Honda CB400T

One of the wild wonders of socialist Britain, cheap used Jap bikes. Okay, this has little to do with Blair and his cohorts, more down to the opening of world markets and rampant capitalist. But are we going to complain? Short answer, nope!

Thus into my grimy hands fell a 1991 Yamaha XJ600. The last of the breed, only 9000 miles, in excellent fettle and mine for next to nowt. In fact, the dealer was so exasperated with the whole used scene he demanded I make him an offer. The tag read a pound off a thousand quid, so I tried half that. This almost gave the old chap a heart attack, but after his face lost the purple hue he agreed to take 700 sovs. A year, or so, ago, it would've cost at least twice that. There's progress for you!

As a nineteen year old with a long criminal record, third party fire and theft almost cost as much as the bike. Living in Hammersmith didn't help, even after I explained that I would be parking the bike in the hallway of the parental council hovel. The first ride on new bikes are always fun. Coming from a 12hp 125 that weighed little more than 200lbs to a 70hp, 450lb four gave an added twist to the game.

The usual heavy use of the throttle had the four wailing up the street whilst my brain tried to sort out the minor fact that all these cages appeared to be reversing up the road at warp speed. A gentle tug on the bars had little effect, needed some serious muscle to make the gap between the cars. The riding position was easy going on my youthful body, everything came together as naturally as it could get. Even the switches had an unknown precision.

I arrived home in one piece. Concerned parents rushed out, almost went hysterical at the sight of such a large motorcycle underneath their only child. My wide grin probably didn't help, neither did my tales of doing the ton through the town centre. Only joking officer. It was hard going to fit the bike through the doorway and the tiny gap left in the hallway meant the parents could now only exit the house by the back door. After they'd calmed down, they at least accepted the fact that leaving the bike out in the street I might as well just put a match in the petrol tank and get the agony over with quickly

The next morning the bike didn't want to start. The old man was persuaded to give us a push, the bike burping into life after about 20 yards. He almost fell flat on his face when I whacked the throttle open! Don't know what caused the reluctant starting, it was fine after that - perhaps a bit of grit in the fuel line or something. I headed for the open road, wanting to do the obligatory speed testing. The XJ ran out of steam dead on 120mph, but would slowly creep up to an indicated 132mph!

At this point no less than three cop cars appeared out of nowhere. Sirens wailing, I was pulled. The XJ didn't have the legs to outrun the porcine ones. Didn't they have anything better to do on the M1 on a Sunday morning? It appeared not. I was duly cautioned and told that I was going to lose my licence and if they had anything to do with it would end up in the slammer. They obviously missed out on their sessions in the police charm school. As I was foolishly legal, as far as doc's and insurance went, at this point I couldn't think of any easy escape. They'd just scowled when I mentioned something about rushing to my granny's bedside as she was minutes off dying. Shit!

One of the peculiarities of English law, despite breaking the speed limit by an outrageous amount, I was still free to ride the Yamaha until the courts had dealt with me. The obvious solution to my dilemma was to do a disappearing act before the summons hit the doormat. For some reason, the parents actually looked quite relieved when I muttered something about moving out soon and even offered a few hundred notes to set me up.

London's infamously nasty for expensive bedsits but I had a couple of mates who were doing building work in Brussels who'd said I could doss down with them. Not that I fancied doing heavy manual labour, even if you could earn twice the UK's going rate. As the police couldn't do any more damage, I rode down to Dover on full throttle most of the way. Couldn't fault the handling or the 75 to 110mph power punch in top gear. Fuel worked out at 40-45mpg and the oil level didn't budge. Comfort was good, just the odd bit of arm and neck strain when riding flat out.

Running the bike on the wrong side of the road across to Brussels was another kind of fun and games. Quite hard to adjust for the first half hour, then I switched over to the Continental way of doing things. Brussels, itself, jammed pack full of totally mad cagers who wouldn't give way for the world. Several went out of their way to try to knock me off; the only survival route was to ride with all the aggressiveness of a Skinhead on holiday in Africa. The XJ wasn't in the least bit fazed by all this stress, going where it was pointed and leaving a layer of black rubber when I went wild on the throttle in first gear.

Not even the odd bit of cobblestone road threw it off line and I felt quite happy to ride over some grand dame's poodle which had foolishly waddled out into the road. The Yam pulverised the little beast but groaned to a halt when the carcase became jammed in the front mudguard. Judging by the reaction of the ped's, killing canines is some kind of hanging offence - I managed to free the front wheel just before the plod turned up, armed with guns and batons, and scarpered off through the traffic before they had a chance to get their hands on me. If there was any justice left in the world, I would've got a replacement for my battered guard out of the deal.

Turned out, a basic studio apartment in Brussels could be had for less than 200 notes a month, if you didn't mind sharing the district with disparate Algerians and Africans. I didn't, and it was a lot better than putting up with my mates who were heavily into flash cages and fat Belgium women. The XJ600 was a touch heavy to be a perfect city bike but I could put in the muscle to get it to do what I wanted. Belgium back roads were a blast - not too wide, but straight with a clear view of what was going down up ahead. I ignored the speed limits and played the bike through the gearbox, a nice mechanical song and excess of speed resulting. It was so easy to ride that I ignored the police cars and had a real fine time.

The despatch scene in Brussels wasn't anything like as intense as London but I found one back street company that wasn't interested in an excess of paperwork and put me to work. The lack of people willing to do the DR hustle easily explained by the homicidal nature of the drivers, the often ice-rink road surfaces and sudden rainstorms that I could barely see through. Dead easy to make 400 quid a week, though. The Yam's finish suffered to a far greater extent than the engine's mechanicals. After six months and 22000 miles of abuse it still started easily and would pull 130mph. Maintenance consisted of changing the oil whenever I felt guilty, which wasn't that often.

As the parents had told the cops I'd gone off to live in Oz, it was finally safe to return home, richer and wiser. The XJ600 was cleaned up and traded in for a new, heavily discounted, 1200 Bandit - yes, even after all that abuse I made a profit out of the deal. The parents were newly dismayed when they found I'd taken a jig-saw to the doorframe in order to allow the Suzuki into the hallway, but they soon got over it. The Bandit makes the 600 seem like a moped but that doesn't mean the Yamaha isn't a brilliant middleweight. I'll always have a soft spot for mine.

Stuart Paine