a stage closer. There was a car upside down in the middle of road that had recently exploded, which caused a bit of a hold up.

Barcelona itself - 1992 Olympics city - is a fairly mad, hot, colourful, potentially dodgy place that is sufficiently bike mad to have the pavements swamped, the roads filled and ear traumatised by two wheel mayhem. GSX600/750s, CBR600 and GS500s were all popular but the hoards are composed of multi coloured hairdryers sat on by scantily clad, seductive teenage girls. Naturally, life without a clutch was unbearable in this congested urban environment, compounded by totally unpredictable rush hour times caused by the siesta making the streets flooded at 8pm. I got a parking ticket on the first day for being in the Ramblas, this naturally went in the nearest bin - if the bureaucracy can catch up with me in Britain they deserve their £4.50.

A Sunday afternoon blast to Figerias, 100 miles north up the coast to visit the Dali museum (which is completely insane) started off well. The passenger had no helmet so had to wear a hood - not much use in a head-on but it confused all the sun fried plod who were far too busy posing on their bikes by the roadside or waving the traffic into confusion to bother us.

At the first motorway toll booth we rode straight through, shouting Figerias and made the coast road without bullets in our backs. Suddenly, the mirror and the road in front were filled with big Jap bikes and the odd wayward Sanglas. It was great fun blasting past the cars in this almost endless out of control convoy of hoodlums. Around one mountain bend there came five bikes abreast, the widest one being a GSXR1100 that was shaking its head uncontrollably as it burnt the others off. Towards Figerias the rain started, the heavens opened, a waterfall enveloped the atmosphere and half a ton of air pollution and water perforated our clothing in seconds.

The return journey was a monster epic, 80 miles of plummeting rain with a solid traffic jam for the last 30 miles. Without a clutch I was dumbfounded when we managed to return to Barcelona in one piece despite the ditch sorties and contravening every rule in the Spanish Highway Code - if they have one. I actually found the Spanish and French drivers were vastly less homicidal than their counterparts in the south east of England.

I had to leave Barcelona due to lack of funds, owing to over consumption of alcohol and noxious weed. Samson survived the Pyrennes up to 6000 feet with ease but nearly suffered a shave with the dust near Clermont on a slimy, twisty, hilly road where two side splitting hitchers stuck out a thumb as a joke. Whilst losing concentration with an inane smile the tyre got lodged in a slippery groove when attempting the racing line, provoking a lurid front wheel slide towards an embankment - the pain of adrenalin trauma oblivious to the two idiots I had just passed.

It is easy to vaguely establish mileage goals when Euro touring, fatigue therefore takes it toll. After eight hours in the saddle one's brain is almost totally fried - commonsense, rational thinking and concentration is less common than Iraqis in the US air force. After half an hour at Dornes near Moulins I was bored and looking for some entertainment. I cruised up to four local lads with a TDR250 and asked whether the Paris Dakar was about to start - no, not for another eight months but have a beer and a chat anyway.

I said I was heading for Paris and they offered to show me the way as far as Nevers - they two up, myself with about ten stone of luggage, rucksack, tent, sleeping bag, saddlebags, etc. At first I was amazed at the racing pace, used to a relaxed, efficient and smooth touring style that avoids gearchanges with a 6000rpm threshold. The whippersnappers tore off, leaving the GSX stranded in fourth waiting for the power band to get a grip, rapidly losing ground.

I was surprised at the angle that the Yamaha leant over in the bends - it required a hang off approach to match its angles. Eventually, I managed to cajole Samson into showing how superior it was to a £3000 brand spanking sprog of a bike by reaching the heady heights of 120mph. We passed the TDR in a glorious wave of euphoria, no longer downwind of those carcinogenic fumes.

However, glory was short lived, a woman screamed out of her car at a traffic light that something had fallen from the rucksack when banked over at an inordinant speed, passing in front of her some villages back. I couldn't be bothered to return in search, so waved au revoir and stopped for a bike check - chain, battery and oil all needed attention which I happily performed. 70 miles later I pulled in for a coffee - bon dieu, my right leg is completely saturated in oil. Likewise, the whole bike. I thanked the gods for no engine seizure as I saw the oil fill plug was detached from its home - I'd left the bloody thing off!

Riding style in and around Paris is a little different than Shit City. Parisian bikers blast up the hard shoulder of tail backs at 70mph - perhaps a reflection on the superior reliability of French drivers. Spontaneous undertaking at triple figure speeds is as common as Vee-Maxs and Gold Wings in Paris. It rained from Paris to Dieppe, the boat provided welcome shelter from the elements.

There was no mistaking once in Newhaven that the custom's officials were bored shitless. The appearance of a mudcaked, long haired figure on an equally mangy bike must have seemed like a vision of divine intervention. They proceeded to glance through my passport - "Oh dear, been to Thailand and Jamaica, have we, sir? Do you use hashish at all? No, been to Barcelona? - Ever offered any drugs there, sir?" "Not really." "Not really, sir, well just empty your pockets and we'll have a look through your luggage." The officers visibly grimaced at the oil soaked garments that were dragged out of it. Luckily, they found the rest of my sterling which paid the petrol home.

The depths of cold that England had sunk into will forever be remembered by my numbed fingers. A new found respect grew for Samson out of this mission. A week later the clutch was mended - to a certain extent. It required a yank that would pull a high security prison door off its hinges to operate the clutch due to the instant gasket that obscures the pushrod.

Bruce Jones

Travel Tales: Euro Travels

''You ain't a real biker until you've had your first accident.'' What a load of bollocks. You ain't a real biker until you've done your first European tour. This was the reason my mate and I were heading for Ramsgate in the pissing rain one morning in April 1995 to catch the 4am ferry. I was riding a Suzuki GSX750ES and my mate was on a Kawasaki EN450.

We hadn't really planned the trip in advance, it was just that we needed a two week holiday away from our jobs. My mate had a friend in Amsterdam and I had a relative in Southern Germany who would both put us up for a few days free of charge. That's what we were hoping anyway.

Okay, I admit I got some AA insurance, ferry tickets and foreign currency in advance, but we're only talking a few days before the off and I only packed my holdall on the night we went. I'm not saying we're a couple of lads who can drop everything on the spur of the moment and ride off into the unknown without a care in the world. Far from it. In reality we're a couple of lazy bastards who still weren't sure if this adventure was a good idea or not even when we were sitting on the ferry, but by then it was too late to turn back.

We rolled into Ostend at just gone 8am. At this stage we still hadn't decided on whether to go to Germany first or Holland. We decided on Holland. As we pulled up at Passport Control I expected hassle. We were both dressed in black leathers, boots and helmet. Long hair doesn't equate to a yuppie image either. Thank God. However, we never found any hassle at passport controls throughout the journey. I just wish the French police were like that.

So we hit the road, came to a roundabout. What the bloody hell do I do now? It seemed to me (but I'm still not sure) that traffic on the roundabout has to give way to traffic entering the roundabout. Not only do Belgians drive on the wrong side of the road, they don't know how to use roundabouts properly. Nailing the throttle every now and then kept me out of trouble.

Belgium was boring and the roads even more so (try the back lanes and Antwerp's cool - Ed). Crossing the border into Holland I could see straight away how laid back the populace were. Their driving was considerate and orderly for starters, their coppers look flash in Porsche 911 convertibles and Ray-Ban shades, and there were numerous bikers who hunted in packs on their Fireblades, GSXR's and Dukes. That's what it looked like, anyway.

Rolling into Amsterdam was cool. The canals were picturesque, everyone seemed to be between 18 and 35 and they spoke English. After finding our hostesses' flat we realised she wasn't in, we realised she didn't know we were coming and was out! We caught up with her later after dumping our gear in a neighbour's flat.

