I have owned my Z1 numberplate for near on 17 years. There are also bits of engine that have lasted that long as well. But not that many. And if I really thought about it, I might find the odd chassis component that came from the original 1974 bike. The reason for this lack of originality in what is supposed to be a long lasting classic motorcycle is that I've crashed the thing five times and blown up the engine twice.
Admittedly, one of the crashes was caused by the engine blowing up, so, perhaps, the record is not so bad for 17 years and 175,000 miles of highway insanity.
It all started when I was just 17. Then, you could buy an old 250 for next to nothing, pass your test on it after a month, chuck it in the nearest canal and go buy the biggest, meanest chunk of high powered nastinesss you could persuade credulous parents to guarantee the hp on.
Back then I didn't weigh much over 8 stone, the Z1 scaled well over 500lbs when fully fuelled up. Even under the constraints of running in the thing shifted like it was going into orbit at any moment. Braking and handling were frightening to say the least. The slightest drop of rain and the front disc took the day off. A couple of bumps and the high bars were shaking all over the place.
I didn't know any better and thought it was all par for the course. You just had to ride through the shakes and whack on the back brake. The 900cc DOHC four cylinder engine felt rough at low revs but produced loads of power. After 500 miles I let rip with the throttle in second gear. The rev counter whipped around past the redline, the front wheel leapt off the ground and my puny arm and shoulder muscles felt like they were being stretched on the rack.
By the time I'd got various bodily functions under control and was telling myself that this was fun, the Z1 had eaten up all of what had been an empty road and was about to run over a Ford Anglia. I jammed on all the brakes and tried to wrench the bars to one side of the car. Some hope. One thing a Z1 won't do is change direction when locked up. The bike ploughed into the back of the car and I went over the bars.
In retrospect, this is a good bar room yarn that I trot out to impress gullible GPZ owners. However, as I somersaulted through lthe air it was anything but funny. When I hit the front of the car with my back I thought my world had ended. I was thrown off the car, luckily at an angle, and ended up implanted in a ditch. That I was still alive was a great surprise.
I staggered out of the ditch to find that the Ford Anglia had ended its life by hitting a stone wall on the other side of the road. Cars stopped, and drivers helped an ancient out of the wrecked car - both the back and front end had been stoved in - he looked like he didn't know what had destroyed his ordered Sunday afternoon outing. I was more concerned with the condition of my prized possession. It had ended up in a ditch with a bent or wrecked everything except for the engine and frame.
When the police arrived and started asking awkward questions I feigned terminal illness and was rushed to the local hospital. About three months later the insurance coughed up and the dealer resurrected the beast. It took me six months to regain the courage to open her up again. At least it had a chance to be run in properly and I had put on some much needed muscle. People actually stopped pointing at me perched upon the huge Kawa and laughing out loud.
I soon found out that top speed was an indicated 140mph. The vibes were awful, it wobbled and weaved all over the road and the single front disc brake couldn't pull the speeding hulk up very quickly. I didn't weigh much and my girlfriend weighed even less, but this didn't stop the twin rear shocks bottoming out over rough country roads.
One ride was so bad I had to pull over and let the woman rush off behind a hedge to relieve herself. For all that, for the next three years I bathed in the reflected glory of owning the fastest piece of metal on the road and got into all kinds of races with lesser machinery without killing myself or even falling off. The second accident occurred on a wet day in town. I thought I had mastered the wet weather delay on the front disc, but it caught me out this time and I locked up the front wheel when the traffic lights changed at a busy junction.
Luckily, I kicked myself away from the machine as soon as it started to slide down the road and rolled clear of descending traffic by inches. The Kawasaki was not so lucky. Somehow the throttle jammed open and it careered from one car to the next until it finally flipped itself upright and charged straight into a Ford Cortina.
What the driver thought of an unmanned beast of a motorcycle charging straight at him I never found out. It made the front page of the local paper - 5 cars wrecked, two completely written off and one battered motorcycle. This time even the frame was bent.
I waited in fear that the new insurance company might find out about the old accident which I'd forgotten to mention and dumped the bike at another dealers. They only took two months to sort that one out and told me not to bother asking for a quote when my insurance premium was due for renewal. By then the engine had done 35000 miles; with its new wheels and cycle parts it looked brand new.
