The Yam XS750 was a big girl, rather plain with it, so she didn't get many offers where she sat, alone in a dark corner of a large showroom surrounded by much flasher numbers. But I could see she had character in an odd sort of way, so I saw her chaperone and for an outrageously large dating fee took her home with me. So began a long standing affair in 1981 with an XS750 that lasts to this day.
Bought second (or by the looks of it, fifth) hand with 25000 miles on her faded clocks, she was a dog with a capital D. In the showroom the bike had looked nice and shiny but definitely didn't bear close scrutiny. Usual typical bike shop traits included bouncy shocks, noisy exhaust (you could put your hand up it and check the valves) and a novel new seating arrangement courtesy of mucho iron oxide - the seat fell in half. The tyres were in the goodbye tread class, but I had my first big bike and was as happy as a dog with two things.
The standard look didn't last very long, however, as I have strange and eccentric habits of tarting up bikes that usually never see more that a set of fork gaiters and a top box. My previous love had been a Moriwakised Honda 400 twin that embarrassed many a 750, a real street sleeper.
Anyway, the standard shocks, seat and exhaust went west courtesy of Koni, 2:4 and Motad. The new exhaust was particularly well received, as I had recently been stopped on the Linconshire Fens by a police cadet who called me sonny. Cheek! He said he had heard me coming several minutes earlier. Either my exhaust was very loud or I was riding very slowly; I plumped for the latter and assured the youngster that I would indeed speed up. Talk about disgusted looks.
Soon after this, a Rickman Centura sports fairing fell on to the bike and I got on with the serious business of putting some miles on the clock whilst having as much fun as possible. One particular trip to the Isle of Skye late in the year has to be one of my favourites - peat fires, good whisky and fabulous views over the sound of Rassay at sunset still leave me with a lump in my throat, or maybe that was my hideous Phil Read replica helmet strap.
The ageing engine would not push the plot much beyond 100mph, vibes at high revs were disturbing and stability tended to disappear above 80mph. Fuel consumption was nothing to write home about, either, somewhere between 40 and 50mpg. The Koni shocks had, at least, done much to stop the waggling of the rear end although it was still far from perfect. I left the XS with a friend in '82 whilst I worked in the Far East on ships that seemed like they regularly went looking for typhoons to dance with. He kept the battery charged and on my return a year later she started first time to welcome me home. Many more miles followed until I decided the bike was becoming a bit tatty - it was time for one of my famous face lifts as I was determined to have the most distinctive looking XS in the world.
More power was the first order of the day, so an XS850 engine was liberated from a breaker for £300, including carbs and electrics. The XS750 engine was passed on to someone from Edinburgh for a hundred notes and I congratulated myself on a timely engine upgrade, high mileage XS750s not having the best of reputations for trouble free thrashing. I still recall the look on the face of the delivery man when he dropped the crate containing the XS850 engine on his foot. He proclaimed something about his truss but it served him right as he chipped a cylinder fin!
The engine just fell into place as if it had been there all its life, so no mods needed at all, and ran very nicely. It was nice to have an extra 15hp on tap. Top speed increased to an easy 110mph with little effect on fuel consumption. There was probably a bit more speed to come, but it would take a braver man that I to fully exploit the engine in a chassis like the XS's.
The rest of the bike was then stripped naked in my bedroom and given the full works. Blue nylon coated frame, custom made fairing bracket (Rickman fairing brackets could probably hold up the Forth rail bridge on their own), painted wheels, skimmed and drilled discs, lots of new home-made alloy parts and my very own paint job - the only real colour for a motorcycle is black in my opinion.
The Rickman fairing met a wrecked twin headlamp fairing one dark and stormy night, lots of bodge later and hey presto into the morning light emerges a very distinctive looking twin headlamp Rickman fairing - the only one of its kind in captivity. The finishing touches were a new seat, coloured to match the frame, a new sports exhaust (which entered into a passionate affair with every kerb I rode over) and some trick Tomasselli clip-ons. Very impressive she looked, too, if I say so myself. She still gets lots of looks even after a few years and thousands of hard miles since the rebuild. People were taking photos of the bike at Kent and the TT.....my ego was in the clouds for weeks after.
Ignoring my vanity, back to the bike, the engine has loads of torque which means you don't have to play around with the dubious gearbox too much - they can apparently get really bad with loads of false neutrals. Handling is steady but it changes direction very slowly and definitely will not suffer fools gladly. It really has to be set up for the corner, backing off the throttle, braking or trying to change line halfway around a bend will result in a nodding, shaking mess. You have to be very careful with the throttle when lent over, especially in the wet, or the heavy back end and shaft drive will turn round (almost literally) and bite yer bum.
Stock brakes that delay in the wet and can lock up the wheels in the dry don't help much in quietening down some of the handling idiosyncrasies but in the end the rider learns what not to do and compensates for any ill effects before they happen. The fairing makes 80mph cruising relatively comfortable but the bike is heavy, awkward and uncomfortable in town due to the clip-ons; but that's a small price to pay for the pose value and it's still narrow enough to rush through the traffic.