The next four days were spent living the cafe and bar lifestyle. Well, what else is there to do? Being groped late at night by the prostitutes, as it happened. One of them was from Tottenham, of all places. £15 a go...we made our excuses and left! Honest.

We left Amsterdam for the ten hour ride down to Southern Germany. I wasn't sure what to expect when riding on the autobahn. I think I was disappointed, actually. In some places the road was just a worn out dual carriageway in bad need of resurfacing and sometimes the road signs for turn-offs were on the turn-off itself, if you see what I mean. Most vehicles do between 60 and 80mph. Mercs, BMWs and Audi's do between 120 and 130mph; the odd Porsche does 150mph!

Then at night all the lorries come out to play. They travel in convoys which last for ages. Dodging in and out of the lorries with the prospect of a Porsche up your arse every time you go in the outside lane is bloody scary. I didn't feel that I could blitz past these lorries at high speed either because the risk of getting pulled out on and crushed into the central barrier was too high to contemplate.

It was pitch black so out headlights probably wouldn't be picked out amongst the other lorries, and likewise for us when trying to work out just how fast an overtaking car was coming from behind. How can the Eurocrats even think about banning bikes over 100hp?

Come to think of it, I can only remember being overtaken by one bike on this journey and that was a BMW R100RT. He was getting the most out of his bike, riding like a bat out of hell, but it does make one wonder if the anti-biking lobby in Germany is working. Hopefully not.

My favourite trick was to let a car get a fag papers distance from my numberplate and then move over to let it overtake. Only it couldn't because I would piss off into the distance. I must confess I only played this game now and again with cars like VW Golfs and Renault Clios. I ain't stupid. However, one Mitsubishi auto-pilot was so incensed he made a point of catching up with me a few miles down the road and running me out of the outside lane. Fag paper widths didn't come into it. I tried to give him some of his own medicine by sitting on his bumper at 130mph. After about a minute I gave up this folly. I was flat out, anyway, and couldn't overtake...my mate didn't seem to be anywhere around.

After the autobahn, we had to navigate some pretty hairy country lanes in the dark and the rain. We were riding through endless forest. When I was later to see the view in daylight, I found it quite breathtaking. I was also glad we had managed to keep to the roads - looking over the edge I saw what a sheer drop there was. We finally arrived at our destination, a town called Pirmasens. I was relieved to be alive.

I like Germany. I liked the way their pubs would stay open until the last few people were left standing or the landlord finally decided it was bedtime. Who needs antiquated licensing laws? A lot of the locals seemed bemused as to why a couple of English lads were staying in their out of the way little town. In the more traditional pubs or shops there would be a lot of good humoured banter going on when we were trying to buy something. All great fun, but most importantly they didn't mind a couple of bikers getting pissed in their pubs every night.

One evening while walking to the pub we came across a Liverpudlian lorry driver hanging out of his cab window asking about ten people at a bus stop where there was a petrol station, but he was being greeted with blank stares. ''You English mate?'' I shouted up at the cab. An obvious question, I know, but I had to start somewhere. The look of joy and relief on his face when hearing those three words can only be compared to someone having six winning numbers on a Saturday night. He was lost on his way to Trier and running on fumes. Hopefully, we sorted him out with our directions.

A trip to Strasbourg convinced me that riding on the right was so much better than the left. I seemed to be able to attack the bends better and, of course, it's more convenient to wave to bikers coming the other way with your left hand stuck out where it's easy for them to see.

France is very biker friendly. 99% of bikers wave at each other - unlike bikers in the UK or Germany. We had couples in cars giving us a toot and a wave, and also a Post Office van did the same, strangely enough. The main attraction at Strasbourg is its cathedral. The architecture's awesome and it's well worth seeing. It took about six centuries to build and the intricate detailing both inside and out blew my mind. I was impressed. Back in Germany, my mate and I decided we would try Paris next. He had a long lost relative who lived there who might put us up for a day or two. It was a long shot but out on the road everything is possible.

So the next day the wheels were set in motion pointing in the general direction of Paris. The Nationale Routes in France are some of the best roads I've ever ridden on. You can maintain ton up speeds for miles due to no traffic and long straight roads. Every now and again a little picturesque village would pop up in the middle of nowhere, which means slowing to 30mph for a minute or two.

Come 8pm on the frist day, we had only got halfway across France, due to a delay caused by still being pissed in the morning after our send off the night before. We pulled over at a place called Verdum to decide what to do before darkness descended.

Suddenly, a little Frenchman appeared from nowhere, offering us assistance as we looked at the map. Turned out he was a GSXR1100 and motocrosser pilot. He could speak no English and we could speak no French but we had an invigorating chat for about an hour. He showed us the best biking roads for Paris, told us to avoid Reims as it was full of rich champagne guzzling bastards, told us travelling in France at night was hassle because the petrol stations close at 9pm, and tried to improve our French pronunciation without any success whatsoever. It was now nearly dark and we decided a petrol station and camping site would be our best bet.

''No problem,'' says monsieur as he gets into his van and gesticulates for us to follow him. At the petrol station he tells us to wait and then disappears. Minutes later he turns up on his motocrosser to take us to the campsite. This geezer didn't know us from Adam but went out of his way to help and make us feel welcome in his town.What can I say...the campsite was 54 Francs.

By the way, never camp next to a lake in April. Mist will surround your tent, you won't get a wink of sleep and you will sit up shivering a lot in the night. At 6am I walked through the hazy sunshine into town. It immediately became apparent I had travelled back in time. Verdun's an old WW1 town complete with historical buildings, a Citadel with a canal running through it. The whole town was covered in silence. A couple of foot soldiers walked past. Most of Europe was about to celebrate VE day. A Suzuki GSX600F broke the silence. Phew! I was still in 1995.

The rest of the day was spent riding in Paris. Everything went fine until we got to the great city. At a very busy cobbled roundabout we went to peel off second exit to the right when suddenly a lorry aimed itself in between the two of us. My mate squeezed around the front but never realised how close he came to death.

Meanwhile, I was heading under the wheels. I made the split second decision to go the way the lorry was heading, thus avoiding the dilemma. This took me through a tunnel. When I came out the other side I had lost matey. I had also lost the address of where we were heading. I was in deep shit and I began to realise that Parisian traffic made Death race 2000 look tame.

I hung around Paris for a while, trying to sort out my predicament, but due to lack of funds and time getting on I decided to head north to find a campsite. Getting out of Paris was sheer terror. There are no rules, speed and aggression comes out on top. I just went with the flow. On one crowded motorway section it was a case of joining an improvised motorcycle lane in between the cars at speeds up to 70mph and more.

Bikes went this fast to beat the kamikaze scooterists who would do up to 50mph flat out, weaving from lane to lane. There was no room for mistakes but at least if I made one I knew it would be terminal. Other bikers were being very friendly and sticking an arm or leg out to welcome their English travelling counterpart as they overtook me. At the speed I was travelling and the road space I had (ie none) I was waving to no-one. I was convinced they were being sarcastic and their wave actually meant something like, welcome to the jungle, sucker - you're gonna die!

My mate later told me how a French nutter on a GSXR1100 collided with him slightly as they both went through a tight gap between cars going in the same direction. The GSXR was going about twice as fast as my mate and he was doing fifty. Mind you, he was to stay in a mansion living in luxury for a couple of days while I froze in a campsite. Sour grapes, moi?

