The GPZ900 has a curious reputation. When introduced in 1984 it was hailed as vastly better than the old air cooled fours, combining excellent performance with at least reasonable handling. Such was the balance of qualities of the machine that it is still available with minor changes to wheel sizes and suspension being the only necessary modifications to take it into the nineties. And yet, the pages of the UMG have in the past been full of stories of seized top ends and cooling problems. A great ride that could turn out expensive if you didn't know what you were doing.
Well, I didn't but I knew what I liked. On offer was a 1984 example with 5000 miles on the clock and one owner. The owner was at least reasonably honest, he explained that the 5000 miles was really 105,000 miles.....I had already gathered this because the machine was in a bit of a state. Faded and rusted paint, white alloy where the black had worn off the engine, a Motad exhaust that had holes in the silencer, back disc that was seized, front discs that were worn down to the metal, tyres down to the carcass.
The general air was one of a machine that had just about worn out. The engine ran, the bike accelerated with an outrageous urge to my CB500T trained mind, and steered with a precision that was shocking after all the old hacks I'd owned. The owner said it had a nearly new top end, cylinders and pistons at 60,000 miles but was otherwise untouched. The gearbox could have been called notchy but it was no problem to myself, used to Honda boxes with more neutrals than gears.
He wanted a thousand notes, I had half that! No deal but I left my phone number. Three weeks later he phoned, I had added another hundred notes to pile and it was mine! Then it was down to trekking around the breakers. It was quicker to swap wheels than rip tyres on and off. In fact, I swapped a whole front end with an '88 model which solved several major problems in one go. It cost £150 to solve all the problems and a weekend's hassle in the garage with a spray gun to get the bike looking like new.
The engine produces great gobs of torque at low revs, by the time seven grand are on the clock your helmet's being crushed into your face and your arm yanked out of your sockets. No one would believe the bike had only cost me £750. I kept rushing around with a huge grin on my face, whacking open the throttle and overtaking everything in sight. I quite often saw 150mph on the clock, which was 50% more than I could get out of any of my previous bikes. I was in a kind of heaven. Even the fuel consumption, at 45mpg, was no worse than many old hacks.
A month later I was not so happy. 1750 miles had worn out both tyres, nearly new Metzelers. The chain was shagged and there was a nasty clanking from the engine. A dealer balanced the carbs for £20 and the noise went away. After 2500 miles the front pads started clanging and I almost had a heart attack when I asked the local Kawasaki dealer how much a new set were - back to the breakers.
I do a lot of town work and hurling 500 odd pounds of GPZ was beginning to get tiresome. The bike was also a bit on the wide side and I often had to sit in traffic jams where previously I would slip through on a smaller bike. To cheer myself up, I started perfecting the art of wheelie-ing. Great fun, until I gave it a bit too much stick and the damn thing went so far back I thought my head was going to scrape along the tarmac. I quietened down a bit after that.
Wet weather work was no fun, I had to lope along at low revs, there was so much power that the back wheel would squirm all over the place if I tried to accelerate hard. I began to miss the joys of thrashing bikes to within an inch of their life. There was no way, unless you were completely insane, that you could ride the GPZ900 flat out everywhere.
I went on a long tour around the UK on the bike, packing 500 miles into every day. The bike itself was fine, comfortable, economical and able to cruise along at ridiculous speed, but it went through tyres, pads and chains so quickly that after three days on the road I had to start hunting around for replacements. I had been used to changing consumables every 12 to 15,000 miles not a tenth of that.
It soon became clear to me that if I wanted to do high mileages, for which the bike was ideally suited, there was no way I could afford to run it. If I wanted to just run around town it was quite reasonable on consumables but too big and heavy to be any real fun. A cheap GS125 came along and I started using that for local work, actually getting places faster because it was so much easier to run through the traffic jams. The GPZ sat, looking impressive, in my garage for most of the week, only taking to the road on sunny weekends.
Then the motor started misfiring. The ever helpful dealer diagnosed one of the black boxes on the way out and quoted almost as much as I had paid for the bikes. Breakers shook their heads sadly, not a chance sonny. Back to the dealer, the bike running decidedly poorly at low revs - did he want to make me an offer for it. By then it had 17500 miles on the clock, needed yet another set of consumables but at least looked pretty good. He offered £750 and we eventually agreed on a grand in used fifties.