Nowadays, with a very erotic looking Laser endurance exhaust, the bike sound as good as she looks; only a triple seems to provide that glorious sound that warms the cockles and brings tears to the eyes of classic fans; where are you now, Trident?
Although the DOHC triple lacks the reputation for toughness of many big fours, the top end and camchain seem longer lasting than many. The plasticine bolt holding the layshaft in behind the clutch is the worst fault, but easily dealt with once you know about it. As is the duff regulator/rectifier. I look upon minor problems such as these as characteristics rather than big faults.
The engine has a healthy appetite for plugs and disc pads - Goodridge is nice to have as well as pads that work in the wet - all kneel before the altar of the great gods EBC and Dunlopad. The engine ran very hot until I borrowed a hefty 13 row oil cooler from an MG Metro turbo to keep the oil nice and cool.
With 65000 miles on the bores it isn't the quietest of motors, so I figure on some new engine parts and bearings this winter along with some more trick alloy parts and a further paint job - I've been itching to use some stunning metalflake I've had in the shade for ages. Unlike many a big Jap, this is one bike that you can keep on fixing up - as they say in Hollywood, this one will run and run.
L.G.Ross
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Buying a hack triple was not the wisest move I ever made in my life, but the 1979 example was only £250 and was still in running order. This was 1987 and the bike had already done over 50,000 miles. I was more reassured than I should've been to see that the motor sported lots of Hermatite and slightly mangled allen bolts; ever the optimist I assumed that this meant all the ever too common problems that afflicted the infamous triple had been thus cured.
Two days after purchase the XS was flung into the deep end, with a run down to Dover from London and then the delights of rural France. Used as I was to a dodgy Superdream, first impressions of the triple were largely favourable. If its mass was a bit of pain at low speeds at least on the motorways, with about 80mph up, the weight gave it a reassuring feel that not even neglected road surfaces could disturb. Part of this pleasant tautness was down to stiffened up suspension and a decent set of Avon tyres.
The motor seemed very willing, doubtless aided by a degutted 3-1 and a refurbished top end. The gearbox would've been very annoying had not the gutsy nature of the engine minimised the need to kick through the gears. The change was very capricious, sometimes slick other times going to pot. Probably sometime in the past it had dropped a bolt into the casing and bent some of the selectors if not ruined the cogs themselves; one of the tricks for which it is famous.
I hit the ferry in Dover in record time, getting there about an hour before I planned. Not a good idea as Dover is Dullesville. Turned out in my favour, though, as a wicked storm brewed up from the channel just as I'd secured the XS in the boat. There were a lot of green faces by the time we hit France.
The XS was reluctant to start even though the sun was shining. A couple of other bikers agreed to push after I'd given myself a hernia trying to bump start the beast. Reluctantly, she stuttered into life. This problem repeated itself ever time I turned off the engine and was not overcome until I'd secured a new battery.
Another item that showed all the signs of being wasted was the exhaust, which appeared to be spitting out bits of baffle; as the journey progressed the roar became almost unbearable, leaving me with ringing ears after the long day's grind. Help was found in a small village workshop where the blacksmith was able to weld some plate over the gaping holes and a long tube, into which he drilled a few holes, into the can. The muted purr that resulted was music to my ears but cut top speed to 95mph. Strangely, fuel improved from 38 to 52mpg! The cost of this half hour's work was a mere £12, which makes you sick when you think what it'd cost in the UK.
Apart from those two niggles, the one month, 7000 mile trip went off without a hitch. Mind you, it did take a while to learn the technique for skipping through rural French lanes - make the lines as straight as possible and wrench hard on the bars rather than relying on body lean. The one thing to avoid was backing off on bumpy roads, as this would wind up the shaft drive, causing the machine to jump off the tarmac. Using the rear brake was much safer.
After that holiday I knew the XS pretty well and could get the best out of the bike without needing to thrash the balls off the engine. There was torque aplenty up to 7000 revs, thereafter lack of power and frightening vibes made mindless throttle abuse a bit senseless.
Autumn then winter passed as pleasantly as expected, the road filth hiding most of the blemishes that I had not yet got around to curing. Electronic ignition, auto-camchain tensioner and valves that didn't rattle meant the only attention that was needed was a 2000 mile oil change and carb balance. I laughed happily at the thought of never having to replace a drive chain or set of sprockets again!
Come the spring, with nearly 64000 miles clocked up, I reckoned the XS deserved a thorough clean up. This revealed that the pads were down to the metal, the exhaust about to fall off and the wheel bearings both shot - I'd begun to wonder about the speed wobbles at 50mph and the wildly shaking bars if I ever eased off on the death-grip. A new set of tyres was also needed.
As the brakes were never much cop, a complete set off an XJ750 were force fitted, and much of the other bits were obtained cheaply from the breaker - although the XS is relatively rare parts from other models are often interchangeable or can be persuaded on with a bit of precision hammer work.
