I bought an XJ750 with only 8000 miles on the clock, did 83000 miles and still managed to sell the bike for a reasonable sum. Pretty good going. It wasn't just a tough old runner, though, there was lots of fun, high speed cruising and hustling through the bends. The XJ was very versatile, as happy churning through town as it was speeding down autobahns.
A picture of perfection, then? Well not quite. Fast sweepers had the back end shuffling around and the twin front discs were akin to a vale of tears. They worked powerfully enough in the dry but rain caused them to become on or off switches with absolutely no feedback. I tried various pads to no avail, ended up with OE items!
The dodgy brakes were made all the more imponderable in bends because backing off the throttle tried to shake the back wheel out of its swinging arm. This spoilt the otherwise splendid stability, on Avons she felt pretty solid. Partly down to toughened up suspension, but mostly, I think, due to the steering geometry being sensible rather than trying to make it the fastest turning bike in the world.
This was my first Yamaha four, I wasn't sure what to expect. They aren't the hottest looking bikes in the world but they don't that start people passing the sick bucket. I was surprised at just how easy she was to ride. Just crunched along happily in the taller gears, some throttle and gearbox work had her zooming along at highly illegal speeds - still feeling safe and secure, apart from the aforementioned problems. We were soon fast friends.
Engine problems were few. Mostly, maintenance was a matter of frequent oil changes, it would go off quickly if used in town all the time. Valves were done every 20,000 miles and carbs every 5000 miles. The camchain started to rattle at 53000 miles but it would've probably run to 60k if I wanted to chance it. I didn't, bunged in a new tensioner as well.
Cosmetics weren't so easy to deal with. Rust plagued some bits, made them more like consumables than essential parts of a motorcycle - silencers that fell apart, a petrol tank that caved in, rust that blitzed all the screws, etc. A pity, because under all that there was one tough cookie. Universal silencers work without any jet changes (but rusted almost as quickly) and GRP fixed the petrol tank! The bike was given two resprays during my ownership, using a nifty electric spray gun.
Consumables were on the heavy side, nothing lasting for more than 8000 miles. Fuel hovered around a pathetic 40mpg, which kept pissing me off when I went touring. The bike was comfortable enough to go for twice the range. The only good point was that it hardly altered even when thrashed along at autobahn speeds.
Crashes were infrequent. The bike rode well but its layout did mean that when it went it went very rapidly - too much mass too high up. The worst crash was dumbo-cager turning right when he indicated left. Luckily, the bike slid along the side of the car rather than going straight into or under it. Dented tank, bent bars, ruined indicators and a silencer that fell off, ended up stamped flat. The cager lost half the side of his car, looked like a write-off to me. Of course, he vehemently denied that he had the indicators the wrong way round and told the police I should be locked away for life, at the very minimum. I fixed the Yam with stuff from the breakers.
I don't think the bike really got into my heart. As good as it was it never really excelled in any particular area and the chance to buy a newish FJ1200 was too good to miss. The new bike's something else, an altogether more aggressive ride. Made me wonder what I'd been missing all these years. If you want a tough, reliable and practical four, though, the XJ750's not bad value.
Steve Roseburgh
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The XJ750 was owned by a couple of ex Israeli army guys in the country on false British passports - and, yes, they are easy to get - who were heading for Europe. It was a bit ratty and because it had been billeted near the sea, it actually had some rust unlike every other bike I'd seen in Australia. Still, I took it for a scoot. I finally had to call them up for directions by which time they had called the police. I got back, apologised profusely and figured it must be theirs or they wouldn't have called the cops. The wanted 2300 bucks, which I thought a bit steep, new in town I wasn't sure of prices so offered $1800. They laughed, we settled on two grand and sealed our agreement with a few spiffs of some mega-magic grass they claimed to have ripped off some plantation in the wilds of Victoria where they were working as muscle.
I didn't think the equivalent of £850 for a four year old machine in good mechanical nick was too bad. It had to be the ugliest bike I've ever owned, and that's saying something as I once ran a CX. About the only neat feature was the bulk of the four cylinder DOHC engine. The tiered seat and raised bars gave a riding position that was great in town and even okay at legal cruising speeds, but for a tourer with a fair bit of welly on top it left the rider feeling a bit exposed.
The shaft drive felt a tad too direct and the back wheel would lock up at the merest hint of boot pressure on the brake, fishtailing the beast like a good 'un. The front discs, though, were good stoppers. Not only did the bike have a dazzling array of the finest idiot lights, it also had a built-in idiot computer to tell you if you weren't charging, were low on oil or had forgotten to brush your teeth.