The last I heard, he was advertising the bike as low mileage, only two owner, a snip at £2500. I bought a genuine low mileage CB650 with the money which I am happily thrashing everywhere and which is a lot cheaper to run.
Eric Williams
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I couldn't believe it was happening to me. Standing by the side of the road I surveyed the damage. It wasn't too bad, both right indicators smashed and the front brake lever bent. Except that two minutes before the GPZ900 had been immaculate, almost brand new. Worse, it wasn't mine and I'd been using it without the owner's permission!
It had started innocently enough with me calling on a mate and asking if I could use his garage and tools. As usual he was obliging but said that he'd be at work and would see me when he returned at four o'clock. I wanted to give my old SOHC (Seized Overhead Camshaft - the bugger did it twice) Honda a service and do the carbs.
I arrived at the house, which was empty but unlocked as usual and opened up the garage. Geoff had taken his car to work and left his collection of bikes at home. I knew what was there, of course, but I never failed to be impressed - and jealous. The guy who shared the house had a disgusting Yamaha XS250 Custom, which he was out on. He also had a Benelli 900/6 which he had recently crashed and broken his leg. The Benelli sat, minus exhaust and tank/seat unit in a corner of the garage, a sad sight. His brother's GT750 Kettle sat next to it, awaiting his master's return from somewhere in Africa.
My mate's collection was British, Italian and Japanese - he arguably had the best of each. A Triumph Trident, a Ducati 900SS and his latest buy a Kawasaki GPZ900. Lucky bastard, I thought, as I wheeled the Duke and GPZ out to make space to work on my tired old 750 Honda. It took less time than I'd thought to do the service, the tappets were okay, the carbs only took half an hour (it took half an hour to get the middle plugs out and back in again - nice one Mr Honda).
Replacing the tank on the Honda, I glanced over at the GPZ. The keys were in the ignition. As someone once said, I can resist anything except temptation. A matter of minutes saw the speedo drive disconnected and I was ready to go. As far as the nearest small village I let the engine warm up, but once past the 30mph limit I gave it as close to full welly as I dared. The straights just weren't long enough to hit maximum revs, but I must have reached 140mph.
Even more impressive than the speed and acceleration was the way it tracked smooth and easy round long sweeping bends at up to 120mph. To put it simply, it was fan-bloody-tastic. I had ridden a 1000cc Katana before and been impressed, but the 900 was better. Much better.
My downfall, literally, came as I swept out of a 100mph righthander on to a short straight. I spotted the tractor and trailer coming along a field toward the road and automatically backed off a bit and covered the brakes. I had the headlight on but the sod didn't look. As he trundled on to the road I went into emergency braking, bum clenched mode. I nearly stopped in time, the GPZ pulling up quicker from 90mph than my Honda could from 50mph but with both wheels locked and the back end sliding around, I thumped sideways into the trailer.
So there I was, surveying the damage and visualising what my mate, who is 6'5" and has the build to go with it, would do to me for this. I turned the air blue around the ears of the tractor driver but as with a lot of apparently dumb country folk he wasn't as daft as he looked. He knew I'd been speeding and as threats of violence were out of the question (there were two large yokels riding in the trailer, grinning from ear to ear) he chugged off, leaving me to consider my fate.
I checked my watch. It was five to three. I might just make the 30 mile round trip to the Kawasaki shop and fit the bits, if nothing went wrong. I jumped on the slightly battered bike and screamed up the road. A mile or so up the road I made a very rude gesture as I passed the tractor.
There wasn't a lot of traffic, which was just as well as the speed didn't drop below 100mph very much, even through several small villages on the way into Aberdeen, where I rode like a demented despatch rider using every trick in the book. Overtaking on the inside, ignoring keep left signs and bulldozing oncoming traffic out of the way. Threading my way to the front of a traffic light queue, I ended up between a Porsche and three litre Capri, both of whose drivers saw this as a personal insult.
While they revved their engines in a macho manner, I hotshot the lights on amber, slipping the clutch to feed in 7000 revs and pulled the biggest wheelie ever done by accident as well. The big GPZ was on the other side of the junction before the two cars had moved. I crashed through the door of the Kawasaki shop, leaving the GPZ on the pavement outside, shaking like a leaf and wild eyed with adrenalin charged excitement.
The guy behind the spares counter and the two waiting customers froze and watched with slack jaws as I sprinted up to the counter. Briefly and breathlessly I explained the situation and pleaded to be allowed to jump the queue. The two customers agreed and the man started beavering through his files and computer while I hopped up and down, filling in the details to the two guys waiting.