All set for another bout of touring, the whole scheme was ruined by a blind and deaf cager who put his car where I wanted to put the XS, resulting in bent forks, broken front wheel and wrecked clocks for the Yam and a nervous twitch for myself. I just could not believe that anyone could do something so stupid. I wasn't hurt physically except for having the wind knocked out of me.
Under more normal circumstances I would have hit the breakers, got the bits for next to nothing and done a quick renovation shuffle in a matter of days. But my head was so done in for months afterwards that I just let the bike fester until my enthusiasm returned, which coincided with the end of the summer and about 2000 sovs in compensation from his insurers.
So I had a bit of money to play with for once and decided to get the cosmetics back into good shape. Black matched my mood so was the order of the day. Engine and wheel alloy proved more troublesome, but several evenings therapeutic cleaning and polishing eventually produced a reasonable effect and sent the toothbrush manufacturers shares skyrocketing. I shied clear of any major engine work, leave well alone being my normal modus operandi for most of the time.
Back on the road the bike felt good; taut and willing it belied its age and mileage. With a much modded exhaust, consisting of the original 3-1 downpipes mated to a GPZ600 can, top speed turned out to be 115mph. Not much by modern standards, but a 90mph cruising speed was a breeze, the triple drone magically reassuring. Fuel consumption hovers around 45mpg in town but betters 50mpg on tour.
Not that any touring was done that winter, just the drone to work and back plus the occasional invigorating weekend blast. The next summer was a serious one, adding nearly 10,000 miles on to the 72,000 already achieved, with a blitz around France and Germany. I was amazed that there were still no engine problems and cursed the money spent on international recovery insurance.
It was only in the autumn of 1989 that the main bearings started to rumble, causing an incredible dose of vibration to afflict the chassis. I only had to ride four miles home but that was enough to wreck my watch. With loads of money left over from the insurance settlement I picked up a newish XJ600 and put the XS to the back of the garage for 18 months.
It took that long to track down a low mileage motor, the owner reluctant to let the crashed machine out of his grasp, but I humoured him over his ascertation that the triples were the best bikes in the world; knowing his mill was going to a good home he relented.
This was a later motor and proved impossible to fit until I'd drilled out the holes in the engine plates to allow things to line up. The owner had claimed less than 24000 miles on an untouched engine, which I found a bit unbelievable. After sorting out the wiring connections, which weren't the same colour or type, it was all systems go.
I was immediately impressed by the improved grunt and better smoothness of this motor. With decent chassis and good engine I was in seventh heaven. I didn't touch the XJ despite the fact that it was better handling and faster, it just did not seem to have the elan of the big triple. After a month I sold the XJ for more than I paid for it and put the money towards a six month trip down through Europe to Africa.
By now readers will have gathered that I'm hugely in favour of the XS750. I'm not blind to its many faults nor to its poor mechanical reputation. I've been lucky to have two good engines come my way. Also, I like to do long distances in a day and this is something at which the Yamaha excels, with an easy to use motor, comfortable riding position, good range and light consumption of consumables.
Mike Walters
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I felt sick at heart from almost a year off bikes, a combination of a lack of dosh and a nagging woman. I'd seen this dodgy XS750 in the local dealers, going for £1375. There was no way I'd spend that kind of money on a mangy triple that wasn't even very good when brand new. But two weeks later I came across a very similar machine with a for sale sign stuck on its saddle, with a mere £295 price tag.
I persuaded the woman that we could turn a quick profit and she foolishly released £250 from her building society account, which was what the owner agreed to accept. As soon as her back was turned I grabbed my stuff and did a runner. I had this fantastic feeling of freedom as I bump-started the XS (the only way it'd start) and headed for the open road.
The triple purred contentedly below 60mph, but came in with an excess of vibes if I went any faster. Indicative of its age (the clock read 65000 miles but I figured 165000 miles) was the two speed gearbox, something the range of torque had no trouble coping with. Only second and fourth worked, the box refusing to engage fifth and made nasty noises in first and third, so it was start off in second and a double shift up to fourth. This quaintness was emphasized by a clutch that needed two hands to pull in and a take-up that was as violent as a Pit Bull going for a child's neck.
It was, naturally, impossible to change gear without the clutch and low revs in fourth made the shaft drive chatter just like the woman when I suggested a particularly perverted form of sex. It was so bad that I concluded the back wheel bearings were shot, but kicking the tyre with my Doc Martins revealed no untoward movement and merely caused the bike to leap off the sidestand (the main stand having fallen off a long time ago). It whacked into the pavement with an almighty thud but was so well built it merely cracked the paving stones rather than itself. If nothing else, it's a tough old brute.
The owner threw in a photocopied tax disc (wonderful thing modern technology) and a rain soaked insurance form and MOT certificate that would see off the cursory scrutiny of the cops. This was important not just because of my own dubious appearance but also because the home-made 3-1 exhaust had no silencer, only some baffles shoved up the end of the pipe. It sounded loud below 5000 revs and tended to blow moped riders over when I went past, but above those revs it was as if the mother of motorcycle races had suddenly started or a battalion of tanks was coming down the road. Doubtless, peds were thankful that it was a triple and made a spine tingling roar....just before their eardrums were blown away.
