Sex, drugs and rock and roll were far from my mind, though not my heart, as I hustled the XS850 down a crowded, cowed M1. A pile of lies over the telephone had secured a provisional position with a DR company and a friend's sister had agreed to rent me out a room. This, all before I'd bought the Yam, although I knew it was for sale. The bright lights of London and the easy money from despatching had exerted their inexorable pull.
My test ride of the '84 XS850 had been cursory. I was feeling high from my success on the telephone and just knew things were going my way. Its 47000 miles had been done by one mature owner who I knew in passing. He lived not far away and clad, both of us, in motorcycle gear we had often nodded at each other. It purred, relaxed at 90 to 100mph, held reasonably in line by non-standard suspension, only giving me feelings of my own mortality when I hurriedly had to brake harshly. Then, the pads clanged against the twin discs, noisily demonstrating their immediate need for replacement. The owner had been honest enough to point this out, probably not too amused at facing my parents if I killed myself, but I figured I'd pick up a used set from a London breaker.
Entering the great city all hell broke loose, used as I was to a rural existence. The more the roads were blocked with fuming cars, the crazier the antics of the cagers became. I took a breath, got the adrenalin going and upped the pace. Streaming between lines of chaotically placed and moving cars I was reminded of holidays spent in fairgrounds buzzing dodgems around, save that the XS850 represented all the money I had in the world and the only means of making some more.
After ten minutes of madness my muscles began to ache from the pressure of throwing around 530lbs and the front brake had given up. The rear brake made the shaft drive growl in protest and the engine braking from the three cylinder mill wasn't much help. I had to slow down, which made the XS feel even heavier. After much ducking and diving I rolled up at the gaff in Islington, just down the road from the DR office.
My new landlady looked on shocked to her core as I rode the XS up the steps into the hallway. The whole house seemed to shake in rhythm with the exhaust until I switched the engine off. We had to squeeze past the massive bulk of the Yamaha, but there was no way I was going to leave the precious machine out in the street at the mercy of the local hoodlums. I ignored her harsh looks, turning her mind with an excess of admiration for the somewhat dingy three storey dwelling.
The next day I was in deep trouble. My new boss had thrown me in at the deep end, with a pile of collections and deliveries that had left me dizzy and the poor old Yamaha very temperamental. The clutch seemed to have seized solid, leaving me stuck in second gear. I stalled several times, which added to my tired bones by having to run alongside the bike as I bump started it with a bit of help from the electric start, which made self-destructive noises. The dinner break was spent sorting out the pads and gorging on half a dozen chocolate bars. The gearbox trauma resulted from of a lack of engine oil, the motorway thrash running it almost dry!
A few weeks of hurling the XS around London had done a lot for my shoulder muscles and terrible things to the appearance of the XS. It was so bad that the landlady refused not only to let it inside the house but made me park the eyesore well out of her line of vision. There was an obscure ignition fault that meant I had to put a new set of plugs in twice a week, but that apart it just ran and ran.
The first thing to fall off was the silencer attached to a mangy three into one downpipe. As this happened midway through a furious burst of activity, I had to tolerate the jumbo jet type noise for a few hours before I could fit something from the breakers. The XS's engine was exercised a couple of times to get away from police cars; they far too wide to follow me through tiny gaps. The XS wasn't too snappy for town riding but I'd come to terms with its mass and girth, could pilot it within a millimetre of the handlebar ends, as the Metz tyres endowed it with laudable accuracy. I sometimes ran away with the idea that it was so solidly built that I might get away with riding straight through errant cages but I managed to restrain that destructive urge.
In six months of town use the bike never let me down and I only fell off once. Some maniac had emptied a gallon of oil over the road surface of a junction. The XS tried to slide two different ways at once before falling over on its side, which I took as an opportune moment to slide away from the ensuing chaos. Three cages helped absorb the momentum of the Yamaha and it finally flipped over on its other size. No-one rushed to help me pull the brute up, but a bit of leverage finally had the XS upright. The indicators and footrests had taken most of the damage, much to the annoyance of the three cagers who were rushing around screaming their heads off about the damage done to their cages. My exclamation that they were only cars went down as well as a video on Volvos at a Hell Angel's convention.
