I fell in love with the Z400J as soon as I saw it. It looked so...horrible. Painted matt black with loads of brush marks, a big gold strip down the middle and, yes, at least six strategically placed JPS sticker. It was more like a prop from a Mad Max movie than a motorcycle. It made a nonsense of the fat boy plodder image of the stock machine, Kawasaki's slowest DOHC four and one that was supposed to last for ever if given an occasional dose of oil....this one looked like it still had the original oil in the sump.
The headlamp was cracked as was the speedo, the underside of the seat rusted to buggery, the front guard hanging on one bolt, half the engine bolts missing but I still sort of half wanted to believe this guy grinning from ear to ear as he told me he'd had 115mph out of it just that morning. I must have been out of my skull, handing over £275.
It took almost half an hour for the nightmare to begin. The bike was brought back to Monmouth on my girlfriend's father's trailer and once there I couldn't get the key to turn in the lock. It was, of course, completely destroyed and this began the incredible expenditure of the next few months. I should have noticed the warning signs, but I was a young man......and in love!
After an unreasonably long wait, my new lock barrel arrived. I fitted the lock, greased the important looking bits and started her up. It sounded pretty good to me, but then anything would after a CB100N. I was still smiling. Next morning was sunny and about as warm as it gets in South Wales in January - what is colloquially termed a good day for a burn. So off I set, anticipating just that.
Five miles down the road the speedo packed up, before, in fact, I'd even had time to notice that the back brake was non existent. Undeterred, I pressed on down The Heads of the Valleys Road. About 10 miles out of Abergavenny she started losing power, firing first on three and finally on two cylinders. I limped into Eric Jenkin's bike shop in Aber, and although the genial Mr Jennings was appalled at the state of my machine he agreed to get it running, and said he'd phone me when the deed was done. Words can't describe my feelings as I hitched the last 30 miles back to Swansea, although things brightened up considerably when some old guy on an ex-pig BMW gave me a lift for 20 odd miles.
A few days later Eric phoned to say it would get me back to Swansea, so in jubilant mood I press ganged a mate into giving me a lift back up to Aber. It seemed that the plonker who'd had it before had, in his wisdom, fitted two spark plugs that were too long, so the gaps were knocked closed after a bit, hence it only fired on two. It was a wonder it got me as far as it had. Eric charged me a minimal fee for his time and effort, but sternly admonished me to strip the bugger down to the last bolt if I wanted to MOT it.
I had a great time on the way down to Swansea, despite the lack of speedo and back brake, and got well into exacting revenge upon all those Sierra drivers who'd cut me up on the CB100. For a few days it was totally brilliant. It looked and sounded so bloody evil, a winning combination of dodgy paint and naff Alpha exhaust, but then, alas, came the time to fix the back brake. This in itself was no big deal because on removing the back end the reason for its lack of function became crystal clear - there were no shoes fitted.
This was the good news. All I had to do was buy a new pair and bung them in. The bad news was that the previous owner had also omitted to replace a rear axle spacer when he'd removed the shoes. My friendly neighbourhood spares shop said two weeks minimum to get hold of this lousy spacer. Visions of the Z sitting there with its back wheel off for a fortnight while I walked everywhere proved too horrible to contemplate, so I promptly went off to scour the breaker's yards.
Two days spent wading through crashed YPVS's and Gammas later, I found a spacer of the right diameter but about ten miles too long which a guy in an obscure workshop near Port Talbot oblingingly machined down for me. With my new spacers and shoes in place I was on the road again. I splashed out on a new chain and sprockets and then took the plunge and, despite a rapidly dwindling grant, got some insurance. This turned out to be no less than £270 - Christ! It was as much as I'd paid for the bloody thing. Still, I had good intentions about getting it MOT'd and taxed, and somehow I managed to convince myself that maybe forking out for insurance would inspire me into getting my act together - fat chance! I never got it taxed and I finally MOT'd it about an half hour before I sold it!
After about a month or so of gratuitous behaviour on West Glamorgan's roads I sort of became aware that the Z was starting to lose power and couldn't burn off Ladas from the lights any more. A compression test revealed that it was delivering slightly less kick than a refectory curry. It seemed a rebuild was in order - and indeed it was.
Whipping the head off revealed that one piston was split neatly in two, and another was worn to the extent that it clattered about in the barrel. The camchain was also shot. After another long wait for spares - if they can't get them from Birmingham they despatch some poor git in a rowing boat to Japan - my top end was rebuild. The compression was, if anything, worse. This, as I remember, was the final straw.