Given that it was running standard, corroded disc brakes and the only electrics which functioned were the ignition, pulling the clutch in and blipping the throttle to 8k was the only way of securing a path through traffic or warning off cars that were about to cross my way. It may have been my Mad Max bulk, or perhaps the Viking helmet, but once alerted to my presence not one cager had the audacity to get in the way.
The only drawback, as far as I could discern, was that for two hours after parking up I couldn't hear a damn thing! Progress down the country on the Yam was relentless if slow and at times precarious. I mean the thing had all the handling finesse of an overloaded wheelbarrow and absolutely no inclination to go where I pointed it.
The handlebars didn't help, some yard high items that made damn sure the controls didn't fall readily to hand. Every time I released the death-grip to offer a hand signal to the world (sometimes instructive, others very rude), the bars tried to do a full lock to lock wobble, which threw the bike off in completely the wrong direction. A rolling accident looking for somewhere to happen, was how the first cop to pull me over described it. He spent over an hour writing down the list of offences, but I doubt if they will every catch up with me. The XS was the kind of machine that responded more to brute force than any kind of intelligent thought; was thus perfectly suited to my riding style.
I'd been sleeping rough, either in fields or at the back of petrol stations and the like, so by the time I finally made it down to London I stunk and looked like I'd be better off searching out a Salvation Army hostel rather than trying to score a DR job. I was almost broke by then, having found the Yam had an astonishing thirst for both oil and petrol at 120mpp and 25mpg. It would've been cheaper to take the bloody coach! After a whole day of hustling I finally found someone who didn't find my appearance and deep Scottish accent hilarious. Start tomorrow, boy (under normal circumstances that boy would've earned him a knuckle sandwich).
After a night spent wandering around the depraved streets of London I wasn't exactly bursting with enthusiasm, especially after off-loading the last of my loose change on an A-Z, to find out where the hell I was going. It's just as well I'm strong minded, lesser mortals would've been reduced to tears during the farce that followed over the next couple of days. Nothing seems to intimidate London cagers and I kept whacking into the side of the buggers with the reluctant XS750, but we shrugged it off, not willing to lose valuable time. The time I ended up in Kennington rather than Kensington, I flattened a traffic warden who smiled at the wrong moment. Shockingly, the XS took all the abuse I threw at it and after the first week I was beginning to make serious money.
Being Scottish I wasn't going to waste lucre on accommodation and was big enough to sleep rough after shackling the XS to some railings with three locks. It was doubtful that anyone would nick it but if they did I'd be in big trouble and the chains stopped the cops or bin men taking it away. Anyone who sleeps rough in London will soon realise what a rotten country we've become, with child prostitution, massive malnutrition and all kinds of horrible diseases running wild. After two months and about three grand, tax free, in my pocket I was all set for the return trek to Aberdeen.
The XS had other ideas, deciding to become a single speed motorcycle. If it was fourth rather than second I might've chanced it, but no way I was going to cruise for hours at 30mph. I'm not that bloody daft, man! Give the old heap some credit, it had withstood two months worth of DR abuse without needing anything more than oil and petrol.
A nearby breaker had a box full of gearbox parts so I pulled the bugger out and did a quick strip, using the hammer and chisel routine on the corroded in bolts. Twenty quid's worth of gearbox bits, a couple of tubes of Hermatite and an afternoon of cursing saw the little beast back together. I ignored the state of the primary chain and the possibility that the main bearings were loose. With the loud exhaust I never had to worry about engine rattles or knocks.
The gearbox worked as well as the rest of the bike, which meant if I kept my foot under the lever it stayed in fifth gear and a couple of the lower gears would engage from time to time. Just before I was due to escape the great city, another DR offered me a complete engine for fifty quid. Not knowing if this one ran any better I wasn't willing to swap them over, instead strapped it down on the back of the seat, secure in the knowledge that if I broke down I'd be able to do an engine swap quicker than the AA would come to my rescue.
Having a couple of extra hundred pounds on the back made no discernible difference to the handling, but that was only because it was so bad to begin with. It wouldn't take much to sort it out, though, just some decent suspension but I always felt the engine was moments off exploding and such an investment was just throwing good money after bad.
Progress towards home was just as slow but rewarding despite the vintage speeds and odd looks. It would've been easy to scream from one end of the county to the other on a plastic missile, but by the time I reached Aberdeen I felt I had overcome great hardships and survived against the odds.
The truth was that the hundred quid Superdream I next bought was faster and a peach in the corners. Don't laugh, sonny, this is hack country. I tidied the XS up to the extent of cleaning it and knocking on a proper silencer, sold it with the spare motor for £425.
Iain McCarthy
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I don't know what happened to my brain, what I was on or what I'd done to deserve such a fate, but I fell in love with a matt black Yamaha triple. One of the very first models. The mileage meant nothing as the whole front end was off an XJ900. The motor sounded like an earth-mover and smoked like a chimney stack from cold but cleared up after ten minutes spent blipping the throttle (the choke mechanism was broken). It must've been the eerie noise out of the three into one (matt black, natch,) exhaust that blitzed my brain. I handed over 300 sovs and readjusted the lines of my face into a grin.