Engine reliability had been awe inspiring. I was only changing the oil every 5000 miles and letting a mate balance the carbs when he felt bored. Rear tyres lasted only 4500 miles, mostly because of the drag racing my mates and I indulged in on the way to work in the morning. Similarly, chains didn't last well, I had one cheapo disintegrate after only 2800 miles, although I could usually get 5000 miles out of them.
With 62000 miles up, whilst proceeding at an orderly 120mph pace down the M1 in the company of half a dozen mates on CB750s and Z900s, the engine seized solid. This was the closest I've ever coming to shitting myself whilst on a motorcycle. Usually, accidents are over so quickly that there's no time for such self indulgence.
It took a huge back wheel slide, burning rubber and a massive tank slapper before I managed the necessary coordination of physical and mental facilities to pull in the clutch. The bike had lost half its speed by then and it managed to come back into line and I crashed it into the grass shoulder of the motorway.
If we hadn't been going so fast we might well have been amid traffic and that would have been the end of yours truly. The Kawa had gone across all three lanes of carriageway and back again in my desperate struggle to regain control. My mates, who had all had the sense to brake hard and stay out of the way, were all white faced and amazed that I was still alive.
Cycle part damage was mostly bent bits that stuck out too far and a few dents to the metalwork. The engine, when it was examined later, had broken two con-rods and distributed alloy debris throughout the cases. It was replaced by a motor from the breakers which turned out to be smoother and more powerful that my original engine. This one was maintained properly...
The other two crashes were not my fault and involved the usual blind car drivers. The first wrote off the front end, the second the rear end. As both were settled in cash on the spot I took the opportunity to replace the components with better quality items. The front gained twin discs and forks from a Z1R (plus much needed fork brace) and the back an alloy swinging arm and R and R shocks. The spoke wheels were rebuilt with chunky alloy rims.
By this time the beast had done 125000 miles and was looking a bit tatty. It was also getting burned off by the race replicas. It was annoying, to say the least, to have some yob on a CBR600 ride off into the distance down my favourite bit of country swervery. I decided on a tuning job and respray. The motor was bored out to over 1000cc, high lift cams were installed, aided by a straight through exhaust system that rattled windows and sent dogs into a frenzy.
I spent a boring 800 miles running in the rebuilt engine. Then I got into a race with a CBR1000. Down fast A roads we sped. I was spinning the motor into the red in every gear to keep him in sight. The bike still weaved and wobbled but nothing very serious. The plot felt great, I had never gone so fast before nor had my arms wrenched in quite the same ferocious way.
Then disaster struck again. With 150mph on the clock, vibes causing my vision to go awry and the Kawa just edging past the back wheel of the Honda, the motor locked up solid. This time my hand was already hovering over the clutch and I safely rolled to a halt; the silence strange after the roar of the exhaust. The CBR rider didn't even slow.
The poor old crankshaft had called it a day. There was a hole in the crankcase and a crack running right through the bottom half of the engine. Finding a decent engine proved impossible. I ended up buying a seized Z900 motor and fitting bits from my two wrecked engines plus some new pistons. Still, it only cost £300 to put back on the road, a lot cheaper than buying a new bike.
Since then I've taken it relatively easy and kept on regularly maintaining the bike. It runs a bit rough and doesn't have the same pull as when it was new, but with the respray, uprated suspension and brakes, it keeps up with most traffic, attracts a lot of attention and keeps me happy. I am tempted by one of the new Zephyrs; Z1s cost nearly as much secondhand as the new machines!
Alex Wilson
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Cops to the right of me, cops to the left of me, cops to the back of me.....well, maybe not that bad. Just one flashing Rover drawing level, the speedo flirting with 90mph. Glanced over, some bearded bugger with a big grin waving me down. It wasn't just the speed that got to them, it was the way the Z900 was weaving all over its lane. I knew this from my past experiences with the police.
They were never very amused when I told them it didn't speed wobble until 123mph was on the clock. Why it should chose that exact velocity to let loose I didn't know. All I knew was that it was crazy enough to throw me right off the bike if I didn't loosen my grip on the bars and let the wobbles die down of their own accord.
I'd spent a small fortune on tyres, suspension and frame bracing with absolutely no effect. I did know that most Z900s were similarly affected, although the speed at which they went wild differed slightly from mine. Something fundamentally wrong with the frame design or geometry, I guessed.