Once out of Paris my next problem was to find the aforementioned campsite. An hour before sunset I was in a town called Senlis. I pulled into the BP station and asked if there was a campsite nearby. The answer was yes but the three people I was talking to were having difficulty in getting me to understand. Eventually, a lad in a Citroen got me to follow him. About ten miles later he dropped me off at the campsite. To say I was grateful was an understatement. I have since tried to picture a Frenchman getting this sort of help in any town in England from a cager with no interest in bikes...I can't picture it at all.

The next day saw me on the final leg of the tour. It was just a case of heading for Lille and peeling off towards Ostend. Most motorways in France require the payment of tolls (peage). Naturally, I avoided these but when travelling from town to town, the signs do like to direct you on to the motorways, for some reason.

Anyway, I was on one of the toll-free motorways, doing about 85mph when I decided to pull in for petrol. Coming out the other side from the pumps I saw a picnic area. Nice one, thinks I, time for a fag and a sit down. However, four gentlemen were already insisting that I went into the picnic area, their guns and badges glistening in the afternoon sun. Yep, it was the gendarmes. They surrounded me and asked for my passport.

I went to pull it out of my inside pocket but was a bit quick. They took one step forward ready to pounce, one went for his gun. I slowed it down. They relaxed and I relaxed. I now got the impression they were expecting a big wedge of cash to come out with the passport. Fat chance. The sergeant spoke to me in French for about two minutes...a waste of his time. One of his colleagues spoke English, wanted to know where I was going and what I was doing. So I told them. He seemed happy enough but sarge wasn't.

My kit didn't contain any illegal substances and I wasn't giving 'em any dosh. They talked amongst themselves, giving me piercing and intimidating glances every now and then. Sarge slapping my passport into his palm, trying to look dead hard. He would still question me in French and expect an answer. I looked at his oppo for some lingual assistance. Their psychology wasn't going to faze me. It was pretty pathetic actually. Eventually they let me go. F..k knows what it had all been about. Good job they didn't see my Greenpeace sticker. I don't think I could have defused that one!

After that I got home in one piece. I had done 2000 miles and I was now disappointed to be back to the usual grind. Mind you, there's always next year. Somehow I don't think I can wait that long.

Roam

Travel Tales: EuroDreams

I've owned a CB250 Superdream for the last three and a half years, in which time it has given me lots of pleasure - it's temporarily in storage in my garage as I'm abroad now and don't have the heart to sell it.

The biggest pleasure I've had from it came in June two years ago when I decided to tour Europe. Being rather large for its capacity I managed to cram on a lot of luggage, including my rucksack, tent, sleeping bag, tankbag, panniers and, most importantly, a petrol can which was to be worth its weight in gold. There was no way such a overloaded bike could be pushed any distance.

I had just finished my second year's exams at Manchester University and had two days to get to Edinburgh and then down to the ferry at Harwich. As well as touring Europe on the Superdream I also wanted to see Scotland play football at the European championships.

After a desperate night ride down to Harwich, where petrol stops were a relief to my cramped limbs and numb backside, I got the ferry to Gothenburg. I chatted with some Swedish bikers on the way who had just been to the Isle of Man TT. I must say that it wasn't too difficult becoming used to riding at night, despite the lack of lights with searchlight intensity - in fact I preferred it.

I stayed at the campsite in Gothenburg and the next day redistributed my belongings out of the rucksack, as my back was killing me. I then started my European adventure for real and headed for Norrkoping for the German and US games. The roads were quite pleasant and the Superdream turned in 50mpg. I then joined up with the tartan army and got drunk for four days. There's something about being abroad that lets the spirits loose.

After a few hangovers in Sweden I headed down to Denmark where petrol and food was just as expensive. I stayed one night in Copenhagen and headed for the cheapness of Eastern Europe. The language barrier got to me a bit in Germany but the bike was still doing well, whirring away with a reassuring ease and going where it was pointed despite the excessive mass.

Up to that time I'd been using my Visa card to pay for petrol but now it was impossible and I wished I'd taken more traveller's cheques. The autobahns were okay and there were more petrol stations than on the British motorways. The bikers weren't as friendly, though. In Berlin the police prevented me from riding through the Brandenburg Gate - they looked pretty nasty - so I headed south to Czechoslovakia.

This is where my problems began. I was sure there was a petrol station south of Dresden that took Visa but by the time I ran out of petrol I was three miles from the nearest town. Therefore, I locked my bike and hoped no-one would steal my panniers and tankbag, headed into the great unknown on foot with my rucksack and trusty petrol can.

Several hours later, exhausted and dehydrated, I fuelled up my bike and stopped at the next station for a top up. I then headed into Czechoslovakia with no cash. Luckily, a hotel in the centre of Prague changed some traveller's cheque at 10.00pm and I found a campsite. I then fiddled around with my tent in pitch darkness and collapsed into it, which was a lot better than having it collapse on top of me.

After a nice cold shower in the morning I headed into Prague and obtained a Visa cash advance. Then disaster struck. It started raining very heavily, so harsh that it flooded the campsite and took my tent with it. I managed to salvage most of my belongings and spent the next five days drying them out.

I then headed further east to Ostravo, through the windy, mountainous roads of the Tetras. I must say that I was impressed by the quality of Czech roads and by the cheapness of the petrol, about £1 a gallon. Since the wind was behind me I also consumed less petrol, getting a range of 170 miles.

After three mind-numbing days in Ostravo, where I had the flu and ate a magic mushroom pizza, I headed in the direction of the Ukrainian border. I was studying Russian at the time so thought it would be fun riding a motorbike there. How wrong I was!

At the border town of Kosice I suddenly remembered about my chain, so under the curious eyes of the locals I tightened it, added some clutch grease as I'd forgotten chain lube. My Superdream earned a lot of respect from the locals.

At the Ukrainian border, after much haggling, I got a visa for $40 which left me with only $16. I then took the route through the Carpaithian Mountains to Lvov. It wasn't a road, it was a dirt track, and there were no pot-holes there were just huge craters.

There was also a little problem with petrol. There wasn't any! I eventually met some suspicious looking locals who sold me three gallons of petrol for $15. That left me worth just $1. Unfortunately, I couldn't get a Visa cash advance in Lvov so, after locking my bike, I carried all my stuff into the railway station and spent a miserable time there.

The next morning I headed to the Polish border with enough petrol to go 150 miles. Once in Poland, and very desperate, I went to a petrol station and exchanged my passport for some petrol. That was enough to get me into Cracow but I still had to get some money. I stayed at a hotel that took my flexible friend and the next day reversed charges and phoned the Embassy. They kindly informed me where to get money and I headed back for my passport. The Superdream still hadn't let me down and deserved a clean after all the accumulated road dirt and grime.

I went back to Berlin the next day and before I had a chance to put my leathers on I was soaked by a torrential downpour. Wet and miserable, I found an expensive hotel to live in luxury for a night. I was reliably informed that there was a ferry leaving from Hamburg the next day but unfortunately when I got there, they said there was no room for my bike!

I headed for Holland. Unfortunately I'd forgotten to oil my chain after the downpour and that night, 550 miles after Berlin, extremely tired and saddle sore I arrived on the outskirts of Amsterdam when the chain and sprocket disintegrated. I tried in vain to dodge the traffic on the motorway whilst looking for the sprocket!

Luckily for me, a friendly local stopped and gave me a tow to his house, fed me, let me stay the night and then gave me a tow to the local Honda dealer, all because he once had a motorcycle. The new chain and sprocket plus fitting cost me £100 whilst the ferry home further crippled my bank account. However, a month and 4400 miles later, extremely ill from a mixture of Czech, Polish and Ukrainian water, I cruised into Edinburgh on the Superdream.