Even back in 1977 the XS750 wasn't exactly hot stuff, having sixty horses and 500lbs to play with, any mass saved over a four put back on by the shaft drive, an item that immediately defined the bike as a tourer. These days, it's way behind the times and only suitable for use as a cut-rate, chirpy hack (that's just set me up for a lynching from the XS750 enthusiast's club).
Which is where I came in back in 1993. Early days with the bike were pretty much what you'd expect. A rancorous gearbox that only had three working ratios instead of five (first, third and fifth) was almost as trying as a throttle action that was connected to the three carbs via a couple of yards of chewing gum. The throttle cable was so frayed I reckoned it must've been there since the bike came out of the factory. The engine oil was a thin white syrup that I had no compunction about throwing down the drain. New oil made the gearchange a bit less stiff but didn't bring back the missing ratios.
Bear in mind that the airfilter was lacerated by a hatchet and the exhaust was as far from standard that you could get without facing immediate arrest or lynching, but even so I thought that the power delivery was pretty pathetic. Below 3000 revs it did a passable imitation of a C50, from there on it creaked and groaned up to 8000 revs with all the verve of a Russian tractor. Its one good point was that once a speed was gained it'd hold on to it come what may.
Before readers are consumed by envy at the thought of myself cruising endless miles at improbable speeds, a word or two about the handling. The bike was known as a bit of a camel in its day, due to a combination of the way the shaft drive reacted with the rear shocks plus a vague front end. When I got my grubby paws on the bike, the shaft drive churned away like the universal joints were shot (probably because they were) and the OE shocks were soft enough to let the back end leap up and down in a frenzy even on a straight, smooth road. Boring it was not!
Trying to go around corners was a series of leaps and bounds, a wicked dislocation of the required line that meant I often ended up shoved on to the wrong side of the road. The XJ900 front end was good but had maybe altered the steering geometry to intensify the reaction of the shaft drive with the shocks. Jamming on the twin discs caused the bike to sit up and head for the apex of the road.
The first time I found this out the reaction was so vicious that we flew across the road, up a pavement and into a brick wall. The speed of impact was low as I'd had the presence of mind to jam on all the brakes even though the impact with the pavement had jarred my whole body. The owner of the house came rushing out to check out the invasion of Hells Angels into his territory. Damage to the wall and the XS was zero, so we both went our separate ways, weary but none the wiser.
This amusing life went on for three months, the major effect being that my upper body muscles bulged from all the effort of fighting the old bugger, and my stomach was growing ulcers from the dose of fear and loathing resultant from trying to ride fast and loose (the emphassis being on the loose), ie speeds over 70mph.
All this happiness was brought to an abrupt end when the smoking failed to clear up once the engine warmed up. I hate taking old Jap's apart because you never know what's going to be found and, invariably, as predictably as the sun rising, at least half the bolts will be solidly corroded into the engine. However, one of the dubious advantages of the XS motor was that it's so unreliable it's often taken down, the bolts coming out with the kind of ease that immediately made me paranoid. No pleasing some people.
I got no further than the cylinder head which had camshafts, where the lobes had almost disappeared, and burnt out valves. A few days were spent wandering around breakers on my reserve bike, a fine classic (Raleigh Wisp) that I spent more time pedalling than enjoying its own motive power. Armed with twenty quid's worth of top end bits, and a pair of shocks that looked like they might fit, I was soon back at work. A week later I'd finally worked out how the cylinder head went back together. The rear shocks were a perfect fit except that they were two inches too long - oh, well, I could do with some extra ground clearance.
The engine roared into life with an almost miraculous lack of smoke. I turned it off to check if the sump was full. The lack of smoke didn't make it go any faster, the mill always giving the impression that the components were churning through fast setting cement. The longer shocks were not appreciated, making me slide forward where the tank tried to shred the marital tackle. The shaft drive reacted to the industrial strength springs by sending an annoying vibration through to the dilapidated seat.
Long distance comfort didn't come into it as after an hour or 50 miles the motor became so hot that I had to pull off the road, turn the mill off and leave it to cool for ten minutes. Every time I ignored this bit of coddling the gearbox locked up solid; the heat haze wafting up from the engine obscured forward vision and had the matt black paint dripping off the petrol tank! Eventually, all the matt black paint had fallen off revealing a pristine tank underneath!
The newer XJ900 front end had the major benefit of giving no problems from the brake calipers, which given the pure spitefulness of the rear brake was a major advantage. I use the back brake heavily, having fallen off due to locked up front wheels too many times, so monthly strip downs were a great waste of my valuable time. Crap Jap design, typical of the era.