I had the choice of trying to ride through the wobbles or pulling over. The former was not impossible; I'd come out the other side to an uncanny stability at 130mph and even got 140mph on the clock. I had no idea of the top speed of the Rover but guessed that its superior aerodynamics would allow better high speed acceleration. I also knew that the next turn off was over 20 miles away. I decided to pull over.
After some sarcastic remarks about my apparent youth, along the lines of asking if I was old enough to hold a motorcycle licence, they got stuck into the Z900. The only things wrong with it were that the main beam had blown and the horn didn't work. Given the fact that it was nearly 20 years and 78000 miles old, these minor defects were hardly worth considering. Fortunately, the plod never checked them, more concerned with seeing if they could pull off the wheels and swinging arm. They couldn't, so I got off with a warning rather than a booking. What I really needed was a turbo-charger to make escape from such people easier.
I doubted if the Z900 motor would take such excesses. It had begun to show signs of frailty - a bit of smoke out of the exhaust on the overrun, an unhealthy rattle from the top end and some harsh midrange vibes. I'd done nearly 10,000 miles on the Z so had become tuned into its emanations. I knew when the valves needed setting from a loss of off the line acceleration and a bit clutch rattle at 1500rpm always indicated that the carbs were due for a tune-up. Having been thrown off a CB900 at 70mph when the engine seized I had soon learnt the importance of taking an interest in the feel and sound of a motor.
I shouldn't really have been doing 90mph, but it was such a pleasant English summer day and the motorway was relatively empty that it was too much to resist. The weaves I'd grown used to, they were never, at that kind of speed, too worrying or likely to turn really vicious. I was happy enough, though, to carry on at a mere 75mph, which was smooth, stable and easier on the ear-drums (thanks to a marginally legal 4-1).
Being at that stage in life where a set of wheels has to be a bit of an ego-trip as well as a way of travelling, means the Z900 is kept in pretty good cosmetic shape and young ladies are quite willing to swing a leg over the saddle. Which always puts me in an evil mood, nothing like having a young girlie clinging on for dear life as I pull a couple of wheelies and thunder through the town. Er, it also explains why I've gone through two sets of clutch plates! My mates, also mounted on old retros, also find pulling the birds easy going.
Our weekend outings have become pretty notorious. A high speed 500 mile dash to the country, erect a tent or three and kill a few crates of beer. We've even got a couple of girls piloting their own machines as well as a pillion each - we must be the only group of motorcyclists where the girls outnumber the men. Eat yer hearts out; and no you can't join!
On one of these blasts some yob in a Porsche decided he would join in. Bloody fast cars, no doubt about that, we had a hard time keeping ahead of him. None of the bikes had what you'd call state of the art handling. It was a 911, which with its engine in the back could have treacherous handling on a par with my Z900. On one evil bend we were using all the road to get around, with a wild burst of acceleration on the exit line. The 911 tried to follow suit, spun its back wheels out, whacked into an earth bank and flipped right off the road.
We turned around, intrigued to view the carnage. The car looked a write-off with dents everywhere but the driver managed to crawl out of the hole that once contained the windscreen. He looked a bit disconcerted but was made of stern stuff - once he clocked the women we had with us, he was all for buying a bike and wanted to know which one we'd recommend. We figured a GSXR1100 would either keep him in line or kill him off.
A rather more serious problem occurred on the last leg of the journey when one of the Z1000s blew its crankshaft. Seemed like a roller bearing had exploded, sending metal particles right through the engine. The guy survived an 80mph lock-up without falling off. The pillion pissed herself but that was the least of his worries. Like just about everyone else, these old bikes were run on a shoe-string - we all lived in fear of Total Seizure. Not that it stopped us caning the old monsters.
I gave him an 220,000 mile Z900 motor I had in the garage. It came out of a wrecked bike, the owner claiming the engine must've seized on him. But we'd got it started up and it seemed to run alright even if it was full of enough rattles to drown out a VW Beetle at a hundred paces. We were all amused to see how it would react to its new role in life.....
He came back a bit white-faced and I soon found out why when I took a turn at the bars. It vibrated more harshly than an old B25 single I was unfortunate enough to have to suffer for a week. There was none of the glorious forward thrust that my own Z900 still possessed. The engine felt like it had to overcome massive inertia just to gain a few hundred revs and refused to pull fifth gear under any circumstances. It just goes to show how tough is the Z900 - he did 6000 miles, before he found a decent Z1100 mill, without needing any attention. I doubted that there were any bits I could use left within its blotched cases.