I ran the bike for a couple of days and most things seemed fine. There were a few bits and pieces needing doing and as usual I was in a rush. I bought a repair kit for the Marzocchi shocks and decided to slip on a new rear Metzeler as soon as possible. Then disaster, the battery was dead one morning. I lived on a hill....a run, a jump, a slip of the clutch and bugger all. Try again, wheel it up the hill.....nothing. I figured the computer was doing a pre blast off check and taking all the current.
I had to buy a new battery, seventy bucks. I could have wept. The worst thing was the breather tube showing the old battery had been boiling away merrily for some time and I hadn't noticed. I didn't fancy buggering up the new power cell if the regulator/rectifier was naff, but I really wanted to get out of town to a rally....I hadn't repaired the shocks nor got the back tyre on yet.
The rally would have been a great success had not a combination of crap suspension and illegal speeds on dodgy Queensland roads resulted in a crushed disc in my back. I spent most of the weekend horizontal in my tent. Going back was sheer hell and took three times as long, although the upright riding position helped a little. It took months for the pain to die completely, although I repaired the shocks as soon as I got home. I couldn't believe how well it handled with the shocks in first rate condition. It didn't feel like a shaftie at all. Riding through Kuringai National Park, about the size of Glasgow and just about as civilised, the bike was responsive as I flicked it in and out of hilly bends and sweeping curves beneath towering gum trees. It had to be one of the best balanced bikes I'd ever ridden. If I stopped gently at a set of lights I didn't have to put a foot down, the fat Metz doing the business as I played Ninja mind games with the prat in the car before burning him into insignificance.
I fancied a swim so decided to see how it handled off road. Surprisingly well on the dirt tracks but not too hot on the rougher terrain. Still, the low centre of gravity saved me from making a complete prat of myself and I rolled down the steep terrain much to the disgust of the locals who thought their seclusion (in mega buck cabins) only breachable by sea. The clouds of dust, as I raced back up the track after my swim, could be seen for miles. I paid the price later, only on my return home, where I was greeted with hysterical laughter, did I realise what exposure to the sun had done to my skin, the red patches made all the more apparent by the white slash protected by my shades.
I was doing a fair bit of biking in Sydney, and I'd often skip off from work so intoxicating were the pleasures of the open road. The bike was four years old and maintenance seemed to have consisted of an oil change ever year and new plugs once a decade. I had a couple of niggling problems, but as I was married to one of them there wasn't a lot I could do. The fuse box was a cooking foil and insulating tape job, cos I'm a lazy bastard. There was an intermittent fault which stopped me starting that was cured by whacking the right side panel with a big stick.
One night I crawled back to the bike to find the lights stoved in. Sydney is no place to ride without lights, the driving is so bad it makes London cabbies look good. I think there are so many automatics so the drivers can toss themselves off while they're driving along having fantasies. Anyway, the promise of a few beers secured the services of my karate instructor and we pushed the bike home. I soon found out that breakers in Australia are very expensive when I went to replace the light.
I decided to head down to Canberra for another rally. The Hume highway is a great road, so quiet I thought I was dreaming and the nearest you'll get to a pot-hole free road in Oz. I hit full throttle and warp speeds many times along the road. Secondary vibes were mostly absent, although screwing the bike into the red in the lower gears would make the engine feel a little alive. Nobody told me Canberra was perched several thousand feet up and it was bloody cold as I was dressed in shorts and tee-shirt for Sydney weather. The Yam was perfect for that kind of journey. Taking a few hundred miles at gentle cruising speed was what it did best and it was one of the most comfortable bikes for moderate touring I've ever owned.
The peculiarly cut saddle and riding position suit mildly illegal speeds and the machine handles well save near its upper limits, where mass, suspension and riding position combine to produce a bit of bucking and weaving. The shaft drive had hardly any effect on shutting off in the middle of corners and the bike was generally excellent in its stability.
The only other problem I had was in a miles long jam, I was slipping past on the soft shoulder which had more than a passing resemblance to a gravel pit, when I hit a pot-hole. The bars dropped through 180 degrees and gave me a whole new outlook on life, and a desperate need for a toilet. Luckily, I wasn't going too fast when it happened. But I guess that's the way it goes. You're lucky until the day your luck runs out and then you're dead.
In all this time the bike ran great and gave me as little trouble as you'd expect from a big shaftie. For not a lot of dosh you get a good few horses under the saddle and, if maintenance is something you pay the ex-wife, then this is the machine for you. Fuel consumption hovered around 50mpg, I must have got 10,000 miles out of the rear Metz and I didn't replace the front in 15000 miles, whilst the pads didn't seem to wear at all.