The bike was quite robustly built in most areas, the kind of machine that when it rolled down the street it'd destroy everything in sight rather than itself. I knew that this was true because I came a cropper on a greasy bit of road when I was doing about 30mph. I scraped a big hole in my lid, which was better than doing the same to my head. The bike hit a car, bounced up, with a mangled bar that had jammed the throttle half open. With a mind of its own the bike charged at the nearest car, like a rhino going for the kill. Crunch! But that wasn't enough, it then fell over on to another car, tearing off its side! I caught up with the bike then, turned the ignition key off.
A deathly silence descended on the scene for a few moments, as we all took in the carnage. The cagers started screaming then but I pulled up the XS to check over the damage. Bent bars, crumpled engine bars, scratched paint and a couple of broken indicators. Not bad considering that at least six cars looked like wrecks. Did I have insurance? Now you come to mention it......the XS fortuitously started first go, I wobbled off down the road leaving gobsmacked cagers frothing at the mouth in outrage.
I soon fixed the XS750. A little later, after about 15 months in my tender hands, the gearbox and shaft drive went completely berserk, the result of god knows how many miles of abuse and neglect. The UJ was wrecked and gearbox bearings were shot. More fun and games in the breakers until I came away with a box full of essential bits that included a complete set of gearbox parts. The primary chain was also shot but it was impossible to find a better one in the breakers so was left on. A hefty hyvoid type, it seemed unlikely that it'd break. I felt pretty good once I had the engine back together. A full set of gears and relatively smooth shaft drive; what more could a man ask for?
Immediately, I found myself speeding up the east side of England at wholly unlikely speeds that gave my body a full work out and the cagers the time of their life as they tried to work out how such a rolling wreck could be allowed on the road. I often pondered this myself. As the speedo played with 60mph and I was 200 miles from home, there was a terrifying bang that made me leap a foot in the saddle. My hand always hovered over the clutch but it wasn't necessary even though the engine sounded like it was destroying itself.
I pulled off the road, listened to the engine ticking over at 2000 revs whilst what sounded like ball bearings did a dance around the motor. I think the gearbox had just broken up. I hitched home, came back with a Transit but the XS was burnt down to a molten mess.
Larry Donovan
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Buying the US Custom version of the venerable XS750 triple has a couple of advantages. Most useful is that because it was introduced only after the original version had been around for a few years most of the engine problems had been solved. The XS750 suffered from a couple of fiendish problems, such as a gearbox that would fall apart and a top end that must've inspired later Honda efforts.
Coupled with better mechanical integrity is the fact that the riding position of the Custom is so laid back that it's impossible to do much more than 75mph without incurring permanent neck, arm and back injuries. Thus it's impossible to thrash the engine, especially with an all up weight of around 525lbs combined with dubious chassis components. It was much more likely to run one off the road than blow up the engine.
So, five years ago I had few qualms about handing over 650 sovs for a 1983 example with a little over 32000 miles clocked up. The owner was hard pressed to restrain his joy as he counted the money. Which was a bad sign. The sidestand was missing, so I hurled with all my might on the bars, the bike bouncing on its suspension when the XS hit the tarmac. Just as well the seat is low, there's a very top heavy aspect at low speeds, the lack of secure feel not helped any by the pullback bars, which gave a large amount of leverage.
The XS has shaft drive, which chattered and churned unless under heavy acceleration when it just whined. Trickling through traffic the bike preferred to have the clutch slipped in second than fully home in first gear. Engine width was almost on a par with a four cylinder mill and the bars were so wide they inhibited slipping through the most narrow of gaps. The five speed gearbox was rather lacking in slickness, feeling very imprecise and missing engagements. It took about four months to get used to.
I never did master the art of using the centrestand. What a terrible design. With one hand I hanged on to the bars, the other on the grab handle, one foot on the stand's prong, then putting all my body weight on the prong whilst trying to pull the bike backwards. As can be guessed, this was a quick way of ending up on a heap on the floor with the machine trying to break my bones or burn deep holes in my skin. It was really a two man job, whoever designed the stand deserves to spend the rest of their life putting XS750 Customs on and off their stands. How on earth a diminutive Jap would manage, I don't know.
As mentioned, the bars precluded any heavy speeding. I did put 110mph on the clock a few times, in the first six months, when boredom overcame caution. This required a head in the clock stance, with my hands way above my helmet. It felt as ridiculous as it must've looked. Cagers tooted their horns in joy at this apparition in their otherwise mundane day. The chassis felt very queasy. Both shocks and forks were soft, appeared to have very little damping and let the wheels go walking all over the road.
I became so sick of the handlebars that I dumped them for a very flat, narrow set. I had to buy some stock XS cables as the ones fitted were so long they flopped all over the place, threatening to wrap themselves around innocent peds as we roared past. The footpegs were then too far forward for any sustained touring, but it was easy enough to use the pillion pegs when cruising on motorways. Cruising speed increased to between 80 and 90mph. The more sensible riding position put extra weight over the front wheel which eliminated some head shaking I'd experienced.