I eventually took my engine down to the crankcases. I wanted to fix it before it turned extortionately expensive. Most of the poor running was down to a couple of piston rings that had collapsed into their grooves and a worn out camchain. A rebore and new set of pistons almost bankrupted me but after a few days of missing the charge the Z900 gave I was desperate to get back on the road. At almost any cost!
I managed to restrain the right wrist for all of 300 miles. I had an ear to ear grin after the first 50 to 120mph blast in top gear and spent most of the day riding up and down my favourite A-roads. The engine was both quiet and smooth as well as packing one hell of a punch. It was better than new, or so it seemed to me.
I had made the most of its 80 horses by removing as much excess mass as possible. Instead of weighing a stock 550lbs I'd got it down to about 480lbs. Just replacing the 4-4 exhaust must have saved half that. The lower mass also helped the bike in the corners, being that much easier to flick every which way. Not that hard riding still didn't produce a lot of sweat and massive overheating of the twin disc brakes out front.
Despite its handling deficiencies, or maybe even because of the skill needed to overcome them, I love the Z900. I've owned other big fours but they have somehow lacked the charisma and character of the big Kawasaki. I want to go around the clock at least twice on mine.
Martin Long
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Weird how a five minute conversation in a pub can change your whole life. This Del Boy type character reckoned his recently deceased uncle's possessions included a motorcycle. The next day I went along to have a look. I had nothing to lose. The clouds hung heavy and the wind whipped through the lane where the lock-up was lopsidedly located.
The motorcycle turned out to be a rusty frame and half a dozen boxes. The logbook hinted it was a Kawasaki Z1 but you could have fooled me. Mixed in with the Kawasaki stuff were bits from half a dozen other bikes. Then the rain fell so heavily that the tin roof rattled and visibility was down to half a yard. I wanted the warmth of my home but the guy kept rattling off spurious reasons why I should buy the boxes of bits.
In the end I agreed to £25 as he was willing to deliver the bits and myself back to my house. At least I wouldn't be soaked through. What I didn't realise was that I'd have to help push start the ancient Bedford van up a slight incline. I was shivering, close to hallucination, by the time I was back in my living room.
Once recovered I started pulling bits out of the boxes. The engine was indeed a 903cc DOHC four cylinder job with a bottom end in one piece (filled with murky oil) and a choice of three different tensioners. The barrels were rebored and the pistons covered in enough protective grease to last a gay club for a night. The cylinder head was wrecked, cams missing lobes, bearings shot and a couple of cracks running through the combustion chambers. The camchain featured rusted through links.
That all seemed quite reasonable given the low purchase cost, nothing trawling around the breakers and reading the classifieds couldn't solve. The chassis was harder work. The wheels were rusted heaps, the forks were pitted and the front disc missing. The rust on the frame cleaned up and there were no kinked tubes. The Z1 had poor suspension and dubious handling in stock condition, using more modern forks, wheels and brakes would make a lot of sense.
Unfortunately, I was tempted by a complete Z1 which had done 125000 miles and blown its main bearings, as well as seizing the pistons. After much haggling, and a few abusive phone calls, I took possession for £250. The owner reckoned this an absurd price, less than a tenth of what a working Z1 was worth but no-one else was willing to give him the time of day. I had to push it three miles home, which with a mass of 550lbs was incredibly hard work.
I still had to buy newish tensioner, camchain, tyres and brake pads, but it was much quicker than sorting out the pile of bits. In fact, I sold off the other parts for a grand total of £350, the repainted frame and logbook going for £250. That meant I had a running bike on the road for practically nothing.
The Z1 has gained classic status. The only reason I can think for this is the butch looks. The chassis would be considered dangerous in a 550, these days, and the engine only puts out 80 horses. Most 600s will blast off into the distance without even straining the parameters of their design. My first impressions consisted of a vibratory, noisy motor that ran out of steam at 120mph. By then the bike was chopping around like a jet-ski in a force nine gale.
I almost threw up when I backed off the throttle. The back end shook around all over the place, the seat seemed to be falling off and the bars wobbled like the front tyre had blown. Brake, brake, brake. And pray! The single front disc would've been impressive on a restricted 125 but with so much mass straining at the leash it took forever before anything began to happen. I felt the muscles in my right hand beginning to tear as I forced the lever back to the bar.