Luckily, they had the parts in stock, and wincing a bit at the price, I bounced a cheque across the counter, stuffed the bits down my jacket and with a shouted thanks ran from the shop. The journey back was relatively uneventful, it took about 12 minutes to cover the 15 miles, almost half of which was through built up areas. I could almost feel my licence quivering in anticipation of more points being slapped on. A copper with a radar gun could have collared his fastest ever speeder that day.
Screeching to a halt outside the garage I checked my watch: 3.30. Great, I could do it. As I started to unbolt the broken indicator the fan on the bike switched on and started to cool down an almost overheated engine. Frantically spannering away, I muttered fervent prayers that it would cool enough not to arose suspicion by the time its owner arrived. Then I'd done it! I even remembered to reconnect the speedo. With minutes to spare, I picked up the 750's tank, suddenly realising I must have used a couple of gallons on the GPZ. He was sure to spot that. There wasn't enough in the Honda, but I raided the Benelli - it wouldn't be moving for a while.
I just had time to put the Benelli tank back before he arrived
'Managed it all alright, then?'
He never did think much of my mechanical abilities. 'Yeah, no problems,' I lied. He noticed something odd in my appearance and said,
'What's up with you, you're shaking like a goat shitting a soup tin?'
I blurted out a tale of taking the 750 out for a spin to see how it was running, and some blind bastard pulling out and nearly killing me, which was true enough apart from a minor detail. What's more, he believed me, 'cos I'm still alive.
Mike Moore
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I knew the history of the 1988 GPZ900 very well indeed and shouldn't really have bought it! It had been owned by two cousins, both the kind of manic DR's who weren't happy unless they had the front wheel way up in the air and whose idea of maintenance was topping up the oil once a week. That all added up to 18 months and 96000 miles of abuse and neglect.
The GPZ hadn't survived unscathed. Two camchains had gone west and a used cylinder head was fitted at 45000 miles, all jobs done by a back street mechanic with gorilla hands and brute force mentality but he was cheap and quick, both necessities as far as DR work goes.
I'm not a despatch rider, intending to use the Kawasaki as a long distance tourer. Typically, all the consumables were just about to expire, it desperately needed a respray and all the alloy was too far gone to ever bother trying to reclaim. Why bother? Well it was very cheap. Enough said.
Being as mean as I am astute, I rushed around the breakers collecting a great pile of parts; not just consumables but also a newish petrol tank, guards and front forks, which had become so soggy that every time I touched the front brake lever it felt just like an old C50 (which still occupies space in my garage) with worn out front linkages - in other words an accident looking for somewhere to happen.
With the C50 such madness doesn't really matter because it's so light and low powered, but with the big Kawasaki any weakness in the suspension is amplified way out of proportion by its 500lbs and 115 horses. My cousins reckoned they could ride through all the madness and come out at the end of the day with a big pay check - they quickly forgot to mention the ten's of times they had fallen off.
After fitting all the new bits, persuading a friend to wave a spray gun over the cycle parts (gloss black) and paying out silly money for third party insurance, I was all ready for a bit of speed testing. The engine seemed reluctant to join in the fun, with an excess of stuttering and surging at 8000 revs in the taller two ratios. The transmission sort of gurgled and vibrated at higher revs and the secondary buzzing was much stronger than I'd expect from a modern watercooled four cylinder mill.
I suspected the decidedly non-standard four into one exhaust system, devoid as it was of both chrome and baffles but the cause consisted of worn out carbs which were impossible to balance. Absent was any sign of the excess of tubing needed to avoid carb icing. Another visit to the breaker was in order but that had to wait two months before I had some spare cash; not that problematic because it would still do more than the ton; only the 25 to 30mpg lack of frugality limited my enjoyment of the GPZ900 experience.
The newish set of carbs proved fiendishly difficult to fit but a couple of days spent hitting, tugging and swearing at them had the plot together once again. Silly Billy. The whole experience had to be repeated again when I realised I'd need to swap the jets over, as the stock set-up would not run above 5000 revs with the almost open exhaust system.
Even with everything set up to perfection, top speed was a disappointing 135mph, although given the way it weaved and wobbled it was perhaps better that I didn't break through the magic 150mph barrier. By then the motor had done a credible mileage, in excess of a 100,000! That probably explains why cruising at 120mph for an hour reduced the fairing to several separate pieces that threatened to splatter all over the road. I got home in one piece but any easy repair was beyond my resources and a used replacement in the wrong colour was fitted.