Apart from that little incident in Holland, which could have been easily avoided, my Superdream did not once let me down. It's now 12 years old and still in good running order thanks to regular servicing. In fact, when I return from Kiev in June, after buying a more comfortable seat, I intend to tour Bulgaria, Romania and the Ukraine so I shall not have another bad word said against Superdreams.

Brian Nelson

Kawasaki KLX650

I've no interest in off-road riding but like the grunt of a big single and the pseudo trail looks. The KLX seemed to fit the bill, the dealer offered a large wedge in part exchange for my old Superdream and the sun was shining so brightly that I couldn't resist the temptation of a brand new bike. At £3500 list the KLX was reasonably priced, the dealer somehow reckoning my CB400N was worth a £600 discount.

The KLX has a stonking great 651cc DOHC, four valve watercooled engine that develops 45 horses at 6500rpm. It's a development of earlier 600 and 650cc motors that is both more powerful and compact. Starting, with an electric boot and auto-decompressor, was easy enough. The engine chuffed pleasantly through the stainless steel exhaust and the gear driven balancer damped out the primary vibration. Earlier models had more temperamental chain driven balancers.

The first surprise was that even first gear was on the tall side, needing a bit of slip from the light, sensitive clutch. Both the chassis and engine felt very tight, the gearbox harsh with a lot of chain thrashing at low revs in third gear upwards. The second surprise was that despite the 35 inch seat height there was none of the top heavy feel I'd feared. The KLX uses road biased tyres and firm suspension, only weighs 350lbs and feels more firmly planted on the tarmac than many a road bike.

The first 500 miles was limited to 3000rpm, which equated to 45mph in top gear. The change became better as the miles rolled by. In town, the Kawasaki was easier to use than the Superdream, could be ridden through pot-holes without any worries and snapped through gaps in traffic at a furious rate. Here, its trail biased attributes came to the fore, the same characteristics that would make it ideal for riding through difficult off-road sections make it perfect for doing right-angled turns through tiny holes between cars.

The high seat also afforded a brilliant forward view, though obviously those short of leg were at risk of falling over in a heap at the lights. It wasn't as bad as it sounds because both the seat and tank were very narrow, allowing the most to be made of one's inside leg. A consequence of this minimal seat is that the KLX became very painful after a mere 50 miles.

Insulation from road shocks was maintained by the long travel suspension, the upside down front forks being especially impressive in their fluid reaction to bumps. The only problem with the Unitrak back end was that there were no grease nipples on the bearings, promising all kind of hassles down the line.

After the 500 mile service I was all set for some serious abuse. The front wheel always felt planted on the tarmac however hard the throttle was opened. It wasn't the kind of trailie that could easily leap over logs, pavements or roundabouts, or perhaps my road trained techniques were not up to the job. Even riding the bike hard I could not find much wrong with the chassis.

At least in the dry. Wet roads were a different matter, the Dunlop tyres being all too willing to slide from under the bike. They did it, the first time, so rapidly that I almost lost the KLX. I managed to wrench the bars, dab a boot down and skid off the road, ending up facing the wrong direction. Had the bike been heavier or less controllable it would've been tarmac thrashing time.

Even with 1500 miles on the clock the transmission was far from perfect. At low revs the engine would occasionally stall, which was a minor annoyance rather than a major heart surgery job as it only took a dab at the button to get the motor running again. The tall gearing meant that speeds below 35mph couldn't be countenanced in fifth and trying hard to accelerate from that speed caused the chain to go into a dervish dance on the sprockets. It wasn't difficult to ride around these problems but they seemed a bit iffy for a 1993 machine.

At the other end of the spectrum the motor ran out of steam at dead on the ton, but vibration started to intrude after only 75mph, which was a mere 5000 revs. This was fine for town and country lane work but rather limiting on motorway excursions. Not that the riding position encouraged high speeds - 75mph was about the most I could take for more than a few minutes.

With a single disc at each end and not much by way of mass, the brakes were more than up to stopping the KLX. I found them especially good in town on damp roads where their sensitivity (presumably developed for trail work) brought the big thumper to a rapid but safe halt. The last thing I wanted to do was lock up a front wheel shod with a dodgy tyre on wet roads. The tyres, by the way, have yet to show any signs of wearing out.

The frame is a weird and wonderful mixture of different section tubes with a fairly direct connection between the steering head and swinging arm mounts. It doesn't have an ounce of art in its design or execution but does the job of holding everything in line. A bit of paint falling off at some of weld joints was not exactly reassuring, neither was rust breaking out on some of the fasteners after the first month of winter. I couldn't be bothered claiming on the guarantee and got the bike up to scratch myself.

To recompense, reasonably fast riding gave 55 to 60mpg, the flat out stuff still turning in 50mpg. For a mildly tuned engine housed in a light chassis this seems about right. The tank holds over two gallons so there's a range of over 100 mile before frantically searching for a petrol station.

One quirk of a big single is that the engine goes completely dead without any warning when it runs out of fuel. That has left me sitting in the middle of fast flowing traffic with a dead engine that refuses to fire for half a minute. With the clutch pulled in I had to freewheel, horn blaring, to the roadside. After the first time, I always tried to fill up after 70 to 80 miles, just to be on the safe side.

The bike now has 2200 miles on the clock. The chain is about a third worn, needing quite frequent adjustments, the result of the great thudding single cylinder power pulses and the long travel suspension. Apart from those already mentioned, the cosmetics are still as the Kawasaki came out of the showroom, despite being ridden through some very wet and blustery weather.

This showed up a nasty bit of design in the tank/seat interface. Water pours down the steeply angled back of the tank, along the integral seat into my groin. Staggering off the bike after the five mile commute, I look just like I've pissed myself. The water is so well concentrated that it even gets through the waterproofs! On the positive side, the hand-guards give good protection in the wet, though they haven't stopped my fingers freezing off.

Perhaps because the bike is used in town a lot, and the engine never really has a chance to achieve a proper working temperature, there was a lot of white sludge in the sight-glass at about 1800 miles. Flushing out the oil and putting some new Castrol in cleared it up but it made of mockery of the 6000 mile oil changes suggested by Kawasaki. I'll do mine every 1500 miles from now on.

With electronic ignition, auto camchain tensioner and a single carb the only other engine maintenance is checking the four valves every 6000 miles, something my Kawasaki dealer claimed was far too complex for me to attempt (he was a bit miffed when I did the oil change myself, muttering about invalidating the warranty) but if it's out of the guarantee then I'll have a go.

There are quite a few minor faults with the KLX but as a fast town commuter and occasional back lane hustler there's not much to complain of. Over time, I'll make some mods to improve long distance comfort and fit a better set of tyres. I'm impressed enough with the engine and chassis to want to keep the KLX for the next several years.

Larry

****************************************************

Glorious is the only way I can describe the noise of this big thumper on an open can. I went along to see this '94 model with only six thou on the clock, the moment I heard her running she was sold. The 'silencer' was stock but gutted, the owner reckoning this minor mod had smoothed out the flow of the 40hp watercooled mill, removed a previous hesitation around four grand. And who was I to disagree with him? Less than a year old, mine for £2675.

I rode home in a state of rare happiness. If the seat was a bit too high the rest of the 350lb machine felt just right. Easy handling, a flood of useful power as soon as I tapped into the throttle, a slick gearchange and what seemed like bags of character after my rather anaemic Honda CB500/4, whose main positive point turned out to be that I sold it for twice what I'd originally paid.

The knobby tyres were surprisingly grippy, only about half worn and despite long travel suspension it didn't have a loose, or hinged in the middle, feel...I was delighted with the emanation of overall quality, making me think of those seventies Kawasaki adverts - Let The Good Times Roll. Though supposedly aimed at serious off-road work, the KLX seems much more suited for modern warfare - riding on the Queen's Highway, to you and me.