The police were quite understanding, if you call getting booked for lack of tax disc, rusty exhaust, no horn and a front light that didn't work understanding. I denied being a DR as my insurance didn't cover it, having quickly locked the radio in the top box. The cagers were somewhat mollified by the heavy arm of the law descending upon my innocent person, but I had the last laugh when one of the cars turned out to be stolen and the cager was smacked over the bonnet and shackled in handcuffs.
It seemed like a good moment to get out of the DR game. The landlady had doubled the rent after I boasted about how much dosh I was making and the near 70,000 mile engine sounded like it was in its death-throes. Knocks and rattles overwhelmed the exhaust note. Time to head for home, over ten grand in profit; my timing had been perfect, work had suddenly perked up and I'd never hustled so hard in my life. I was so tired that I usually just hit the bed every night, which meant I wasn't spending any money but becoming very pissed off with the lack of social life.
Heading back up the M1 the XS seemed reluctant to hold more than 75mph and the suspension had been so ruined by London potholes that the bike wandered around its lane if not constantly corrected. The only thing retained from its previous state was the excellent comfort and its spine tingling exhaust note. I should have been preparing to buy something newer but I'd become rather attached to the rat and hoped that a couple of hundred quid would sort her out.
The Metzeler tyres had lasted about 5000 miles rear and 8500 miles at the front. The shaft drive was so loose it made accurate low speed work almost impossible, but the lack of a chain had saved a fortune. I always used secondhand pads because they were available cheaply, so can't give any meaningful figures. Fuel was around 40mpg and oil burnt away so fast that I never bothered to change it, just poured in the cheapest 20/50 every day.
The engine noises turned out to be caused by a shot tensioner and chain, plus a clutch drum that was cracked and just about due to explode into a million pieces. As the bits turned up cheap I bought a complete shaft drive unit and back wheel. I could've run the existing stuff as the noise and looseness was a minor inconvenience in the greater scheme of things. The layer of crud had effectively protected the paint which only needed the odd bit of touching up. A newish set of shocks and some thicker oil in the forks was all that was needed to sort out the chassis.
The newer shaft drive and clutch transformed the gearbox action, made the whole bike feel that much more sophisticated. Cruising speed was back up in the 90 to 100mph range and handling was as good as it was going to get for a bike of this age and mass. Within a week of the reconstruction, the money burning a hole in my pocket, I decided it was an ideal moment to head for Europe. Late September it was the last chance of riding down to Dover without freezing to death and with a bit of sustained riding I could be enjoying the heat in the South of France. The XS ran hard and fast, within three days I was mixing it with the French a few miles out of St Tropez. Going inland a bit it's possible to find cheap accommodation and use the XS for raids on the exotic coast. Food and wine are cheap, so I reckon I can last a year or two on the money I made in six months of London frenzy, which now seems to have happened in another life.
The XS850 just loves the laid back life and the sun, it seems to have gained a second breath and is happy enough to put 125mph on the clock when I want to show the French who's boss. What a brilliant bit of heavy metal it is; 79000 miles and not out of the game yet!
Alan Selby
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The heaviness of the XS850 triple was brought home to me the time I had to push it four miles. High summer, 510lbs and dragging discs do not mix well together. Especially not when you're a ten stone weakling who has a lot of trouble lifting the XS on to its centrestand. True, one mad-eyed character on a Z1300 rolled up to offer a tow. Every bird within ten miles flew high up into the sky when assaulted by those six cylinders on open pipes. He seemed close to frothing at the mouth. Still full of bad memories of the time my Tiger Cub was towed behind a Bantam, I declined his kindly meant offer.
Quite how Yamaha managed to make their triple heavier than most fours I don't know. I could blame the shaft drive, any benefits of which were quickly disowned by the way the gearbox fell apart. I was later to find that it was these self-destructive tendencies that caused the breakdown. I'd assumed the graunching metal and seized solid motor were down to crankshaft failure, so it was with relief that I hunted down a couple of cogs and selectors. You have to use Araldite on the retaining pins!