I shouldn't have bothered, a week later one of my cousins borrowed the GPZ for his despatching chores, fell off three times before returning the bruised heap. The fairing had three large cracks but I managed to repair them with GRP and got the cousin to pay to have it painted gloss black.
To my mind, the GPZ's rather too heavy and wide to hurtle through town at a decent clip, but they are tough old beasts that can take the odd clash with a cage without falling apart. Acceleration's blistering with a bit of gearbox and throttle abuse and braking's in stoppies' country. Given the mileage, the gearchange action's okay, although it's been through three sets of clutch plates in its time.
One of the best and worst things about motorcycling is riding around in a pack. The downside is that I often end up riding a little faster than I'd really like....which brings us to the mega thrash up the M1 at 135mph for most of the time. It took about 90 minutes of this abuse for the engine to seize solid!
Until the chain snapped the bike went into an almighty slide and wobble that melted half the back tyre, almost broke my arms and left my gang of fellow miscreants dazed and disbelieving. I was still shaking with the shock of coming out of it in one piece and not dropping the thing - it later did my credibility in pub yarns no harm whatsoever!
The craziest guy in our bunch started to attach a rope between the GPZ and his hot-rod XS1100, looking mildly annoyed to find me rolling on the floor, gibbering and begging for mercy, chanting the AA, the AA. A compromise was reached, I'd subject myself to being towed to the nearest services where we'd wait for the rescue vehicle. The longest six miles in my life - thank god and the road planners that there weren't any bends!
A newish engine was obviously needed, once safely back home. A motor of the same vintage but out of a crashed bike with a mere 9000 miles on the clock was secured and fitted with a surprising speed and ease. Immediately, I went off for a bit of speed testing - 155mph but some quite vile weaves that had me backing off quickly.
Tyres were always a problem with the GPZ. Not that there wasn't a wide choice of quality rubber but that less than 5000, sometimes as little as 3000, miles had them down to 1mm, such lack of tread making the bike impossible to ride above 90mph. The newer engine was doing 40 to 45mpg under a less than fanatical right wrist, which given its size and power was almost acceptable.
Comfort on long rides was reasonable, taking about 250 miles before I started swearing. A mixture of secondary vibes and a seat turning rock hard were the main limitations rather than the riding position which was quite good. For six months of the year, when the weather was good, I rather enjoyed myself on the GPZ but when it started getting cold and wet I became pissed off with the lack of protection from the fairing and the willingness of the back tyre to slide all over the place. The camchain had also begun to rattle, a fairly constant chore on GPZ900s.
The bike, being resprayed, didn't look half bad and I had no trouble, despite the slight rattle, off-loading it at a reasonable price. I had plenty of kicks from riding the Kawasaki, it was fairly versatile and apart from the seizure never let me down on the open road. The engine's not the toughest in the world, especially in earlier incarnations, but there are plenty of low mileage examples in breakers. The GPZ isn't a natural first choice but its combinations of qualities makes it viable in any number of guises.
Donald Osborne
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It is easy to get carried away on devices like the Kawasaki GPZ900. Carried away in an ambulance sometimes! I was charging along the motorway on a ten year old sample that sported 92000 miles on the clock. The actual mileage was more because I knew one owner who wrote off the front end some six years ago. The Fen community's small and little escapes scrutiny. So the speedo was only six years old.
Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, 135mph on the M1, going for a bit more speed to get past a lumbering Merc 500. I reassured myself that such Teutonic monsters were far too expensive for our cash strapped police force. At that kind of speed the GPZ's quite stable but tingles a bit through the bars and pegs. Pushing through the 140mph mark, head down, two things happened at once. The handlebars began a gentle, minor, oscillation and a heavy vibration assaulted me at all points of contact. All speed merchants know how to deal with weaves, speed through them! Ignoring the vibration, I tried to slam the throttle open only to find that it was already against the stop.
Coming level with the Merc I then found my speed was falling off. Couldn't have that, could we? Dropped down a gear with the throttle to the stop. That was when the motor protested by locking up solid. Remember, that the front bars were still oscillating. Now I had the back end locked up solid, skidding all over the place. Brown trouser time! As a cure for constipation it was brilliant. I calmed the back end down by hitting on the clutch lever and fought back against the bars whilst slamming on the brakes. The bike viciously slewed sideways.