The tank takes about three gallons which gives a range of over 120 miles, fuel managing more than 45mpg most of the time. In the first year, apart from the centrestand nonsense, I was well pleased with my new toy. Having done 11000 miles without needing to pay out any money, other than for oil and petrol, put me in an extremely good mood. This was rapidly dissipated when the twin front discs started misbehaving. There was another disc to the rear; they were all decidedly old tech, with all the complaints so often noted in the pages of the UMG becoming apparent in the second year.
The brakes were never startling stoppers when in good nick, they always seemed to need a disproportionate amount of pressure just to achieve moderate braking forces. The first I knew of the need to replace the front pads was when one fell out and an almighty racket ensued whenever I tried to use that brake. Over thirty quid poorer after buying three sets of pads, I then had a spate of caliper seizing, which never gave up until the winter was well and truly finished. The rear was less troublesome, perhaps the lack of a filthy chain throwing off oil meant it had an easy time in comparison to some other bikes, although its feel was so dead in the wet I rarely risked my life by using it.
Wet weather also did nasty things to the engine, causing the motor to turn into a twin and, on some wild occasions, a 250cc single that was just capable of touching 40mph. The Russian Roulette effect of having cylinders suddenly chiming in and laying down a massive power pulse to the back tyre, had the back end all over the place. Spraying the engine and electrics with WD40 before going out in the wet usually cured the problem.
The Custom never felt entirely safe in the wet. I tried Metz, Avon and Pirelli tyres, none giving a really secure feel. Despite its massive mass, the Yam always had a tendency to aquaplane, the rider left sitting there with a sick grin, waiting for the tyres to make contact with the tarmac again. It may have been the mismatch between the small, fat rear and the skimpy front tyre. The only good thing I could think of in its behaviour was that it was usually the rear tyre that let loose, thus much easier to control than having a front tyre skid away from under you.
Tyres lasted surprisingly well for such a big brute, at least 12000 miles. The only problem with that was when the tyres were down to about 3mm, handling went very weird indeed. Any road imperfection threw the machine way off line and harsh braking was more likely to throw you off the road than bring the machine to a rapid halt. The wheels were easily dented when changing tyres (don't ask how I know) and also prone to massive corrosion if not given a clean a couple of times a week.
Apart from the chrome mudguards, the rest of the bike surprised me in the way it polished up to a subtle glow. The paint was thick and well applied, only the odd spot of rust on the frame needing attention. The guards rusted on the underside, by the time rust appeared on the outside they were just about ready to fall off. Black plastic items were procured, which left the front forks rather floppy and increased the frequency with which the rear bulb blew.
The DOHC three cylinder engine did vibrate a bit, there being no balancer. Thrashed in the lower gears, I could feel the tank between my knees buzzing and the pegs always shook a little. At 70 to 80mph, though, it was pretty smooth, even with 73000 miles on the clock. The engine has required little attention over the last five years, just a camchain and tensioner job plus a bit of valve work (both at 56000 miles). I have seen a few XS750s that have gone around the clock, so good ones will last a long time.
The motor will pull well from 2000rpm in top, really starting to fly once 5500 revs are achieved. Vibration takes over from 7500rpm, when power, anyway, does a disappearing act. Sustained riding at such revs will blow all the lights and lead to dead feet. The carbs and valves stay in balance for long periods, so the bike is quite capable of doing 5000 mile tours with the minimum of attention (just a couple of oil changes). Not having to play around with drive chains is very nice, though the primary chain inside the engine has become very noisy of late.
The positive points of the Custom are cheapness, reliability and tireless 70 to 90mph cruising (with proper handlebars). It doesn't handle well, doesn't like the wet at all and won't mix it with the race replicas. I like the mild custom looks, the delightful exhaust growl and the way it still thrums into life as soon as my finger hits the button. There are nice ones around in the 500 to 1000 quid price range.
Eric Peters
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The local dealer's one of those dodgy characters so beloved of the UMG but he does occasionally get a nice bit of kit in. This time it coincided with me having some loose change, to the tune of 1250 notes. The Custom XS750 triple was low mileage, clean going on immaculate - or factory fresh according to the dealer, going into his Arthur Daley spiel. £1750 was the sticker price. A brief test ride revealed nothing amiss. The dealer scowled and spluttered about wasting his time when I mentioned £1250. I took the wad of used fifties and twenties out of my pocket and waved it under his nose. Greed won out over blind optimism, the deal done. No guarantee or come-backs at that bargain basement price - the receipt stated that the machine was sold for scrap!
It looked and sounded about as far away as a 25 year old machine could get from scrap, thanks to the posing habits of our Yank cousins. The sixty horses that the aircooled three cylinder motor managed were pretty mild in nature, just as well as the gearbox was one of those pray and hope jobs the Japanese are so good at. Especially when adding complication in the form of shaft drive. Those who religiously read the UMG will recall that the gearbox has a penchant for exploding when an important screw falls out of one of the shafts! This can happen at any time, so it's a good idea to join the AA or RAC!