So began a diabolical month in which I spent a fortune putting ads in the local papers, being visited by seriously hard bikers intent upon wrecking my Z by hammering it up and down my back lane, until it finally dawned upon me that I'd never see the back of it until I MOT'd it. As far as I could tell, providing the examiner didn't actually ride it (CX500 handling pales into insignificance when compared to this monster, and I never got the speedo fixed because the drive was knackered) it would pass, so brillo pad duly located in the silencer to slightly damp the terrifying exhaust note, off I went to local dubious MOT station.
I coughed up £15 for a new front tyre and he provided me with a ticket to get rid of the damn thing. I can still see him handing over the certificate and muttering something about getting those steering head bearings replaced. So, I sold it to a gorilla from up the valleys for the same price I paid for it.
To be fair, while it was running, which was about half the time I owned it, I did have a lot of fun on it. Admittedly, I never really felt confident enough about its mechanics to take it any real distance, but the missus and I went for numerous burns out on the Gower (renown local burn up area), and it was cool as hell roaring into college even in the pissing rain (and it does this a lot in Swansea). Stomping around the university in Frank Thomas boots was good too. Well, I'm now the proud owner of a Morris 1000, which although the coolest thing on four wheels is no substitute for a Kawasaki, so if anyone has a decent GT550 going for less than £750...
Jay Rangdale
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When a 38,000 mile Z400J turned up for £250 I didn't know what to think. Ten years old it was bit tatty but the engine lacked any of the tell-tale rattles. For that kind of money the only stuff available locally was equally scruffy 100's. I checked out the insurance which was tolerable rather than extortionate. I couldn't think of any reason not to go for the deal.
The first ride didn't impress much. It reminded me of a Honda 250 Superdream. All screaming revs with hardly any power hitting the back wheel. Part of that was its natural instinct, the rest was down to a clutch that was just starting to slip. It took all of 400 miles before I was doing 30mph in top gear at 10,000rpm. Pattern clutch plates went straight in after a bit of filing, but not before I'd spent an afternoon cursing Japanese alloy and two cover screws that resolutely refused to come undone. The drill provided the final solution. Despite being two screws short of a full complement and using an old gasket, there were no oil leaks!
This was to be one of many ailments that affected the Kawasaki over the coming years but nothing so major that I felt like throwing it off the top of the nearest mountain. Which reminds me of the time I rode the bike through some roadworks. Slimy mud and huge craters. We slithered through foot deep slime, the hidden front wheel hitting a fissure in the ground. I was promptly thrown off and covered from head to toe in contaminate. The council workers found this hilarious and I ended up on the front page of the local paper. It was the kind of fame I could do without.
The poor old Z sulked for four days and half a dozen washes before it deigned to start. The coils were always a bit temperamental, needing a dosing in WD40 on winter days to stop the motor cutting out. Usually, only one cylinder went down and sometimes I hardly noticed, there was so little power and so much mass that any drop-off in performance was marginal. I suspected one of the cylinders might've been down on compression but haven't yet found any real evidence of that.
When I bought the bike it had worn Roadrunners fitted which made it snake all over the road. A new set were not much better but they lasted for nearly 10,000 miles so I had plenty of time to become used to their ways. They slid in the wet and did nothing to aid the worn out suspension in the dry. I could weave away to my heart's content. When they finally wore out a set of Phantoms were bunged on. I was amazed by the transformation, it felt like I was riding an entirely different, and much better, motorcycle. I was all the more surprised, because on other bikes I'd found Roadrunners very good tyres. The Pirellis even lasted well - 14000 front and 10,000 miles rear.
The Pirellis made me more willing to go over 80mph. The Z400J would eventually creak up to 110mph but it was so tediously slow in acceleration above 85mph that it was a rare day when I could be bothered to attempt such heady velocities. If there was a hill or headwind to fight against then I could forget any speed greater than 80mph!
The blandness of the Z extended to its even spread of power, despite having double overhead cams and a purported 43 horses. It didn't seem to make much difference if I played mad games on the gearshift or let the motor slug it out in top, it still moved at a snail's pace. Strangely, this feeling was more in my mind than in harsh reality, as it was able to see off an equally aged 400 Superdream and keep a GS450E in sight.
The handling was more reassuring than anything else. The steering was on the heavy side, the chuckability up there with an old 750 four and for most of the time the weaves never came close to a wobble. This despite suspension that was past its prime, if indeed it had every approached prime in the first place. Still, it never seemed to wear out.
The brakes had more power than I ever needed, but the calipers needed frequent rebuilding and in the end, with about 55000 miles up, I had to buy a brand new set (the ones in breakers were either execrable or extortionate). The front brake was so powerful it'd make the forks bounce up and down on their stops with just two finger pressure. With Ferodo pads wet weather lag was minimal and they lasted an acceptable 12000 miles a set.
