My sojourn with the Laverda Mirage began to turn sour after three weeks. A machine gun like rattle from the top end accompanied by white exhaust smoke. 50 miles from home in the depths of the country. Carried on with just two cylinders working. The vibration indicative of just how hard the motor was running. I knew if the engine ever stopped it wouldn’t run again. 8 miles from home it did just that. Judging by the oil leaking from the blown gaskets it was close to melting down.
Stripping the motor revealed a broken valve spring and some mangled piston rings. The 43000 mile old bores were so deeply scored that they were beyond help. Used spares proved impossible to obtain. New barrels, pistons and valve springs were fitted. The massive crankshaft was unscathed as were the camshafts. A tensioner and camchain had, according to the previous owner, been fitted at 35000 miles.
It seemed strange to have to run in a ten year old machine. The big triple wasn't very happy at low revs. A mixture of poor carburation and pulsating vibration. The gearbox was stiff and slack at the same time unless used under acceleration. The drive chain chattered as if it was about to leap off the sprockets.
The only way to do it was a 1000 mile weekend run out in the country. The tall fifth gear allowed 70mph trawling without straining the engine. At 525lbs the Mirage felt very top heavy at such slow speeds. The suspension moved not a lot over minor irregularities. The twitchiness of the wheels over small road imperfections was vexing. Coming home, I felt massive elation at using some real speed. The whole character of the 1200 was transformed.
The Mirage was the poor cousin to the Jota but had 90 horses and a similar brutish power delivery. All Laverda triples feel better when subjected to acceleration rather than cruising. A bit of throttle work tightens up the chassis and makes the exhaust snarl beautifully. Of all the motorcycle types, a big triple on the cam sounds the best. With the rebuilt engine the old bugger could be persuaded to do 135mph. A personal best.
The Mirage gave a massive amount of feedback off the tarmac. I always knew what the tyres were doing at the price of never having an entirely relaxed ride. In its day the Laverda was one of the best handling superbikes. It didn't have much competition. A strong frame and stiff suspension was the Italian solution, backed up by catering to a country full of curving, bumpy roads and macho, mad riders. It had to be good to survive their depreciations.
These days, things like FZR600s can run rings around me. The mass is the worst thing about the Mirage's handling, a lot of that carried high up where it amplifies any imperfections in the chassis. I found that it could quickly turn a small wobble into a large stagger. I had no qualms about riding at speeds up to 95mph. Higher velocities could throw up all kinds of oscillations. They become baleful when there's a pillion or excess of mass on the back.
Similar coarseness turned up when running through fast bends. It demanded that the correct line be set up well in advance. Trying to suddenly change it needed both maximum muscle and a strong heart. It often took on a mind of its own, with an unnerving tendency to suddenly want to run wide. It would often twitch in protest when I applied some corrective action.
I misjudged the entry speed of some bends, going into the corner hard on the brakes had the front wheel trying to stand up. Despite all this we invariably wobbled our way around the corner in one piece. Sometimes so close was our trajectory that the front wheel skimmed the gravel at the edge of the road. By then the bike was coming up to the vertical, so the slight slide was controllable.
The point and squirt technique was a viable alternative to lining everything up well in advance. The back wheel would often slide out six inches as the power was viciously applied. It was hard work on the shoulder muscles to throw the Mirage around like this but great fun for short periods.
Such intense acceleration focused the bike but did terrible things to the fuel economy. I usually achieved around 40mpg but exaggerated throttle abuse would turn in as little as 25mpg. Such a powerful, heavy motorcycle also tore through the consumables. Tyres, be they Avons, Metz’s or Pirellis, were useless after 4000 miles; Avons lasting slightly longer but gripping slightly less well than the others. Chains and pads needed replacing every 7 to 8000 miles. One cheap chain lasted only 2500 miles before it snapped!
That occurred halfway up a hill, which I was truculently trying to attain in top gear at low revs. Great shudders ran through the chassis until the chain finally went. Trying to turn around, there was no way it could be pushed upwards, the top heaviness combined with the tall seat height to let the bike topple over. The bloody thing rolled over me and then twirled several times down the hill until it spun off the road into a hedge.