I thought it brilliant in town, for instance. Potholes, manhole covers and dead dogs no longer inspired any fear or loathing, the Kawa just rode over them, the long travel suspension soaking up their irregularities. The combination of a disc at either end made sure that any stupid ped's (who must've been deaf not to hear us coming) were easily avoided - and the squeal the brakes made when slammed on made them jump out of their skin. Ho, ho.

Weirdly enough, the Kawasaki wasn't a dead loss out of town. The relaxing beat of its thumper motor meant I was quite happy and contented to cruise along at 70 to 80mph, though the bike would have benefited from taller gearing as I was always trying to boot up out of top. Approaching 80mph also led to some vibration getting through, its balancer system doing a valiant if not perfect job. 80 to 90mph couldn't be held for a long time for fear of something breaking off, if only my fingers. There was a relatively smooth spot between 95 and 100mph, but after that the mirrors tried to shake out of their fittings and my feet were reluctant to stay on the pegs.

Those of a perverse and mechanically insensitive nature might manage to put all of 110mph on the clock but the engine certainly wouldn't be happy about it and it'd take a very long road to wind up to such speeds. The main limitation on performance above 80mph being the sit-in-the-wind-and-suffer riding position. The motor has so much potential that it's a crying shame Kawasaki don't do a more road orientated version.

The aerodynamics were so bad that speed did nasty things to economy. Razzing through town gave a reasonable 55mpg but anything above 70mph got that down to 40mpg; 80mph equalling 35mpg. As well as the aerodynamics there's the power sapping balancer system, though for a 650 thumper, 350lbs isn't an excessive amount of mass - if it didn't have the balancer it would have to carry a lot more chassis bulk to absorb and withstand the vibration. Having said all that, the old British thumpers did 70 to 90mpg, with a similar turn of speed, though unable to match the Kawa's rate of acceleration nor its absolute reliability.

But still, forty years of progress has seen us going backwards in many areas, now that motorcycling is officially a leisure pursuit rather than a practical means of commuting. I was tempted to dismember the airfilter assembly in the hope of improving induction efficiency, maybe even stick on an old Amal carb and see if it really was just a case of emission and noise laws holding back modern designs.

Before I had the chance to do that, being chucked out of a nice cushy job with BT meant I had to hit London's despatch circuit. Well, it seemed a good idea at the time, the Kawa was sitting there looking all innocent and fresh, and the idea of making six hundred sovs a week had a certain appeal. I brushed up on my A-Z, made the rounds of the despatch companies. They all insisted I eat humble pie by starting out as a trainee, ignoring my vast experience of bikes and several years residence in the capital. The money was pitiful but better than sharing space with the degenerates at the DHSS.

In most ways the KLX was the perfect tool for despatch riding. Light and narrow, with loads of power in the right places, it could be kept on the pace, and didn't really object to mad, sudden changes of direction when I realised I was going the wrong way, was halfway down a one-way street with all the traffic coming at me, or the lights changed suddenly and I had to do a speedway style slide to avoid running down a crowd of ped's.

There were two major problems that spoilt this idyll. The first was that after a couple of hours of town riding the engine started to overheat and would suddenly stall, refuse to start for at least ten minutes. It may have been the straight thru exhaust causing it to run a touch lean and hence hot. Whatever, the cooling system had a hard time of it and seemed ready to burst at the seams at times. It always started up eventually and ran fine once given a half hour break every couple of hours - if my money and sanity didn't depend on it then I could have written this off as part of its quaint character.

A couple of hours of abuse was also a bit enervating, insofar as my fingers went numb at the controls and my backside felt like it had been borrowed by a bus-load of drunken public school louts. The vibration was insidious over time and the saddle turned into a bed of nails.

Don't let this put you off the KLX, under normal riding these flaws didn't intrude at all, it was just the heavy-duty despatching that brought the worst out of the machine. In about a year I put 29000 miles on the clock - the only thing I did to the engine was the oil every 1000 miles. It still runs like clockwork despite the lack of maintenance and hasn't lost any of its power.

Some chassis corrosion, crap screws that rust in the rain and hard to clean spoke wheels took some effort but the bike still looks good and I'd have no problem selling her for over two grand. Luckily, it's back to the easy life for me as I got a job with one of these new cell phone companies, and the KLX now does the minor commuting chores as well as weekend runs. I finally had the valves checked but they were within limits! Impressive enough for me not to want to trade it for anything else. More than adequate go, lots of fun and not too expensive.

L.L.

 

Kawasaki 650 Tengai

I went 300 miles to buy my Tengai in atrocious weather. I had decided that I had to have one and the 1989 machine with only 4000 miles done seemed ideal over the phone. No misuse off road and immaculate condition were claimed. More or less true, save that the tyres were worn out. Mine for 1800 notes.

The roads were awash with water, the Japanese tyres skidded everywhere and the bike went into serious weaves every time I put more than 50mph on the clock. Protection from the fairing was a lot less than I would have liked, I was soon soaked through. It took about ten hours to get home, near midnight when we growled up to the house. My mind had been so blasted by the weather that it wasn't until later that I realised I did not have to refill the five gallon petrol tank.

The bike looked pretty wrecked the next day. Covered in layers of grime it appeared about ten years old. I was perplexed to find that the bike refused to start up on the electric foot. A lot of coughing and banging. The fairing and tank effectively hide the top end of the engine. After spending about an hour stripping these off, I managed to change the spark plug. Water had somehow got past the radiator and plastic, forming a large puddle around the plug.

The bike came to life after that. The sun was out, so the tyre shop was the first stop. A set of Avon Gripsters were levered on for a reasonable 80 sovs. I would have preferred road tyres but the 21"front wheel precluded that indulgence. The next item on the agenda was a jet-wash. Amazing what a bit of water can do, the bike ended up looking immaculate, as it should, being only ten months old.

The Avons made an immediate improvement in handling, making the bike seem much more reassuring. The Tengai makes about 50 horses at 6500rpm, which translates into a 2500 to 6000rpm spread of power. 50 horses isn't very much for a 650, Triumph managed that for their twins in the sixties. The engine just doesn't want to rev beyond 7000rpm, the power tailing off as the vibes increase from their normal gentle, almost reassuring, thrum.

The engine features balancers, of course, which have the usual effect of making the engine feel like it is fighting against itself. The balancers together with light flywheels makes sure that the Kawasaki has little of the low torque appeal of old British singles. Indeed, below 2500rpm in top the chain leaps around like it is about to fall off and the engine can stutter so badly that the motor goes dead. It'll also do that trick when idling at lights, a time when I'm very thankful for the modern convenience of the electric starter.

Apart from that, the motor had a very friendly nature, you could just stick it in top and slug it out from 2500rpm onwards. Acceleration is a little short on the gut churning, arm wrenching stuff, although wheelies are just a jerk of the arms and throttle away. Cruising speed is in the 80 to 90mph range, where the upright riding position is tolerable as the fairing takes quite a bit of the wind, if not the water, off my chest and neck.

The riding position was even better in town and down country roads. Trail bikes are surprisingly fast through the curves, giving the race reptiles palpitations. Where they lose out is on the suspension. The long travel is great for absorbing pot-holes but does allow the Tengai's 400lbs to wobble about a little. Nothing too frightening, though, and on smooth roads it's as stable as most sport bikes.

Time did little to aid suspension compliance. A poorly designed rear mudguard meant loads of road crud was thrown at the single shock, which was so well hidden that I never bothered to glance at it until all the damping disappeared, leaving me sitting on a buckling pogo-stick. Not particularly charmed by the way the back end tried to jump off the road, I was astonished to find that the shock was covered in inches of crud. Replacement with a nearly new one out of a breaker's for £15 cured the problem, along with a bit of rubber sheet between guard and swinging arm.