Less than impressed I phoned in an advert to MCN, deciding that anyone who wanted to hand over £2500 could have it. In reality, I would've been happy with 250 notes just to stop myself from dying young.
No-one bothered to phone. Everyone who saw the bike stationary reckoned it was the business. They were less impressed when the motor rattled into life and left speechless when let loose at the controls. After a while it became obvious that the steering head bearings were ruined. Cracked, more like it. Once a nice set of taper-rollers were hammered in, some semblance of directional stability was achieved. It felt safe up to about 80mph but few were willing to go any faster.
The disc brake improved slightly after the new pads had lost their glaze. They still kept the blood flowing through my heart, though, even in town losing speed involved a second's delay before any braking occurred. I never managed to squeal the front tyre. The tall, wide bars gave useful leverage despite all the mass and I managed to ride around rather than through cars when the braking was insufficient.
The riding position was all American cruiser. Given the vibes and handling this was no great inhibition, it wasn't the kind of bike that was well suited to high speed motorway work. 70mph cruising was the best bet, at slightly higher speeds the vibes really churned in. Doing 80mph for an hour, for instance, blew every bulb on the bike and left a silencer rattling around on its broken bracket.
Okay, I have absolutely no idea how many miles the engine has done. For all I know it's been around the clock twice and the bearings are half rotted by corrosion after standing for a couple of years. A low mileage Z1 might be an entirely different ballgame. Even bearing these possibilities in mind, I found the gearbox a walk on the wild side. I'd be cruising along, almost without a care in the world, when there'd be a massive shotgun type noise followed by 12000 revs as the engine screamed in a false neutral and I screamed with terror from the sudden wobbles induced by the lack of power getting through to the back wheel.
The gearbox action was always poor, needing a hefty boot and a lot of patience. I found it better to take off in second and hit fourth as soon as possible. Finding neutral at a standstill was a complete waste of time and holding the clutch in led to lots of drag, ultimately stalling the motor if I wasn't willing to jump the lights. Engine and transmission oil were, naturally, shared, needed to be changed every 750 to 1000 miles, depending on riding conditions and the quality of the oil.
That something was wrong with the transmission was seen in the way the drive chain wore out (every 3000 miles) and an engine sprocket that was devoted to falling off. The last thing I wanted was for the chain to come adrift at 70mph. Every time I changed the engine oil I checked the final drive sprocket. I think it was the frightening levels of vibration that were running through the engine. It was heavier going than a GS1000 or an XJ900, both of which had previously passed through my hands and left me in a happier state of mind.
Even with that experience I couldn't get to grips with Kawasaki's most famous baby. There seemed so many ways of killing myself without undue effort that the sheer brutality of the bike overwhelmed my mind, making me think, softly, softly, in between prayers and bowel emptying sessions. It's hard to describe a bike that goes around bends in such an unpredictable manner; one that will flip out of a aura of stability into drunken camel mode for no apparent reason. The suspension was so primitive and the chassis so ill-thought out that mastering the Z1 was beyond my abilities.
Only one friend was able to get to grips with the Kawasaki. The others never asked for a second ride after frightening themselves silly. This one guy rode through all the wobbles and weaves, used the leverage of the bars to take bends at twice what I thought was a safe speed. I can attest to this as I was clinging on to the pillion perch at the time! I've never been so scared in my life!
It's possible there was a much better bike hidden within the depths of the aged Z1. I'd had enough, didn't fancy my chances of finding its true limits without killing myself. I could've spent a fortune upgrading the chassis but someone came and gave me £1250. I felt a great sense of relief at seeing the back of the Z1. Nostalgia Sucks!
Eric
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The scene was an all too familiar one - an impressionable youth staring with nose pressed against the local bike shop window, drooling over the latest mega machines offered by short gentlemen from distant lands. If only...so off home it was to dream about the large silver blue Kawasaki Z1R wishing some long forgotten aunt would meet her maker leaving her fortune to one who could put it to good use. I then came one step closer to believing in miracles when on arrival at the house I was told that this is just what had happened. I now had enough not only to buy the bike but also to insure it.
A week or two later it was back to the bike shop to be met by the usual charming sales patter. We started off well, 'Piss off sonny and don't touch the merchandise.' 'Oright then, I'll buy the Honda 750 from down the road.' 'Terribly sorry, sir, just our little joke. Ha, ha. Now then what can I interest you in - special low deposit finance, can we arrange your insurance. Of course, we have our own extended warranty scheme which is tailor made to suit our, I mean your, needs.'