I was nearly run over by a car that had to swerve off the road. I had a coupe of bruised ribs but was able to stagger upright. The Laverda proved a tough bitch as we pulled it out of the destroyed hedgerow. Dented and bent in several places, it still started on the button after a few minutes. The car driver was in remarkably good spirits despite his off-road excursion ruining the paint job. He agreed to drive me into town and back for a chain. My body shook a little with the shock and every bump sent a silver of pain through my frame. I didn't collapse from the jolt until I'd ridden the Mirage back home some six miles.
The Laverda wasn't, then, the kind of motorcycle on which corners could be cut. Ridden on too worn tyres it would shake its head and wag its tail like some early seventies Japanese superbike. The brakes became ambiguous when the pads wore down and the fluid went off. They were never as sensitive as I would've liked and always needed outrageous brawn. If maintenance was neglected braking varied between nothing much happening and the front wheel screaming as it suddenly locked up. Caliper rot, though, only happened the once in three years of all weather riding.
I suspected that winter rains would wreck the electrics, but despite having now done 72000 miles, apart from the left-hand switch cluster they are still original and working. The cluster started seeping up the water at about 50,000 miles. I didn't want to fit any Jap crap so ordered a new Laverda unit. Spares are a bit dodgy but phoning around a couple of old Laverda dealers turns up most stuff.
Laverda triples were built to a much higher quality than other Italian iron of that era. A quality still evident in the burnished engine castings, good paint and chrome that has yet to fall off. Ducatis of a similar age would be total wrecks by now unless they were continuously renovated. The exhaust looks a bit dodgy and the odd bit of frame and swinging arm has needed touching up. I haven't yet had to replace wheel, steering head or swinging arm bearings!
Maintenance is a bit of a pain. Every 1000 miles, carbs, valves and oil need doing (and the vibes do loosen some bolts). I'm sure neglect of maintenance was the cause of the valve demise. It's very hard to use all the power all the time, so it's a rare bike that has been thrashed relentlessly; usually it's neglect that causes top end problems. The bottom end of the motor is rock solid, apart from the clutch which won't suffer the wheelie merchants. The clutch lever used to be hellishly heavy but I'm now used to it.
Few 1200s are left on the road. They were never too popular to begin with and their motors are not quite so robust as the 1000cc triples. I've seen one advertised at £5000 but £1000 to £2000 seems more normal for a nice runner with good cosmetics. I paid £1400 for mine and have spent about half that again to put the motor back into good shape. If someone offered me £2500 I might be tempted to part with it, but I would miss its brutal ways and alluring looks.
Harry Templeton
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I smelt the fire before I saw the flames. I looked around in the hope that the smell of burning plastic was coming from some external source. I rolled the throttle back, the chassis gently shaking as speed quickly decreased from 120mph to 50mph. Engine braking from the DOHC triple was as fierce and evocative as the grumble out of the exhaust on the overrun.
By the time I'd hit the brakes, discs all round, with the well practised gorilla grip, flames were licking out from under the saddle. Hard shoulder, leap off the bike and run away. Well, I had TPFT and didn't fancy dying just then. Five minutes later the flames flickered out and I could tear off the melted panels and seat.
Spaghetti wiring turned into a singular coalesced glob. The wiring was non-standard, bodged by myself after a series of electrical components had blown up. One cop accused me of working for a terrorist organisation after the battery melted, spraying acid over the bike and his trousers. It was only when I took the full-face off to reveal a very worn sixty year old visage that he regained his sanity.
Running 30 amp fuses, to keep the bike from expiring, meant that the wiring burnt out rather than the fuse. The AA took me home, the driver, in one of those coincidences all too common in my life, owned one of the first Jota's, reckoned that it was the generator on the way out. An exchange generator and new wiring loom cost over a 100 notes; these old triples are so rare that they are heavy on the expenses when something goes wrong.
The fire occurred about three months into my four year reign of terror. It'd taken me that long to sort out a lot of minor problems, resultant from a hard used and somewhat neglected bike. Nothing mechanically terminal despite the 59000 miles of abuse, but lots of chassis and electrical nasties. By far the worst was a rear hub with some cracks running through it. The breaker wanted to weld it but having lived so long already I was reluctant to take up such a suicidal offer. A Jap wheel went in with relative ease and after spraying both wheels matt grey a casual glance didn't reveal the disparity of their origin.