Whilst I was at it I pulled the rear suspension and swinging arm bearings apart and filled them with grease. Just as well as they were dry. The front forks were on the soft side to start with, even with a full dose of air. They came fitted with gaiters which was to the good. Their most disconcerting habit was to judder when the front disc was applied in a hurry. This eventually revealed itself as steering head bearings on the way out, but only after about 8000 miles. I thought it was the worn out Gripsters that were causing the wobbles but when their replacement failed to provide a cure and I found a bit of looseness in the forks.

The cut and thrust of town riding was greatly aided by the decent brakes and the amount of leverage provided by the bars. The front brake had its own cover in deference to the ill advised prospect of trail riding. . . but it never faded despite the obvious heat hassles and had no problems working in the wet. The caliper seized up three times and I had to eventually replace it as the rotted surfaces became so rough that the piston movement lacked precision.

The narrow engine also aided filtering through gaps and the tall seat gave a fine view of how far ahead the traffic jam went. Honestly, traffic in major towns moves so slowly you have to wonder why the cagers bother. I can only assume that their life is so rotten at home and so horrible in work that they actually enjoy the solitude of sitting for hours in their cars reading novels or listening to the radio. I never crashed the Kawasaki, which says as much about its stability and flickability as it does about my riding abilities.

Long distance tours were ruined by the seat which in no way could match the 300 mile plus cruising range of the large petrol tank. After about 70 miles it turns rock hard, a fast way of getting a bad dose of piles and doing nasty things to ones marriage prospects. After 500 miles in a day I'm left staggering about clutching my backside like a Picadily bum boy after a heavy night with an Arab tour group. Ouch!

I could get as much as 70mpg out of the mill, more usually around 60mpg. Someone at Kawasaki knows a lot about air flow through four valve heads. . . . one of the few Japanese bikes to match, if not better, the old British bikes of the 1960s. If Kawasaki did well at making such a large thumper efficient, they also did a reasonable job on the rear chain which lasted for at least 10, 000 miles. Nothing to write home about but good going for a single with violent power pulses that tends to rip chains apart.

So, running costs were okay, at least up to 21000 miles when some funny noises started coming from the top end of the engine. The dealer reckoned that the camchain had gone and maybe the camshafts were ruined as well. I laughed in his face when he gave me a quote for fixing the bike! I did the work myself. Sure enough, the camchain and tensioner were worn out and the camshaft lobes were well pitted and scored. I have to admit I had only done 5000 mile oil changes, so this was probably the culprit for the latter problem.

After about a week wandering around breakers I'd bought replacement parts. With some new gaskets the job cost about £80. The engine has now done 33000 miles with no further problems, although a slight fall off in power and increase in vibes suggests that it's about due for a rebore. The starter has also become a bit precarious, whirring away furiously until finally plunging the engine into life. The indicator switch fell apart and the horn fell off, whilst bulbs have always had a certain tendency to explode, doubtless some of the vibes getting through.

Finish is poor now, needing lots of cleaning of surface rust on screws, chrome, exhaust, etc. , to keep up its appearance. I could probably sell the bike for about £1500, which means depreciation has been minimal. I may have to sell the Tengai because its 652cc puts the bike into an extremely expensive insurance bracket whilst it is actually slower than many 250cc race replicas. Most unfair that. The Tengai is still a neat looking bike and a very, very versatile one.

Mike Grey

Kawasaki KLR600

I wasn't prepared for the sense of disappointment that hit me the first time I saw it. A green 1986 example - in three and half years and a supposed 10,200 miles it had suffered a level of abuse and neglect more typically heaped upon learner 125s.

A right-hand side crash had broken the clocks and most of the plastic bodywork, dented the tank (bodged with filler) and melted the sidepanel where it had been forced against a hot silencer. The rear guard lower section/number-plate bracket was missing, the remaining top section was heavily scuffed along its bottom edge - indicating some pretty extreme mono-wheeling. Among numerous other minor faults were front pads down to the metal against a scored disc and the neutral light and tacho which only worked when they felt like it.

At least the tyres and chain were serviceable and the silencer a genuine new item (soon to rust). A quick blast proved the KLR to be very comfortable with good acceleration, at least up to 60mph. However, I was more than a little distracted by the tacho needle, which danced around all over the place (due to a wiring fault) as did the broken clocks. A too high idle cancelled out the expected large engine braking, which, together with the dead front brake made slowing down rather difficult. At least the rear drum worked smoothly. Not having been prepared for the state of the bike, I was unsure how much to offer but in the end I paid £700 for it.

I was suddenly feeling pretty pleased with myself, even if my mate had done the bargaining for me. The ride back through urban traffic showed the KLR to be very manoeuvrable thanks mainly to light weight, a commanding riding position and instant power delivery. On the dual carriageway back home I was slowly accelerating, following my friend's car, when at an indicated 95mph the bars started to flap about like mad. With no real acceleration left, shutting the throttle brought it back into line. It never happened again, so I can only imagine that I adapted to it.

Once home, I set about rectifying some of the more annoying faults. £11 for some Dunlopads and adjustment of the tickover restored the KLR's stopping ability. A hacksaw proved useful for removal and reshaping of the right- hand sidepanel and drilling of the back of the clock case enabled it to be secured with a couple of cable ties. The intermittent neutral light and crazy tacho were due to a butchered wiring loom (suggesting attempted theft) and were cured with a couple of block connectors. Two litres of 10/40 and a new filter cost a tenner.

I began to use the KLR mainly for travel between York and Middlesborough each weekend along the B1257 via Hemsley, which is one of the best biking roads I have come across, especially since it carries little traffic. Despite its off-road appearance, the KLR is superb on this type of twisty, bumpy, country road and can be ridden virtually flat out, especially with Avon Gripsters fitted. The good low down torque and engine braking mean the gearbox and brakes can be all but forgotten leaving the rider to concentrate on the road ahead. Quick steering makes the KLR very flickable with the long travel suspension keeping the desired line although its softness can lead to a pitching sensation.

Unfortunately, the handling prowess was soon depleted by the rear shock's decision to lose all its damping. £45 for a used replacement was rather more acceptable than the £315 I was quoted for a new one. While repairing the rear shock I dismantled the rest of the alloy linkages which are an interference (and corrosion) fit around the chromed bushes. This wasn't an easy job although expanding the alloy with boiling water greatly helped matters.

A 130/80-17 Avon Gripster was fitted at the same time for around £50, which after 4000 miles was down from nearly 10mm to about 2mm. While still priding myself on the KLR's restored and improved chassis, a noticeable dimming of the usually good halogen headlight and later lack of enthusiasm from the indicators suggested a charging fault. Assuming the worst - a burnt out generator - I settled for charging the battery for a couple of weekends until a check of the wiring revealed a connection on the rectifier that had disintegrated due to corrosion. A bit of solder and a spade connector sorted that.

The next couple of months and 2000 miles or so passed without incident apart from frequent oil replenishment (a litre every 800 miles) and chain adjustment. The only thing that detracted from my enjoyment of thrashing the KLR along the B1257 was the fact that above 6000rpm (around 90mph in top) the engine sounded like it wanted to self destruct. I was surprised when I had managed 4000 miles without mechanical incident and concluded that the noise of the engine was mainly due to the basic concept of a big single four stroke but gave it an oil change and some Slick 50 just in case. I also had a matching front Avon fitted for a very reasonable £27.50.

