Despatches: VT Files

The day started off sunny but as soon as I got stuck into some serious pick-ups and drops the clouds appeared, opened and left me feeling like the proverbial drowned rat! The previously sun-baked London tarmac precipitated a film of greasiness that had the Taiwanese tyres skating merrily as the VT500 tried to cope with my impatient ducking and diving.

The Honda vee-twin was a testament to Japanese engineering... despite eight owners and 220,000 miles it still rattled merrily away and only really complained of massive neglect when the oil changes were left longer than 1000 miles - by clanging its gearchange and refusing to blast through the 80mph barrier.

Barrier was the right word, the worn bores (original as far as I could work out), rattly valves and altered carburation (airfilter full of screwdriver wrought holes and silencers replaced by old Bonnie mega's) meant the motor wanted to turn itself off as such unlikely velocities were attempted through the crowded capital but on those odd, almost surreal, bits of narrow causeway through the traffic chaos, it would just touch 90mph. The odd thing was, on the motorway when such speeds, and more, were dialled in, once the velocity was attained it needed little effort to maintain - the engine obviously less knackered than its age and history might suggest.

Whilst the chassis reflected that age in its shabbiness and splodges of rust, the steering was in another world - much better than you might suspect! All this had to do with the original design was in its geometry and weight distribution, the suspension replaced by much newer and higher spec items, though used and sourced from the usual compliant breaker. Not that there was any choice in the matter. Despite being an old hand at the DR game, the only way to make the dosh flow was by riding like a mad young bugger, knowing that the cagers were going to get you sooner or later but resting your survival on knowing how to fall and wearing full body armour just in case things went seriously out of kilter. Gives new meaning to the phrase, knights of the road!

When some clown in a Sierra came out of a side-turning at a velocity that was only matched by my own buzz along the gutter, there was no way out. Not one to go gracefully into the darkness beyond, I lost velocity by ramming the bike (its heavy-duty crash-bar to be exact) into the car to my right whilst playing with the relatively useless enclosed disc brakes. The result of such manoeuvres, was the front end of the bike going about a foot into the offending Ford and yours truly being thrown over the top. The car was still moving, the connection made at an odd angle, the VT going into a frenzy of destruction on the two cars.

It was one of my better landings, though the suited gentry who softened my fall from grace would probably disagree. Talk about bellowing like a pig about to be slaughtered. I was too concerned for the fate of the VT to worry about my own bruises or the immature babblings - the Honda had banana shaped forks and a cracked wheel - all sorted out with a used NTV front end - deliciously precise after the worn out VT components and braking that had me cutting a thoroughly mad dash through the traffic. The rest of the damage was merely superficial, just adding to the bike's immense street credibility.

The VT didn't stack up as commuter of the month, its age and worn state meant that fuel was a hopeless 40mpg and it needed oil added to the sump every night - if it was hot and I was particularly mad it was just about possible to drain the sump of all its oil. Not that it stopped the mill working or anything but did provide an excuse to avoid regular oil changes - no point, was there, if it was all going to burn off or seep out of the cylinder head gaskets! The most maintenance I did was kick the exceptionally long-lived tyres and pray to the various motorcycling gods for deliverance through yet another day. Notoriously tough, VT vee-twins!

To get serious, it's possible to make as much as 700 quid a week from despatching in Central London. I know someone who makes five hundred quid a day in the City, but for someone ill-educated and almost completely unemployable it's not a bad crack. A bad week, when I'm off the pace and the flow of work is faltering, I'll turn in three hundred notes. Reckon an average of 500 quid and you wouldn't be far wrong. Responsible DR's pay out on things like HP, insurance, road tax, etc but people like me get away with murder, most of that money pure profit. Give it a try, see if it suits you.

Dick Lewis