I was no stranger to the insides of the engine. The motor had clocked up all of 120,000 miles in the hands of seven lunatics, needed attention every 5000 miles or so under my tender care. Considering that all the used bits I could find for the XS, the last of which was made in 1984, were already well worn, I expected little else. At least they were cheap - would you believe forty quid for a complete but disassembled engine?
Overall appearance was slightly above that of your average rat but only because I'd picked up a cheap new petrol tank (£10...off the back of a lorry, I think). The noise turned suburban grannies witless but fitted in well with my mature lifestyle. Drink and drugs had so addled my senses that the advance warning of my presence negated any slowness of reactions. Maybe, the odd cager, driven out of his mind by the reverberations of three cylinders at 3000 revs (any louder caused windows to shatter), plotted revenge but I managed to sail serenely through heavy traffic on the Iron Barge, as the XS was quaintly known (there were some other descriptions but they're too rude to print in the UMG).
Fuel consumption (30mpg) and consumable demise were about on a par with a fire-breathing 1500cc monster bike but performance was no more impressive than a hard ridden GS550. Torque the engine had aplenty but after 6000 revs the ancient triple just gasped for breath. May merely have been the carbs needing larger jets, the airfilter long since junked, or just too many miles on the clock.
The torque from tickover upwards was jolly useful to an aged old git like me, allowing me to avoid too many periods of rage from trying to change gear. Once upon a time the box might've had five ratios but I never managed to find more than four (excluding the two million false neutrals), usually only two or three. On a good day I'd find third and stick with it for as long as possible - I did find the clutch robust (the plates were probably pattern), allowing me to move off in third with a bit of slip and care on the throttle. On a bad day I'd find myself swapping back and forth between second and fourth (plus the false neutrals).
Only after an hour of traffic did the clutch become so hot that it'd drag when waiting at junctions. There was no way the change would work at a standstill unless the engine was turned off, as in stalled with a ball dislocating lurch. Anyone who's owned an old hack will know the scenario. Other town horrors include handling as heavy as an overladen truck and front forks that clanged over minor bumps or tried to throw me over the bars when digging into pot-holes. You could blame that on the fact that nothing's replaced unless it's broken, the forks being original equipment.
It didn't stop me getting a move on when travelling with me mates. We all favour these kind of old bikes - from GS550's to XS1100's - make a very pretty picture as we roar across the country. A coupe of guys have low-riders, which differ from the old choppers in that they can be thrown through the bends and not off the road. They look neat but you have to spend serious dosh on the custom work - no, thanks.
The XS suffers from a front wheel that tucks in when pushed hard and a back end that can let lose if the gearchange's messed up, which it often is. Twitching this way and that way serves to keep her in line but I try to avoid hammering the throttle shut in bends, as all that does is to make the shaft drive try to fall out of the swinging arm.
I keep up with most bikes. It's always reassuring to watch the clown on the XS1100 lose it in a big way. That bike makes the triple seem like a dinky toy. The XS doesn't like worn out tyres and I don't like buying new ones. Wet weather slides can be pant staining, I've seen more finesse in a pack of heavy metal fans spewing up after too much lager and curry. Aquaplane should be this model's middle name. I've slithered all over the shop but not actually fallen off. Pretty impressive, if you ask me!
Wet weather also turns up the old cutting out trick. The Yam sports coils off a car, ancient HT leads and a set of plugs firmly corroded into the cylinder head. I'd be surprised if it didn't cut out in the wet. It's quite good fun to suddenly find myself aboard a 500lb twin with all the go of a Yamaha Townmate and suddenly find all the power roaring in. Shake, rattle and roar at the very least. When I was a lad, what was known as character building.