70 miles later I fired up the bike to leave a mate's shop - the engine fired up and ticked over as normal but was making the sort of noise which suggested attempting to ride home was not a good idea. Turning over the engine by hand with the kick start produced a loud click every engine rotation so I pushed it the five miles home and started to strip down the top end. Everything seemed fine so, puzzled, I reassembled the motor and again turned it over by hand - the noise had gone. A possible explanation is that the starter motor had jammed (in the course of the strip I had removed it) and a friend said he had heard of a similar case with a Z250. I was therefore relieved that the rebuild costs had been limited to around £14 for the cylinder head and base gaskets, if a little exasperated that it seemed I needn't have bothered in the first place.

I probably enjoyed the KLR the most over the next 1300 miles - with the soft compound Gripsters and improved weather I could explore the KLR's handling still further, while foam earplugs dramatically reduced the intrusion of the engine noise and halted the pain of ringing ears for 20 minutes after journey's end. As a compete novice I tried riding the KLR off road. This was good fun on dry dirt tracks but nigh on impossible through mud with road tyres.

Trying to ride it along one particular muddy uphill section I fell off about ten times in 100 yards, each time stalling the motor. Unable to give the required hefty kick and hold the bike upright simultaneously I had to rely on the electric starter with its temperamental clutch. This would never start the motor cold but could start it warm, sometimes on the first attempt but more usually after several tries accompanied by the noise of clashing and grinding gear teeth.

Either a can of STP or the Slick 50 had led to a misted oil window. Rather than bother to remove the crankcase cover to clean it, I simply added what it had generally previously required (about 200ml) for the 110 mile 'Boro to York thrash and return. This worked fine until I decided to go to the Lakes in the company of a GPz550 and CBR600. I bunged in around 400ml of oil and then spent about 150 miles trying either to keep up on the straight stuff or lose my friends on the back roads. The KLR took me to our chosen campsite but refused to take me home. Instead, it returned the next weekend, neatly packed (with front end and bodywork removed) into dad's Sierra.

The sum total of half a litre of oil in the sump explained the seized open intake valves, nicely bent by my efforts on the kickstart. In my haste to stick in two new valves (a little over £8 each) I neglected to fit new seals. The motor became rather smoky - at least until the camchain tensioner packed in 400 miles later, this time taking out the exhaust valves.

I left it for five months and then purchased two new exhaust valves (£34), four new valve seals (£12), a tensioner (£31) and head gasket (£11). Having fitted that lot, I found a potential buyer before I had the chance to drain out the stale petrol and recharge the battery, who was prepared to accept it as a non runner. However, my pride and also desire to have a last go led to an evening trying to stir it into life. Despite repeated kicking over and bumping, I couldn't get it to fire up so resigned myself to polishing it until the buyer's arrival.

He turned up along with his father (an XL250 owner) who preceded to start it third kick! My immediate reaction was that I wanted to keep it after all, but an unhealthy knocking from the motor and an offer of £30 over what I had originally paid suggested otherwise, so I bade it a fond farewell.

Alan Boulton

Kawasaki KLE500

What can you do? Your elder brother buys a brand new KLE500 and three weeks later gets a job in Kuwait (yes, he is a bit mad). I soon found where he had hidden the keys and had the big bugger chugging over on full choke. With 720 miles on the clock I was a little worried by the way the engine suddenly soared up to 4000rpm but a quick grab at the choke lever solved that.

The 500cc motor is similar to that in the GPZ500 except that it only knocks out 50hp. I soon found that the vertical twin was in a very soft state of tune, power flowed in from tickover and had much more wallop than high rev power; by 8500rpm it had run out of steam unlike the GPZ which fair flew along between 7000 and 11000rpm.

Why on earth it had a six speed box I don't know. If anything it was worse than the GPZ500, especially at low revs when it tended to seize up unless you blipped the throttle like a madman and slipped the clutch aggressively. Luckily, it could be dumped in third and run along on the throttle in town. Engine smoothness, acceptable on the GPZ, was even better on the KLE, especially at low revs. My first run through heavy traffic was great fun, I felt so superior, sat up above the roof lines of all the cagers, and the machine was so controllable at low speeds that I was able to filter through ridiculously small gaps. It really pissed the cagers off.

As did standing start acceleration. I had a memorable race with a Ford Cosworth Sierra, a bloody huge white whale of a car. Up to 50mph the car didn't have a chance, then he came flying past on the wrong side of the road, causing a bus to snake to a hall, wobbling so much it looked like it was going to fall over. A cop car behind it did a rapid U turn and raced off after the Ford. I didn't stay around to find out the result.

Another useful attribute of the KLE was its long travel suspension which was as good as soaking up small ripples as it was huge potholes. It was a really serene ride over some pretty disgusting roads. Strangely, it was also surprisingly taut over fast roads, with none of the wobbles or wallowing that you might suspect resultant from its trail bike style. A 33 inch seat height will put off those under 5'10'' but I found general comfort levels pretty good.

After my first ride I disconnected the speedo and probably did another 750 miles before receiving a letter from my brother telling me to sell the bike for whatever I could get over £2500 (it had cost £3500 new). I wrote him a letter back pointing out how bad the recession was and saying noone wanted to buy it but I'd take it off his hands for £2250 (which was £50 more than the local dealer offered). His reply can't be printed but the deal was struck.

My only real disappointment with the bike at that point was economy, the engine hard pressed to give 50mpg, more often doing 40 to 45mpg. This was worse than the more powerful GPZ500! Given its low state of tune, it was a pity the out of phase power pulses of the 180 degree crankshaft stopped the use of a single carb, the two 34mm CV Keihins were surely over the top for a 50hp twin.

Mind you, I was not using the KLE as mild runabout, despite its soft state of tune I was thrashing the balls off it in most of its gears, having a real ball blitzing around town and down fast country lanes. A stint of despatch riding put a lot more stress on me than it did on the bike, the roads in London having becoming even crazier than they were a couple of years ago. It wasn't just the car drivers who didn't give a damn, fellow DRs would shove you out of the way if you faltered at a junction. In a month I did about 2000 miles.

I was really thankful for the ease of use, it always started first touch of the button, you could just sling it in second or third and forget about gear changing and the disc front brake, with a two piston caliper, would haul the bike up out of harms way.....or when it didn't the wide bars and light mass meant the Kawasaki could be slung around obstacles rather than crashing into them. The balance of the bike was so good that you could roll gently to a halt and sit there feet up if a bit of Zen like thought was indulged. After a day's despatching this was just as well as I didn't have the energy for such physical exertation as putting my feet down.

Luckily, after a month, a proper job turned up so the KLE could be used just for commuting and joy riding, not that the two were mutually exclusive. I soon found that the bike was absurdly easy and safe to wheelie on, I never knew you could have so much fun on a single wheel! Equal fun could be had doing rear wheel slides, for absurdly there was a single rear disc of huge power fitted. The big 17'' Dunlop Trailmax would slide controllably in the wet or dry, whilst the 21'' front enhanced straight line stability and stayed on line with a tenacity that was confusing for such a trail orientated tyre. When both tyres were worn out with less than 5000 miles on the clock I was impressed enough to fit a second set.

By that mileage rust was eating away at the exhaust and trying to break through the grey frame paint. Considering that the bike had not yet braved an English winter this was a bit of a let down. The O-ring chain was rather impressive, requiring only a couple of adjustments, despite having to suffer constant wheelies and enough neglect to let it gather an outer surface of rust. I gave it a full service in October, easy enough once you get the plastic off - only two carbs and eight valves to adjust.

The plastic handlebar muffs were useful in the winter as they kept the rain and gale off my hands. However, the rest of the plastic was useless, the neat looking fairing screen delivering a veritable deluge of rain and wind to my visor. In its favour, the bike had fork gaiters and plastic shrouds on the discs.