However, it's more likely that the primary chain combined with the odd power pulses resultant from the three cylinder layout was giving my inadequately clever foot a hard time. Not helped any by the throttle being connected to the carbs through what seemed like half a mile of knicker elastic. It was, in harsh reality, the three carbs being way out of balance; an almost miraculous restoration of smooth running attained when they were attended to with the kind of loving care most sane people would only expend on a nubile of extreme beauty and excessive sexuality. The Yamaha lapped up such attention, needing a repeat dose every 500 miles, or so.
With the carbs fettled, even the gearchange action improved, though still ruinous of lightweight shoes and likely to wake me up with a false neutral whenever I began to take it for granted. This was true of most of the bike; needed much more effort than modern machines but rewarded tender loving care with good fidelity that, conversely, acquainted me with its deeper, laid back, character. The song of its three cylinder engine sung most sublimely on a sunny day in top gear at 65 to 85mph.
Faster it would go, but neither the resulting comfort nor handling inspired. Engine smoothness at higher revs was a vague concept, vibration reminiscent of my early days on a beloved but far from benevolent BSA A10 coursed through the whole machine. The tingling was enervating rather than invigorating, much better to keep speed below 90mph where the high bars made much more sense. You don't buy a custom expecting racer like perfection at high speeds, do you?
The poor handling at speed was down to the loose front forks despite the lack of mileage, sprung for 55mph Yank highways of a smoothness British road engineers could only match in their dreams. Despite the floppy feel the bike did actually go where it was pointed and only the more complex curves and bumpy roads left me feeling like the forks were moments off tearing themselves out of their yokes. Such intense riding also had the shaft drive fighting with the rear shocks, leading to intense back wheel chattering, though it never really developed into any serious mayhem - mainly because I backed off slowly on the throttle or brakes.
Riding the bike like its maker's intended, though, revealed a reasonably proficient chassis that held few inherent dangers. Its weight was excessive, both in actual terms and in the effect it had on the steering, despite the wide bars, but it was something I soon adapted to, ended up able to fling the XS around like some lightweight. It was a breeze in town, able to waft along on the throttle in third gear, with only a minor amount of rumination from the transmission. Though the bike's quite wide, the rather loud exhaust system had cagers hastily jerking their coffins out of the way, full of the fear that they were impeding the progress of a band of Hell's Angels! Good fun, that!
I must admit, though, that doubts about the quality of the machine gnawed at my heart the first time I rode the bike through heavy weather. The lovely, shiny engine alloy gained a deep fur of white corrosion and the down-pipes spat out the rust like there was no tomorrow. It redefined the meaning of acid rain! The good old Solvo saved the day from turning totally bad but the rash of corrosion appeared every time it rained hard - not the kind of bike to leave outside of a night, not unless you were after rapid and total rat status.
This somewhat finicky nature extended to engine maintenance. Oil, valves and carbs needed to be done every 500 miles (ignition was aftermarket electronic); even the battery acid would often go down below the minimum level after this short interval. Riders of modern Japanese bikes don't know they're born.
Quick rot calipers that became very sticky added to the fun of long term ownership - used spares were non-existent, new replacements extreme in their expense, but it was possible to keep on rebuilding them - I mean, did I have any better use for my weekends? Despite such hassles the motor continued to run along in its reliable if idiosyncratic manner for the next 42000 miles (in less than two years, so you can see I was enjoying myself).
By then the gearbox was an acquired art that not even my friend who owned a rudimentary Ural (don't call it an Urinal in his hearing unless you want a fist in your mouth) could master. I often left the keys in the ignition, hoping someone would nick it, allowing me to claim on the insurance. But there were no takers! Partly because rust had got a firm hold on the chassis, the bike suddenly catching up with its real age, like some old dame whose multiple face-lifts spontaneously collapse. And partly because starting required micro-precision in setting both the throttle and choke lever.
At this point I'd made friends with a back street mechanic who had a box of XS750 parts sitting idle in his cellar workshop. One thing led to another, I ended up assisting him in splitting the cases. It was not a pretty sight, the only part of the bottom end that was still in fine fettle was the crankshaft! Still, he had enough bits to rebuild the gearbox and replace the primary chain. I bunged him a hundred quid; it's certainly not worth paying more to keep such an old horror on the road - not unless you have a fanatical love for XS750's. Another friend was persuaded to paint the chassis black and everything else that could be was attacked with polish and muscle power.
The result was a much improved bike, but one that didn't run with the same resoluteness of its early, low mileage days. I'd say the engine definitely goes off after the first 30,000 miles, despite loads of services and oil changes. Neglected ones can blow up in half that mileage. Quite easy to lose your money!
I didn't really trust the bike on my long distance rides, decided it was time to find another low miler. That turned out to be another Yank import, an immaculate Yamaha Vee-Max. Such are the vagaries of the motorcycle game that the dealer gave me £1500 off the bargain priced Vee-Max in a trade-in deal that had me thinking I'd bought something that had fallen off the back of a ship.
As to the Yamaha XS750, it's extremely dated, not brilliantly engineered, but if you want some laid back kicks from a fairly unique package, and have £1000 to £1500 to spend, it's quite an interesting deal. Avoid, though, any high milers, especially old rat UK examples. More trouble than they're worth!
R.W.