Fortunately, the Merc driver had the good sense to clear off pronto and the bike veered towards the hard shoulder not the armco barrier. The Gods smiled on me! Well, sort of. I was a 120 miles from home with a pile of noxious muck in my underwear and a seized solid GPZ900 that actually seemed warped, leaking both coolant and oil all over her majesty's pristine highway. Dump the underwear first then hike it to the telephone and plead with the AA to get there pronto. I didn't feel at all well, my body battered after the fight with chassis and smelling like an Arab shithouse didn't help much. Hard to explain to the lady over the phone who was muttering about single ladies coming first and macho motorcyclists having to wait their turn. 25 minutes wasn't bad going, I suppose.
A week or so later I finally felt up to hauling the big, watercooled four cylinder motor out of its spine frame. A two man job unless you want to ruin your back. The cylinder head gave the first clue as to the engine's demise, as in bent valves and broken springs. Not to mention odd looking camshaft lobes. The pistons and bores were similarly dead. The gearbox always gave the impression of having been crafted by Russians (ex-Ur(in)al workers) with a grudge, so there was very little in the engine that could be salvaged.
Not to worry, six hundred sovs acquired a shiny three year old motor that was heard running. Putting a prime bit of engineering into a relatively worn out chassis might not be to everyone's taste, but I was soon exulting in the new power unit. I'd long taught myself to ignore intimations of calamity - if it didn't actually stop forward progress then it wasn't worth worrying over. Was it?
The new engine was good for 160mph on the clock. The mileometer and speedo shocked by this unheard of velocity promptly died a death on me. That was how I came to have a 130,000 miler with just 8000 miles up, thanks again to the local breaker who had an excess of GPZ cycle parts he didn't really want. Handling and braking were a bit on the vicious side but nothing a real biker couldn't hustle.
The GPZ was rated as brilliant when it first came out but was soon downgraded to tourer status when lighter and faster rivals made an appearance. It is heavy at 500lbs but seems to carry the weight a lot easier than the older style, air cooled multi's. I'm not sure, though, what any tourers are doing riding a 115hp motorcycle that likes a bit of snappiness on the throttle and goes through fuel and consumables like there's no tomorrow.
Three weeks after putting the GPZ900 back on the road another disaster struck. I was rapidly running out of clean underwear. Gliding through the Fens at my normal moderate velocity of 90 to 100mph, able to see for miles ahead, I was one with the world, full of joy and happiness. Up my rear a GSXR1100 hurtled at unbelievable velocity, at least 150mph on its clock. Of course I had to give chase. Whilst concentrating on his back light I missed a car careering along a right-hand side road.
I saw him pulling out in front of me at the final moment. My speedo, at the last glance, showed 135mph, and accelerating! Hit the bastard at that kind of speed, it'd cut his cage in half and kill me dead into the bargain. I had to whack the Kawasaki to the left and try to weave around him. If I tried to brake it would've just left more car in the way to hit. At one point, I thought I was actually going to make it but, no, the GPZ starts to dance its handlebars, which in turn makes the front wheel hit the grass verge. Charging off the road at 140mph is not something you want to do!
As a trail bike the GPZ's a waste of space. The soft ground and my panic braking dissipated a lot of the velocity but the bike was all over the place like some bellowing, dying buffalo. I hung on for as long as possible but in the end didn't fancy breaking all my limbs just to save the old bastard. I rolled off the bike as it started to go sideways, kicked myself clear. The ground was soft and I rolled with the fall. Survived except for a layer of mud and more muck in me undies.
The bike looked like it had fallen off the side of a cliff into a den of enraged gorillas who proceeded to beat the shit out of it with the largest rocks to hand. Despite all the cycle parts being ruined the wheels, forks and frame were still straight. In fact, I was able to ride it the fifteen miles home! As it was my only valuable possession in the whole world, I couldn't easily abandon it, could I? Patched and filled what I could, replaced the other parts from the breaker, who always asked me, for some reason, what had I done now!
Not being entirely thick, despite what you might think, I decided that it was time to move on. Pushing the GPZ900 to the limit revealed a rather less laudatory bike than what the glossies reckoned. On the good side, they aren't too expensive, there's loads of cheap used bits to keep them running and they will give even modern replicas a run for their money - if you're got a bit of craziness running deep within your veins. I ended up with a stripped down GSXR1100 that likes to loop the loop and generally scares the shit out of me. More underwear, mum!
Lance Driscol