In the winter, a huge full fairing off an old AA bike (still in glorious yellow) is fitted. My bones are too old and brittle to otherwise survive. The odd old codger gives me a salute and is probably a bit miffed when I give him a vee sign back. The fairing makes the front end incredibly heavy whilst the screen obscures the forward view as it vibrates in sympathy to the engine's chronic buzz. Surprisingly, as long as components are kept stock they don't break off and bounce down the road - a right relief that as I've endured a few Triumph twins in my past.
The fairing comes off in spring when my spirits soar with the warmer weather. Invariably, the moment the GRP's removed I end up riding a hundred miles through a howling gale. Even though the bike might become an honorary twin, roadside repairs are the exception rather than the rule. Electronic ignition still pulses reliably, there's no point balancing the carbs and the valvegear has worn as much as it's ever going to wear. When the bike breaks it usually does so in a big way. Friends with vans as large as their muscles are useful.
The worst that ever happened was a piston breaking up. The alloy debris ended up just about everywhere. Took three used engines in bits to replace all the knackered components. Alas, good gearbox parts and crankshafts are now becoming very rare and I once came close to buying a new primary chain. The latter can wear out in as little as 20,000 miles, a real piss poor piece of engineering that they must've copied from BSA.
One potential piece of nastiness that has yet to catch up with me, is that if the engine seizes solid there ain't a drive chain to conveniently snap under the pressure - the shaft's very well built and so far trouble free. The brakes are typical crap of this era, can fail from all the usual things, especially in British winters. Pad wear ain't good, either, as the bike often needs a loss of speed akin to hitting a brick wall. The weird, weird handling, again.
On the plus side, the motor makes enough rattles and knocks to warn of impending doom - most of the time, anyway. Given the six figure mileage, the unknown history of many of the engine's parts and the usual neglect, potential disaster lurks under the corroded engine covers.
But, what the hell, if the worst happens I can just dump the heap in someone's garden, hitch home and finish off the rebuild of the second bike - a crashed XS750 triple. The 850 originally cost me all of ninety-five smackers as a non-runner. Fixed for a fiver by fitting the aforementioned car coils. As often happens, I've become a bit of a collector of cheap Yamaha triple parts, have half a garage full of the stuff. I expect to still be riding around on an XS well into my dotage - not that it's that far off.
Daniel Knight
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The affair started, one night, when my trusty Honda FT500 blew its starter motor in Covent Garden. Instead of the usual hideous clattering and banging, there was just an ominous whirring. To cut a long story short, I got the FT500 fixed under warranty, but the experience shattered what confidence I had in the bike. Obviously, what I wanted was a new bike.
I'd seen an XS850 discounted to £1659, so I paid a visit to the shop and put down a deposit. I collected the machine one Saturday morning and rode it away to show off to the folks back home. The only teething problem was with the wiring - when the brakes were applied all the indicators came on!
The XS850 was based on the 750 triple, a bike that never really caught on, mainly because its three cylinder engine was unable to match rival fours for power whilst being bulkier and heavier. The DOHC unit featured just two valves per cylinder, a huge primary drive chain, a five speed box and shaft final drive.
Like all three cylinder machines, the XS sounded lovely both under acceleration and engine braking. Power development, never startling, at least allowed the bike to be used at low speeds without recourse to the crunchy gearbox. Shaft drive backlash was minimal compared to a BMW, but present on the overrun in corners, but I can take this in return for the lack of maintenance.
At that time, the biggest bike I'd owned was a Honda CB650 - the least said about which the better - and the XS850 seemed just as easy to ride and knocked out rather more low speed power. Running in was not difficult, and not even that slow as reasonable speeds could be achieved in top gear at minimal revs.
Certainly, the bike was heavy, especially at low speeds, but it seemed to fade away once a bit of speed was employed. The more I rode it the less I noticed the mass. I suppose really fast riding would be dangerous, but it's really not that sort of machine to begin with. For the first few weeks, commuting across London, I found the clutch rather heavy, but my muscles must have developed for I soon grew used to it.
