Moto Guzzi V50

Sex, drugs and rock and roll didn't come into it. What the hell am I talking about? Well, the bike belonged to this girl I met at a Stones' concert who was on something strange and strong...but that's all irrelevant. What was on offer was an elderly but prime V50 with a mere 16000 miles on its clock. I was assured that it had only been used on sunny weekends by a minimum of owners. I managed to drag my eyes away from the huge, erect nipples that were sprouting out of the owner's tee-shirt to confirm that there were no obvious signs of neglect. Oh, and it didn't fall over when I kicked the tyres. Mine for 999 notes, a magical enough invocation to have me wondering about riding home in the dark, Wop electrics being infamously inflammatory!

The deed was done, the babe suddenly becoming cold and remote once the dosh was in her hands after blatantly indicating the possibility of unlimited lust. Women! The V50 was surprisingly small and compact for a 500cc vee-twin, my old Honda CB250 Superslug feeling more manly. Had I bought myself a ladies bike? The performance certainly suggested that not much excess muscle was required to keep it in line, the engine straining away as I tried to top the ton to little avail. Only on a downhill section of the M1 did I manage an indicated 105mph, a velocity that suddenly had the speedo's needle whirring around in a dervish dance. It never worked properly again, I'd probably pushed the little beast to unheard of velocities.

The next day I gave the machine the kind of close inspection I'd normally apply before handing over any dosh. As I'm nearer fifty than forty it's a rare day when a teenager thrusts her breasts out at me, so my addled mind was more than forgivable! Fearing the worst, I was pleasantly surprised to find no discernible defects and was soon planning a holiday saunter on the Italian masterpiece of minimal engineering (a quote that stayed in the mind from some over the top journo!). I decided it would be pushing fate to actually leave the country but a nice amble around the Pennines would prove an adequate test of both man and machine.

The V50's as light as it's compact, a surprisingly easy bike to throw around despite being equipped with shaft drive. Way ahead of maggots like the CX500. Where the Italian machine was let down was in its somewhat variable build quality, reminiscent of the days of old British twins. Get a good one, the praise was ceaseless; end up with a Friday afternoon special to enter a particularly dire vale of tears. The Guzzi's probably vary to less extremes than the old Brit's but throw in the vagaries of various owners of used stuff to reveal a real excess of machines - everything from ready to die dogs to well tended cycles with loads of life left. They were particularly popular with the softer sex (stop laughing out there, I know, I know...) which could mean anything and nothing.

What it meant in my case was that 45 miles into my country ramble the gearbox locked up solidly. This could just have been bad luck but on reflection I figure any dame willing to flash her breasts at someone old enough to be her father has to be up to something; and I doubt if it has anything to do with leanings towards incest. I wasn't such a silly old fool that I hadn't joined those nice chaps at the AA who were understanding personified and quite happily collected bike and I - despite the trailer, the van driver belted along at a velocity I wouldn't have dared emulate on the V50!

At this point I had to enter a pact with the devil - or the local Guzzi expert in plain English. He rubbed his hands in glee at the sight of my plaintive form and miserable face, only slightly knocked off course by my admission of having practically no money. He offered 250 notes for the bike, sight unseen, so to speak. I refrained from using vocabulary learnt from a short youthful period as a docker and he agreed to whip the motor out to have a look at the innards for a mere fifty quid. It turned out to be a loose bolt on the selector arm that could be fixed for a fiver plus another forty notes for the rebuild. He must've taken mercy on the disconsolate form before him (me not the bike!).

Happy as a bribed politician I rolled the Guzzi out of his workshop only to find one of the indicators waggling around and the steering suddenly as loose as my bowels felt. Whatever could the matter be? This evidence of cack-handedness instilled little faith in the efficacy of the rebuild but as I had to get to work and back every day I had little choice but to test out the Guzzi's commuting abilities.

Surprisingly good it was too. Once I'd reattached the indicator and tightened up the steering head bearings, the bike could be weaved through heavy traffic without too much effort. The front brake was a bit lacking in power but putting in some serious muscle soon sorted that. The back brake was even more laughable, only good for a mild steadying effect when the going became desperate. Still, I could usually twitch the bike out of harm's way when the things went a bit heavy. Compared to sitting in the wife's car (hope she doesn't read this...) I cut the five mile journey time by a third. And fuel usually bettered 50mpg.

I didn't try the V50 on long journeys for a couple of months, not wanting to tax the AA's patience or my own sense of destiny. One autumn weekend I foolishly decided that a blast from Leeds to Edinburgh was in order after a mega nagging session from the nearest and dearest who on a bad day would make Dame Edna seem attractive. The open road on a churning Guzzi seemed like a blessing from heaven. Until? Until the gearbox locked up again, this time in third. I decided I could make it home. And I did, at the price of a fried clutch and leaking cylinder head gaskets.

The Guzzi expert expressed no surprise at my appearance on his doorstep and went on to indicate that his knowledge was now so in demand that he wouldn't even look at the bike unless I crossed his palm with 200 notes. When I resisted, he offered me a secondhand manual for a fiver and waved me away with an indecent smirk written deep into his jowls. It was obvious that excess wealth wasn't good for the soul.

The Guzzi engine literally fell apart in my hands. Something to do with stripped threads and Araldite failing due to excess heat. It was a case of the deeper I looked into the motor the more were the horrors revealed. I totted up the potential cost of renovation, winced at the extravagant cost and took a chance on a used motor for 200 notes. It worked for long enough to off-load the bike...on to a young lady with pert nipples that had the wife gnawing her teeth. I didn't make a loss but felt deliriously happy until I was clobbered around the ears with a large frying pan. You live and learn!

G.K.