The machine handles well except at top knots but I never took it over an indicated 120mph because the riding position leaves you too exposed, sitting up like a dog begging to be whacked in the mouth. It otherwise produces good vision of the traffic ahead and control in traffic and okay for touring at reasonably tasty speeds. All in all, a good bike if you want an extremely reliable, reasonably handling, cheap to run motorcycle equally at home in town or on empty roads. But boy, was it ugly!
Ricky Morton
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Having a rest from motorcycling for five years meant it was something of a short, sharp shock to come back into the game on a 10,000 mile Yamaha XJ750. My last bike was a Honda CB250RS, which was a whole world of difference. Especially as my last moment on the RS was with a locked up back wheel after the 65000 mile engine had seized solid. The subsequent slide down the road had rather put me off motorcycling but wounds fade and bad memories heal with time and distance.
Still, the XJ's a big bugger in its way, even with the cut down, cruiser seat. Getting on for 500lbs worth of metal to chuck around, although it feels more like a 550 than a 750 once under motion. Acceleration was so good it kept catching me out; I'd go hurtling into gaps way before I was ready for them. It was the kind of madness I could happily become used to.
Before that could happen, the engine started cutting out as rain and winds lashed across the country. WD40 had no effect. Pulling off the tank I was horrified to find that the top tubes were completely covered in rust, not one speck of paint in evidence. It was so far gone that after I'd removed the rust with wire-brush and emery cloth there were large pits in the metal. They hadn't gone right through, so I assumed it wasn't going to fail, rust-proofed and then put on several layers of paint.
The next job was to pull the spark plugs out. They had been there so long that they seem welded to the cylinder head. A sharp blow with the hammer jerked them out of their somnolence. The electrodes were burnt away to nothing. New plugs fitted in, except one kept turning around and around rather than tightening up. It wouldn't come out either. All I could do was swamp the area with Araldite and leave to set overnight.
The misfiring didn't entirely disappear until I'd fitted new HT leads, coils and caps. I was beginning to think that the electronic ignition unit had gone.....according to breakers good ones were as rare as working GS Suzuki rectifiers. Having sorted the misfiring the next few weeks were maximum fun. The joy of doing the ten mile commute into work in 15 instead of 90 minutes, just thrashing around country lanes for the kicks and straining everything to do 120mph on the motorway for half an hour.
Handling became a bit vague after 90mph, the suspension appeared to lose all its damping and the steering was only accurate to within about six inches. The high and wide bars were uncomfortable for much more than 60mph, but gave loads of leverage that obscured the large amount of mass created by the old tech DOHC four cylinder engine.
After that dose of enjoyment the next thing to go wrong was the fuel line splitting just above where it attached to one of the carbs. I ignored the cutting out, thinking it was just a reappearance of the ignition troubles. It wasn't until I smelt the fuel that I realised what was happening. Pulling into the gutter in a hurry, I caused the car behind to swerve viciously outwards which resulted in him hitting another vehicle.
I naturally claimed complete innocence, after turning the fuel off. When the plod turned up they were totally disinterested as no-one had been hurt. One young copper was swearing under his breath about all the paperwork involved; after a hurried conference it was decided to leave me out of the report; it'd only confuse things and the cagers would have to claim on their insurance regardless. Given the insurance rates for motorcycles the last thing I wanted to do was become involved.
There was enough fuel hose available for me to cut off the split part and wire it back on. I was lucky, by the time I'd pulled over the motor was awash with petrol and it'd only take a discarded fag end to set the whole lot ablaze.
Over the first couple of thousand miles the bike was proving quite cheap to run. Fuel was 55-60mpg, oil wasn't consumed at all and the tyres didn't seem to wear. They were newish Roadrunners that only caused any worry on wet roads when they slithered over white lines with an intimacy that was unnerving. A couple of times the front wheel slid away from the bike and only by giving a concentrated jerk on the bars was I able to stay upright. The Yam didn't stop twitching for a good 100 yards.
The lights inhibited night riding, especially when the whole electrical system blew one time. Everything, including the engine, went utterly dead. You can imagine the angst when this occurred in the middle of a fast stream of A-road traffic. I screamed my head off in terror, instinctively clawing the horn button (obviously to no effect) as we free-wheeled through the snarling autos. Luck was on my side, not only did no cars hit us but there wasn't even a big pile-up.
The cause of all the fuses blowing was rotten insulation on two adjacent wires that caused them to short out. In the dark they were impossible to trace, which meant I had the rotten task of pushing the XJ for two miles. It was a wet, freezing night and I was already half an hour late for a meeting. The next day I joined the AA.