I liked the bike enough to take off on a spur of the moment tour of Eire. The scenery was fantastic and the bike was in its element. The locals can't have seen many superbikes, for we often found a group admiring it on emerging from the local bar or restaurant. When one man told me how much such a machine would cost there I was very glad I had my Kryptonite lock.
Time passed quite enjoyably and the bike soon clocked up 6000 miles. I then found I was restricted to first and second gears. I took it to a local bike dealer who charged me £67 to fix it without really explaining what had gone wrong. The bike was just out of warranty so no chance of a refund.
At least I once more had five gears. A sidepanel fell off. Disinclined to pay £36 for a replacement, I fitted the panel from a scrapped XS750 for £5. At least if that one fell off I would not lose very much money. I could not measure the oil consumption, whilst fuel consumption was a reasonable 50mpg. Rear tyres lasted 6-7000 miles, with 10,000 miles for the front. Servicing was done by the dealer, I didn't fancy balancing three carbs nor playing with bucket and shim valves.
The repaired gearbox lasted another 9 months and 6000 miles. This time the repair cost only £50. The summer of '85 looked to be good. I had enough faith in the bike to sell my car and generate some extra money. Just as I was planning a grand tour, the bike was nicked from outside my house.
A month later the police found the XS after it had been used in an armed robbery. The ignition lock had been torn out, some tatty battery had replaced the original and the sidepanels had disappeared. Six weeks later the dealer had put it back on the road with a Motad exhaust thrown in as the Marshall had already been scratched when the local lager louts had tipped the bike over in the street.
Sadly, I had to continue leaving it parked in the road. It was almost a whole month before some bastards knocked it over again, breaking one of the new indicators. I eventually replaced the indicators with CB250RS items mounted on short stalks to avoid further damage.
The Old Bill probably saved my life one day. I was cruising around that travesty of a motorway, the M25, approaching the ton, when I saw a police Rover in position. I rolled off the throttle - and noticed that the bike was suddenly weaving rather badly. I headed for the hard shoulder, and got off the bike in time to see the last of the air escape from the rear tyre. I'd picked up a nail somewhere.
That's one problem with such a heavy bike. When everything is set up perfectly the XS can be run along quite adequately. As soon as the tyres or suspension begin to wear, the handling deteriorates. It's a brave man indeed who rides fast on an XS850 on worn out tyres.
The usual recipe for these kind of big Japs - decent rubber, Koni shocks, heavier springs and oil in the forks - obviously work to a degree on the XS850, but the added ingredient of shaft drive does make it hard to convert to a state where it can match more modern, lighter bikes. But, then, as I noted before, this bike has to be regarded as a tourer and not a sportster.
With a big tank, comfy seat, reasonable riding position for speeds up to 80mph, and bags of torque, the bike is rather useful for doing long runs up motorways and along good A roads. It is possible to cruise with the ton up, but this does induce neck strain and has a rather nasty effect on the fuel economy. It can be slung around tight corners but gets tiring through S bends. When it does get seriously out of line, it becomes a bouncing, buckling monster - something I seldom approached as I always tended to ride sensibly.
At 17000 miles the gearbox did its old trick again. This time I took it to Greyhound Motors in Croydon, who were much more helpful than the previous dealers. It seemed that the bolt holding the final output gear on the layshaft kept coming loose. I'd been lucky - three times. I'd just been left without a gearchange. A friend's XS850 had shed the same bolt, but in a more spectacular manner. It had hit the primary drive chain and put a hole in the crankcase! Obviously a design fault - but Yamaha claimed not to know of any fix. I discovered that there was a replacement bolt available for the XS750 - so that was fitted and Loctited into place.
To put the bike into perspective. It handles and goes better than early Honda 750 fours, isn't as long lived or reliable as a GS850, which doesn't handle as well as the big Yam. Definitely a useful bike for long distance touring but unlikely to make it as a classic in twenty years time.
However, I decided I'd come full circle by then and sold the bike before it could go wrong again. I was sad to see it go - but as a bike, it was best as a tourer, and with a gearbox that could give up at any moment, it was not the best machine to travel hundreds of miles on.
B.P.Munt