'Well, actually, I was rather interested in buying a bike - more exactly the Z1R.' 'Fine choice, sir. fine choice. Note the state of the art colour coded spark plug caps and designer centrestand - especially designed to gouge perfect semi-circles round motorways.'
I was sold. I arranged insurance, parted with £2010 and took delivery of JCX 380S the same day - a machine destined to be my pride and joy, also the cause of many mishaps and near fatalities during the next nine years.
Day one. Out on the road for the first time on anything bigger than a Honda 90. Take it nice and easy: 10.....20..... 30..... slow down for the lights.... SLOW DOWN FOR THE LIGHTS..... just in time. Lesson one, don't trust the brakes. Over the years the brakes have used up several of my lives.
In the original form the front brake is virtually useless. Partly because the master cylinder is located on the bottom yoke and is cable operated, to clear the fairing. Goodridge hose and various types of pads made absolutely no difference and I only cured the problem by taking a chunk out of the fairing and fitting a Z1 master cylinder. If the rear brake managed to work slightly better, it wasn't for long because the aluminium components corroded causing it to seize on with monotonous regularity.
First impressions of the 1015cc lump were very good, perhaps because it was eleven times the capacity of my old bike - in fact, the impression stayed with me for as long as I kept the Kawa. There is no doubt that the engine is the best part of these machines. Excellent acceleration especially once past 5000rpm and a top end of 125mph - where legally permitted of course, officer. It was useless at popping wheelies, all I succeeded in doing was stretching the knicker elastic chain and ruining the rear tyre. An expensive and pointless game.
It may have produced a mere 90hp but the motor had excellent torque and would pull strongly even from very low revs. It proved to be very reliable, despite much abuse and only let me down once in 70,000 miles when the alternator burnt out. I found that the carbs needed balancing every 3000 to 4000 miles (praise be to John Morgan mercury vacuum gauges, they have saved me a fortune in tuning costs) and the valve clearances went about 6000 miles between adjustment - a special tool for a tenner means the cams don't have to be removed.
The camchain went for 32000 miles before it demanded replacement. Oil and filter changes were done every 3000 miles which paid dividends - the cam lobes and other internals looked like new even after nine years.
The matt black finish of the engine did not stand up to the ravages of time very well. In fact, the standard of finish on the whole machine was pretty poor. Paint peeled off the frame and tank to the extent that after six years the tank was replaced and the frame powder coated. Fuel consumption stayed more or less at 40mpg regardless of how it was ridden. It never used engine oil between changes.
On the road, the bike was quite a handful to control. In an effort to stop the tendency for early Z1's to weave at anything over 80mph, the fork angle was changed. This increased the wheelbase slightly, made the steering heavier and the sodding thing still meandered across the motorway out of control on more occasions than I care to recall.
This was eventually cured by fitting a steering damper, taper roller head bearings and having two tubes welded across the frame - one above and one below the exhaust tubes (as done by Kawasaki on the Z1000J and Z1000R). Quite inexpensive to do but very effective. After these mods I really began to enjoy the bike because the frame could then handle the power produced by that excellent engine unit.
The Z1R was a leader in its day with advanced features such as twin discs, front brake calipers on the back of the fork legs, self cancelling indicators, electronic ignition and a nose fairing as an integral part of the design. All common today, but in 1978 it was rather a different story. On the subject of styling, many didn't like the coffin tank and very angular lines, but I thought, and still think, it was one of the most aesthetically pleasing bikes ever produced. Each to their own.
At one time I decided to sell it to my brother, Harry, who had been badgering me about it for years. In a drunken stupor I sold it, only to regret the move when I had sobered up. It took two years for me to convince him to sell it back and I vowed never to let it go again. My wife had other ideas, so in the interest of matrimonial harmony (and the desire to reach 30) it had to go. A sad day.
In the time I owned JCX I had several bikes alongside such as three GPz1100s, a GPZ900 (the only one I have left) and XJ650 (very tough and underrated shaftie) and a Z1100R. Of all these I found the Z1R to have the most character, it was the easiest to maintain and was made of better quality alloys than the later Kawasakis.
Now, what would I do if I had my time over again? The answer is easy - exactly the same, no regrets. If you can put up with its failings on the braking/handling front you will be rewarded by many enjoyable miles of effortless riding. Recommended.
Malcolm Speedwell