Less acceptable was the knowledge, that like other small Kawasaki fours, the crankshaft was plain rather than roller bearing, using a high pressure oil system that needed clean oil. I came across one bike with less than 28000 miles on the clock that had rumbling main bearings. The owner looked confused when I asked if he'd changed the oil, reckoning it'd stayed at the same level for the past two years, so there was obviously no need to add, let alone change, any oil! By the way, he wanted £300 for the wrecked bike! I offered sixty notes and only just avoided being kicked out of the door.
One of the other hazards of Z400J ownership was clutch cables that break at ridiculously low mileages and a six speed gearbox that makes screaming noises when used without it. The eventual solution was to have a spare one taped alongside. I tried different routes and an excess of grease to little avail. I think the cable would benefit from being a coupe of inches longer as it seemed stretched on full lock.
One staggering aspect was that the old saddle was so comfortable. It must've been a combination of its shape and the riding position because the density of the foam certainly didn't impress. After a really fierce rainstorm it would soak up the water and give me a wet bum for days afterwards. A seat cover was the simple remedy.
The Kawasaki came with a rusty Motad that over 9000 miles proceeded to fall apart. The engine wasn't highly tuned but eventually the lack of baffles led to some flat spots that gave the motor some much needed character. It also led to manic cops trying to arrest me and the odd pedestrian lobbing bricks and garden gnomes as I roared past.
A nearly new Laser 4-1, meant for a GPz550, was grafted on with the help of a few hefty kicks. It didn't look quite right, something reflected in a large flat spot 1000 revs either side of 5000rpm. This produced rather more character than I wanted, so was sold off at a profit to a GPz550 owner who threw in his old silencers as part of the deal. One of these was attached to end of the Motad 4-1, not without a little hassle. The noise was tolerable, the carburation fine and the appearance in line with the rest of the chassis.
I'd half-heartedly touched up the chassis components, hidden the pitted forks under gaiters and ignored the alloy rot. The Z always looked about a week off becoming a rat machine, but never quite descended to that level. It looked dubious enough to have me pulled over a few times by the cops but was never so far gone that they found anything illegal.
The only part to be so eaten by rust that I had to replace it was the front mudguard. A plastic replacement along with a fork brace was found in the breakers, but the brace made no difference to the front end rigidity, which was perfectly matched to the soggy OE (I think) back shocks. No fancy Uni-trak for this boy, although I did have the hassle of doing a swinging arm bearing replacement at 59000 miles....they lasted for so long because for once there was actually some grease on the spindle (which made it just a few gentle taps to remove). Praise be to whichever of its owner had done that maintenance chore.
Not so much praise for the right-hand piston, which at 72000 miles became holed. I motored home quite adequately on the remaining three cylinders, though I doubted if the following cars were too happy about the layer of smog from all the oil burnt off. Whilst the motor was down, I put in used but good camchain, tensioner and piston. The barrels were still fine, had yet to be rebored and the cylinder head cleaned up nicely with no signs of burnt valves.
The motor has run fine since the rebuild, now with 86000 miles on the clock. It still turns in 50 to 60mpg with the ability to cruise at as much as 85mph. They are not very exciting bikes but that means many are owned by mature bikers, so there are good buys around. They seem generally tough, reasonably well made and versatile enough to do most things, other than get the blood flowing or burn rubber. I plan to fit in a 550 engine when mine finally fails; should be interesting.
H.L.D.
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What a waste of time. That was how I thought of three years with a rat Kawasaki Z400J. If motorcycling was all about kicks then the Qwack was as lively as an overweight old woman with a heart condition. I always thought that if I pushed the bike too hard it'd blow up in a big way. Not that it ever did, of course, that would've been too exciting. If John Major ever took up biking the Z's the kind of bike he'd become all excited over.
There was no need for speed limits, the thing would run out of puff dead on 80mph (even when it only had 38000 miles under its wheels) and even on the longest road with a strong following wind it would go hardly any faster. That kind of speed I could've survived if it hadn't taken so damn long to get there. The bike weighed as much as a GPz550 and had hardly much more power than a CB250 Superdream. Indeed, I had a terrible time stopping Superdreams overtaking me, a fact that seemed rather degrading to me.
The engine has the full works for an aircooled Kawasaki four, a full complement of carbs, eight valves and double overhead cams. Whilst the GPz550 could be touted as the best aircooled four in the world, the poor old Z400 just wasn't designed properly, a very poor mix of power and economy.
I was tempted to go the big hammer route when the camchain and tensioner went at 41000 miles, also a common failure on the 550. Was it worth spending a hundred notes to get it fixed? All the consumables were quite new, so the answer was a reluctant yes. Consumable wear was similar to the 550, which was tolerable rather than frugal, although the carbs and valves needed only minimal attention. I watched the mechanic at work, quite impressed with the speed and skill with which he threaded a new camchain into the motor.