Searching for the wiring fault revealed that the rust on the frame had already come back where I'd painted it and lots of the wiring had gone so hard and brittle that when I touched it the insulation splintered off. A new wiring loom was prohibitively expensive, so all I could do was replace the rotten wires one by one until the whole loom was replaced. The rust on the frame was proofed and painted again.
Back on the road, I was in two minds as to whether I should keep the bike or sell it before something really serious went wrong. I began to think that it might've been clocked. A fast weekend thrash down my favourite country lanes made me love the XJ again, it was just so much fun that I really didn't want to roll home at the end of the day. I know the laid back style will not be to many tastes but it suited my mood and riding down to the ground; I found it so comfortable, at moderate speeds, that I could happily growl around all day long and then go out for a jar with the boys.
It kept spoiling things, though, by throwing up minor irritants that turned into major traumas. The next one was the front calipers gumming up. I'd half been expecting it, with the regular doses of awful weather and the pads clanging away. Things turned serious when I tried to drain the brake fluid. The nipples sheared off. I took the hose off which cracked up and sprayed ancient brake fluid all over my clothes. The caliper retaining bolts broke off or stripped their threads; it was a similar story with the calipers - there was no way of tearing them apart without wrecking them. A mixture of new and used parts were used to get a pair of working brakes again. What a ridiculous amount of hassle for such a simple problem.
The brakes worked well for most of the time but occasionally would lose all power. The lever came right back to the bars, needed frantic pumping before it'd produce some braking forces again. There may have been a bit of air in the hydraulics, but I was reluctant to fool around with the bleed nipples after my previous experience. I didn't want to replace the whole braking system again.
Something else that was in need of replacement was the OE exhaust, but I decided I'd be better off patching it up with some sheet and a borrowed welding set. I hadn't welded anything for about five years. My first attempt ended up with a rather large hole in one silencer as the wafer thin steel disappeared. Several attempts later I'd repaired the damage but I can't say it was the most elegant solution, even with two cans of heat-resistant matt black paint hiding the damage. The carburation agreed, with a mild hesitation around 3500rpm, where previously the power supply was as fluid and graceful as a sea-gull soaring through the air.
The engine was a seriously strong bit of meat that shrugged off all the problems afflicting the ancillaries. Neither carbs nor valves needed any attention and the mild patches of secondary vibes were easily avoided by judicious use of the throttle and gearbox. The chassis seemed to be wearing out fast, with the ever present threat of the frame rusting away so far that it'd fail completely. After less than a year and 7000 miles I sensed that it was time for a change. A trade-in deal on a rather nice 883 Harley Davidson.
James Henricks
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I didn't expect much for four hundred quid and I didn't get much. The engine was out of an XJ750, the dodgy looking registration document claimed the chassis as XJ650 and the forks looked like they were off a GT750. Hmmm! The four into one exhaust cleverly obscured any engine noises and the cycle parts looked like someone had poured a can of paint over them - why waste paint brushes?
Normally, I would've given the owner a slap for wasting my time but the minor matter of a new job 20 miles from home with no reliable public transport intruded on my mind long enough to demand a test ride. Stability and feel defied the appearance, as nicely taut as a new bike. The twin disc brakes worked after a fashion and the rear drum shuddered and screamed. The engine ran but didn't seem very strong for a 750, even when I screwed it into the red in second and third. A lack of smoke and vibration convinced me there was some life left. Money and doc's changed hands.
I rode the 30 miles home without incident, quite chuffed that the old girl would do 120mph and go around corners without throwing a wobbly. I pulled the back wheel out to check the drum brake, remembering to grease the shaft drive's splines. The drum wasn't working because the shoes were down to the rivets. I was lucky it hadn't over-cammed and locked on solid. The shoes turned out to be identical to those in an old XS400, according to the breaker who only charged me two quid.
The next couple of months went by with the commuting chores and odd weekend blast. Fuel was 35 to 40mpg and the motor drank oil like a stroker, which was excuse enough not to bother changing it. The sluggish acceleration was down to the carburation being mismatched to the exhaust, if the colour of the spark plugs was any guide - what a joy to be able to remove plugs without taking the cycle parts off.
After an incredible fight, the airfilter was removed, found to be covered in crud. The motor wouldn't start without a filter. Breaking several principles, I visited a couple of dealers until I found one with a new filter. After another fight, which was like an apprenticeship for a surgeon or perhaps butcher in my case, the filter was back in.