Riding the bike through all weathers soon had it covered in grime and in the cold morning winter air the engine sounded like a right bag of nails until it warmed up, something that seemed to take an age, the temperature gauge rarely getting more than a millimetre past the beginning of the scale. In the six months of commuting it did 4000 miles with perfect reliability, although I did note a gradual decrease in suspension compliance that allowed a bit of wallowing in fast corners. In February I adjusted the preload of the rear shock to maximum and this seemed to sort that problem out.

With just over 9000 miles on the clock I gave her another full service, having previously changed the oil every 1000 miles. I also had to change both sets of pads and knew that very soon it would need a new chain, adjustments having become much more frequent.

When subjected to a jetwash, a days worth of elbow grease and a couple of tubes of Solvol it came up okay. The exhaust rust had reached complete coverage level and I had to touch up the frame paint in several places. Also, some of the fasteners had broken out with the dreaded red rash and the wheel spokes were beyond help. The motor was as punchy as ever, if anything even better as they seem to take 5000 miles to fully loosen up.

Trail bike thingies are beginning to make a lot of sense on our decayed roads. In equiping the KLE500 with proper road mudguards and a far from radical suspension package, Kawasaki have produced a sensible road bike for our times, based on the well proven and presumably cheap to produce 500 twin engine. The plastic bits you either like or loathe; to my mind Kawasaki could go another step still and completely dump all the plastic bits to produce a raw road bike.

Owners of British twins will be appalled by the running costs, although plastic reptile riders forced down market will probably find them a welcome relief. But as with the GPZ500, a little more effort and thought could have produced an even better bike.....don't let that worry you, the British disdain of trailsters will probably mean some wonderful bargains in the used market during this year.

Anon. 

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KLE500's are cheap and interesting motorcycles, but not ones that inspire much love or terror and trepidation. Powered by a vertical twin where most trail inspired bikes are big singles and none the worse for it, in my humble opinion - large thumpers needing bloody great balancers to quell the vibes but which also absorb loads of horsepower.

A late '92 model for £1375 in a private deal was a brilliant bargain for a two year old model, some scratches on the fairing and panels keeping the price reasonable. The past owner, one of three, reckoned he'd experienced no more trouble than from his pushbike. I only noticed that the latter was a pre-war job, more rust than paint, on sealing the deal.

The KLE's 500cc motor's derived from that of the well regarded GPZ500, a watercooled DOHC parallel twin with the distinction of having a hyvoid primary chain drive - presumably to appeal to owners of old British twins used to short lived primary chains, although the Kawasaki hyvoid item is long lasting if noisy and giving the transmission a loose feel.

The KLE's detuned from sixty to fifty horses in the search for more low end torque, although it didn't take the radical step of employing a single carb. The 180 degree throw crankshaft probably wouldn't allow that indulgence due to its odd power pulses but at least allows a mere single gear driven balancer. The engine is never entirely liquid smooth but the vibes never reached a level where they intruded. Much better than the big singles and way ahead of the old British twins.

If taking away the GPZ500's top end power wasn't bad enough, the KLE also weighs an extra 20 pounds at 392lbs dry. That's suicide for a bike that may be used off-road and guaranteed to turn off road riders who'll much prefer the GPZ's lower mass and extra power - that's why KLE's are relatively cheap!

It's not all bad, the upright riding stance's wonderfully comfortable up to 80mph, a marked change from most modern bikes. The 33 inch seat height ain't as radical as many trailsters, especially as the first couple of inches of the eight inches of suspension travel (yes, I can boast I've got a full eight inches...) are very soft and compressed under the rider's mass. The rest of the suspension travel worked well, taking out the heaviest of the bumps and holes.

I was impressed by the fork gaiters, keeping the seals nice and clean, although they could also hide the marks showing the legs had been straightened after a crash. I checked mine, once having a pair of GS125 forks snap on me, but they were okay. I was less impressed by the horrible bit of plastic covering the front disc, but this was easily removed and given to next door's ten year old to use as a frisbee.

There was also a rear disc with a more attractive cover but given that the bike was running on wire wheels, with off-road pretensions, I'd expect a rear drum at the very least (even the 125mph GPZ has a rear drum) if not one at the front as well. It's tempting to replace the 21 inch front and 17 inch rear wheels with a set of 19 inch wheels off some sixties Brit with drum brakes.

I hate disc brakes. Oh, I know they are powerful, but that's an accolade that only stands up to reality when they are newish and haven't been subjected to a British winter. The rear brake creaked and occasionally locked up the wheel. The front brake clanged when applied during low speed stops and felt very remote at speed. I pondered whether it was the fluid going off, the brake hose going soft, the pads wearing out or being of an unsuitable type, the sliders corroding or the calipers on the way to seizing up. Or all of the above! I wasn't inclined to rip it all apart in the search for easy answers.

Also doubtful was the combination of a single disc with the long forks, though they were 41mm in diameter. I could feel them twisting up under heavy braking and it was quite easy to make the KLE lurch traumatically. I suppose it was a reasonable trade off between absorbing bumps and not having the added complication of a second disc.

Once the pre-load was turned up to its highest setting, the Uni-trak back end was quite adequate. The block pattern rear tyre, much more road biased than trail, would inch sideways on rough corners. It was nothing I couldn't control from my throne-like position of domination, the wide bars needing hardly any effort.

As mentioned, the power was biased to the lower end of the rev range but the engine still needed 3000 revs up in the taller gears. Not because of any grumpiness on the part of the motor but because it was attached to a bawdy gearbox that caused the final drive to whip around in suicide mode at low revs.

Strangely, heightening the feeling that the KLE was just an exercise in styling, the six speed box off the GPZ was retained despite the wider spread of power and milder nature of the plot. I would've preferred five gears and a much smoother transmission, even if the six-speeder had an acceptable gearchange action.

Another throwback to the fifties was a clutch that dragged so badly from cold that it could stall the motor on the first engagement of the day. Sometimes the gear would go home with a destructive sounding bang but once the clutch was freed up it performed perfectly. Once I'd learnt how to juggled the choke the mill fired up quickly on the electric starter, needing no more than a couple of minutes to warm up.

The easy going nature of the KLE was its best point. Sat comfortably, it didn't really matter if I accelerated in the wrong gear as the torque would pull the motor through, and the mildest muscular effort was all it took to control the old girl. I thought the bike was especially good for whipping through traffic, when the tall seat gave improved vision - I could spot the complete plonkers miles off.

It was a fair match because they could hear me coming, after about six months the baffles were shot and the exhaust was a complete rust bucket. What a load of rubbish! There was also a 2000 to 3500 rev flat spot that made town riding rather awkward. The exhaust wasn't excruciatingly loud so I left it to fall off - due to the usual naff design loads of junk has to be taken off before the headers can be removed. Stupid! The rest of the finish was pretty degenerate, needing loads of Solvol and polishing to keep the corrosion at bay. I kept having flashbacks to the fifties and a similarly wretched Raleigh moped!

I haven't done a high enough mileage (6000 miles on top of the 15000 already done) to wear out any of the consumables that were all newish when I acquired the bike. Fuel consumption was terrible considering I haven't taken the bike above 80mph, around the 40mpg mark, which with not much more than three gallons before reserve doesn't give much of a range. Again, the much faster GPZ's more frugal. Kawasaki really need to work the engine over properly to exact more torque and better economy. At least the motor should, in its detuned state, be tough and long lasting.

There are lots of things wrong with this bike, then, but when the cost is taken into account an entirely different picture emerges. It's worth living with a few faults at these kind of prices.

J.D.