After sorting the generator and wiring, the Laverda was all bliss for a while. If you don't want to get involved with such a Wop wonder wear ear-plugs when one's in the vicinity. With a conveniently rotted through exhaust, it really does bellow with joy, an echo of an enraged bull charging and you'd better get out of the way - or else! It turns even a sane pensioner into a highway hoodlum.
There's also the two stroke-like power input. One moment the engine's grumbling away incoherently, the next it's wham, bam, thank you mam. I often felt that my eyeballs were going to pop out the back of my head. Can't tell you this in terms of revs as the tacho never worked but the engine was so evocative that I always knew how it was running. Besides, under heavy acceleration there was no time to take my eyes off the fast approaching road traffic.
The speed and acceleration could easily catch out the chassis, although the powerful if primitive brakes kept me from an early grave. The RGA's a heavy old brute, a lot of its 530lbs concentrated high. I'm not long in the leg, had problems getting both feet on the ground at the same time. That combined with its top heavy feel and lack of steering lock made low speed manoeuvres, such as U-turns, a quick way to experience wrestling with a hot, heavy Italian mama! Having survived so long, I tended to take the long way round rather than risk pain and ridicule by doing short, sharp manoeuvres.
The riding position's horrible for town work but for speed it's brilliant. The seat hump holds me in position, the bars and pegs are wonderfully relaxed at 90mph and the half fairing sends all the wind over my head. And it all gets even better as the speed increases until about 130mph when the fairing starts shaking away, the old girl telling me to back off.
In reality, with 150mph on the clock the triple smoothed out again, the exhaust bellow was lost to the wind and I seemed to enter a whole new world where my reflexes had trouble keeping up. The chassis didn't approve of such excesses, wallowing in our lane of the motorway and throwing a wobbly if we hit a large bump. I never held such speeds for long, my still clean licence and survival instincts had me backing off to 110 or 120mph - I only rode really fast early in the morning, before dawn, using the excellent twin headlamps to sear a path through the eerie darkness. Hitting 150mph as the sun rose over the horizon was a mystical experience befitting my 60 years of survival.
Cruising at 90 to 120mph wasn't a problem; good stability, smooth motor and excellent comfort. You need a fat wallet, though, such excesses going through the fuel at 30mpg, the oil at 150mpp, tyres at 3000 miles and rear chains at 5000 miles. Brake pads lasted a long time as the engine braking was fierce and, once used to the bike's limitations, I knew when to back off gently.
Below 90mph the mill complained with roughness, the suspension was too harsh, the controls went leaden and the riding position turned downright painful. In town the engine became incredibly hot, the clutch dragged and the steering was so heavy that I felt my arms were being wrenched out of their sockets. If I was younger I might've been tempted to go wild on the throttle but I've learnt to grin and bear things I can't change - in the long run it hurts a hell of a lot less!
I'm always suspicious about states of bliss; wasn't that surprised when the top end started rattling. The engine had done 78000 miles, so it wasn't that bad. Shot camchain, valve regrind and a newish exhaust camshaft. Pistons and bores looked new despite being original. I didn't do the work myself for the simple reason that the engine was too heavy to lift out of the frame! A local mechanic had some experience with Laverdas and was old enough not to rush things.
All my mates are pensioners, their frail states meaning slipped discs if not broken limbs would've resulted from their aid. It's quite wonderful to turn up at events full of ancients and watch them gasp as I reveal my identity beneath the lid! They soon went off the idea when I revealed that I was spending more than half my income keeping the bike running.
One thing that almost made me change my mind was having the chain snap. My own fault as it should've been replaced a few miles before. However, the chain wrapped itself around the back wheel, causing a massive 50mph skid. Says a lot for the chassis that I wasn't thrown off. It mashed the wheel but that was okay as I'd already bought an OE replacement. I just had to get the bike back home - a cager turned up with a mobile phone, the AA summoned again.
The Jota's the best bike I've ever owned. Period. I usually avoid heavy traffic as I don't have to commute, but most mornings I'm up with the birds and thrashing through the countryside. The bike's now done 93000 miles and I'm looking forward to breaking through the 100,000 mark. Ride on!
G.K.R.