The bike still wasn't in the rocketship class but it accelerated faster and would hit 125mph. I was used to old fours with the odd (very odd, in fact) excursion on a GPZ 600, so the XJ was in the same range of experience. 80 horses and 500lbs is way off the pace nowadays, but on UK roads it's quite sufficient.
When I say that the XJ accelerated slowly I mean it didn't jerk my soul out of my skin. In practice, I burnt off a Porsche and the GTi heaps didn't stand a chance. Wheelies were near impossible, with quite a lot of mass on the front wheel. The only time I managed one was on take-off when I gave her a lot of throttle, dropped the clutch and the directness of the shaft drive gave the bike such a jerk that it was like someone kicking me in the kidneys.
Shaft drives cause any number of problems in some bikes, but the XJ was well sorted. There was a bit of rising and falling, but the taut suspension kept it under control. I've ridden a GT750 Qwack with mushy suspension that was much harder going, leaping up and down like an irate bronco. I liked the lack of maintenance and the relatively clean back end. The shaft drive was probably responsible for the poor economy, which even after a new filter was fitted didn't better 40mpg.
My happy state of life came to an abrupt end when I was foolish enough to think I could do something simple like change the headlamp for a nice big round job with a halogen reflector. I was pulling on the wires to extract an extra inch or so when the whole bunch pulled out. The sudden release sent me bouncing backwards to land somewhat painfully on my arse. It took a long while for the swearing and screaming to die out.
One of the reasons I wanted to replace the light was because sometimes it flickered and almost went out. The reason was pretty obvious when I gave the wiring a close look. Spaghetti junction time. The original loom was dumped in favour of lots of different bits of wire joined by bullet connectors and insulation tape. The colour coding was one of the great mysteries of the universe. There wasn't any that I could see! Joining up the wires that'd pulled out took the rest of the day until everything was okay.
The new light worked but was accompanied by the strong smell of burning. The wires weren't up to the current and by the time the small fire had died out I knew I'd have to rewire the beast. Manual in hand, a whole weekend was blown sorting it out. A few minor problems were encountered, like one of the coils being cracked and the rectifier leads pulling out, but a visit to the breaker sufficed. I also took the opportunity to proof the hidden parts of the frame with red oxide paint as there was quite a bit of surface rust.
The lights and indicators were about twice as bright as before, helped along by separate earth leads and a new battery. The old one looked like it'd been there since year zero and I was amazed that it still held enough charge to turn the starter. The latter rumbled as if the bushes were just about finished off but the motor caught before I had a chance to despair. The last time I took a starter apart I ended up with bushes and springs shooting out, doing a disappearing act. Leave well alone, I told myself.
The front discs wouldn't allow such indolence. With the onset of the autumn rains the calipers quickly gummed up. This was tedious as the pads never seemed to wear and I had to strip the calipers every month. Perhaps because of this disturbance the brake began to become very spongy, lacking feel. Using the discs in the wet was fraught with danger, a locked up wheel threatening a visit to the hospital. The back drum worked progressively and slamming the throttle shut helped, at the price of a bit of wheel hopping as the shaft dug in.
I battled through the winter on the slime covered rat, wishing I could bring myself to fit mudflaps (ugh!) and wear waders. The dreaded black ice inspired maximum fear when the XJ went into a massive slide. I just sat there, shocked to my core, until with a final, death defying twitch we hit the bare tarmac and shot off still upright. I came back that night to find three cars in ditches at the same spot, so I was very lucky.
In January there was a spate of difficult starting and cutting out. It was so cold outside that I didn't want to check the bike over. I did the simplest thing I could think of, remove the kill switch from the circuit - it worked! Later, I took the handlebar switches apart and found some corrosion on the contacts, which I cleaned up. The switch action was poor but not so bad that I felt inclined to replace them.
A bit of spring madness saw the bike gleaming after two cans of Gunk and a jet-spray. The slime picked up from the road had given it a protective layer. Neat. My body had toughened up after the arctic exposure of winter and I had no problems hustling around during an indifferent spring. I was planning a blast over to Europe, test the Yam in the alps. That idea was put on hold by the camchain rattle.
Foolishly, I let a back street dealer do the job, told him to do the valves and carbs (the first time in my hands). He did all the work, the motor sounded superb, but the quote had gone from £125 to £275. I refused to be ripped off, came back that night with a couple of mates and took the bike out of his workshop. We'd fed his Dobberman meat laced with rat poison.
The XJ ran beautifully, with a top end of 135mph and some harsh acceleration. The only problem was that the dealer, driving a Transit with nudge bars, has knocked me off three times. The last time he tried to reverse over me and the bike! The shock of being ripped off has warped his brain!
K.T.