I was hoping that the new components were going to transform the performance. Er, no, it was as slow as ever, further embarrassment added when some youth on an RD125LC whipped my arse down the local lanes. Having owned both a BMW R60 and a Kawasaki KH250, I can't say that the Z400's handling was bad. It was just slow, tediously slow. And the exhaust and stands could kick up the tarmac when I tried to emulate Kenny Roberts.
The suspension was stock, a bit vague, but not so bad that I felt it was necessary to pay up for replacements. When I was offered a race 4-1 exhaust, however, I grabbed it with both hands. Again, I hoped it would extract some blood and guts from the mill. I decided the clogged airfilter could be thrown away as well. The old exhaust was halfway rotted through and didn't take much effort to remove, the odd seized in screw apart, but anyone working on old Japs expects that.
What I didn't expect was an engine that refused to start. Hmmm! Obviously have to take the carbs off and upgrade the jets, I told myself knowledgeably. Several cracked manifolds, bruised knuckles and jet kits later I had the thing back together. An hour or so on the starter, two spent batteries, and the odd cursing fit had the engine alive and well.
This all took place inside my front room as it was cold and wet outside. What I hadn't quite expected was the way the howl out of the exhaust would reverberate through the house. The throttle cable snagging fully open helped not one bit. It was like one of those horror movies when the demons from hell scream up from the depths after your soul.....the sudden silence when I hurriedly turned off the ignition was soon shattered by the enraged chatter of the neighbours who were peering through my window, probably full of visions of myself as a mass murderer. Within days of moving into the street I'd run over a pedigree Siamese cat, owned by the local gossip who thereafter spent her whole life concocting vicious stories about me!
Revenge is sweet. I leapt out of bed at six in the morning, pushed the heap out of the hall into the street and left it ticking over at 5000rpm for five minutes, then howled off down the road at full revs in first gear, the only time the engine came close to going into the red. To be honest, more than 15 minutes gave me a splitting headache and the bike was generally even slower because I couldn't take the noise above 5000 revs. The solution was to put one of the old silencers back on the end of the 4-1 downpipes. Quieter and the carburation stayed okay. Not that there was a powerband or any extra speed over stock.
With a bike this slow I'd expect 60 to 70mpg but only managed 40 to 45mpg. True, it stayed the same whether I was idling through town or trying to avoid being run down in the motorway slow lane. My friends on flash six hundreds scoffed at the pathetic economy, reckoning they could equal it at twice my speeds.
One redeeming feature after the camchain swap was that it ran for 18000 miles without turning up any serious engine faults. Then there was a fall off in the already pitiable power. A compression test revealed the centre two cylinders way down. Out with the engine and off with the head. Mangled piston rings on the two pistons and scored bores. I was tempted to fit a 550 top end as they are supposed to go straight on but Z400 parts turned up dead cheap.
Again, I hoped that the rebuilt motor would have some, any, just a tiny bit, of extra performance.....but, no, it was 80mph flat out. Being a bit slow myself it was only then that I realised the tacho needle was in the red even in top gear. As the chain and sprockets were dead meat, I fitted a bigger engine sprocket as part of the refurbishment. Top speed increased to a heady 90mph but the acceleration was even more stately. I took to counting sheep, imagining sex with next door's resident nubile and waving at pedestrians or even cagers (though, not those in Volvos as I'd been hit twice).
My apathy was such that I didn't do much to stop the rust breaking out on the frame, tank and guards. Until petrol started seeping out on to my best jeans (well, my only jeans....). As it was insured I was tempted to accidentally drop a match on to it. However, every time I parked up outside the house, neighbours poked their noses out of their net curtains and would've been on the phone to the police the moment I'd dropped the match. There was no way I was going to try it in the house!
In the local breaker there was a selection of tanks, guards, panels, seats, etc. I took the choice parts and handed over fifty notes. Mind you, I'd almost thrown up when I checked one tank and found it full of dog shit. At least I assume it originated in a canine. The breaker was the charming kind of character who greeted customers with a massive fart.
After I'd put all the bits on, after painting over the rust on the frame, the Z didn't look half bad to my jaded eyes but it was still dog slow, only really suitable for an old age pensioner. Tireless 75mph cruising, classic looks and a robust motor.....that's what I kept telling the people who responded to my advert. The brief test ride didn't reveal the heap's true nature and it was soon sold for £750. I bought a full power Yam TZR125, which was faster, more frugal and about a hundred times more fun. You only live once.
R.Block