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Fuck Netanyahu and the murderous Israeli regime. Free Palestine!
The hailstorm eased off, leaving a thick white layer of glacier mints that crunched into powder between the fat tyres and the cobblestones. It was Boxing day, and as l carefully eased the Honda over the slippery surface, cosy lights glimmered from the snug breakfast warmth of the Yorkshire cottages. The deep rumble of the vee twin must have been audible even through the thick stone walls, but the occupants concentrated on warm leftovers and flickering TVs, shutting out thoughts of the harsh winter outside.
Meanwhile I had found tarmac that was merely wet rather than icy, and opened up to see how the new Revere coped with 135 litres of luggage and Iain’s 12 stone on the back, with only my skinny bod in the seat as a counterbalance. There was a slight tendency to wheelies and a distinct wobble when pulling away, but as far as the engine was concerned it was all systems go up to about the ton, beyond which it absolutely refused to go Since the most I'd got out of it travelling light was 112mph, l was far from unhappy.
We were heading for the North Yorkshire moors, intending, once we got there, to Spend the few days between Christmas and the New Year crossing the country from east to west in time for the annual celebration in the Lake District. We were, of course, fully aware that the Pennine passes are usually closed at that time of year, but I have immense faith in the cross it when you come to it approach, which irritates my friends as much when it works as when it doesn’t.
The weather held off until Sutton-under-Westcliffe. a small village nestling under the western slopes of the Hambleton Hills. As we motored out towards Sutton Bank, a squall of snow obliterated our vision, forming a thick veneer of ice on our helmets. l was unable to open my visor for fear of getting snow on my glasses, so I had to be content with riding one-handed while continuously scrubbing with my left hand. It was now cold enough for the snow to settle even on the wet road, and a succession of sharp bends between high hedgerows presented me with a series of unpleasant choices.
I could pick my line, but then miss it because I couldn’t steer properly with only one hand, or I could corner positively without having the faintest idea where I was going. In practice, it worked out as corner, scrub, look, corner, but there was no turning back as I was definitely not going to try to manhandle the bike around on that narrow, slippery road, with its ponderous stream of frosted metal cages sliding down out of the hills ahead. Eventually, a driveway opened out to one side, and we turned our backs on the weather and ploughed back toward the village, tail firmly between our collective legs.
Naturally, the sun came out and it stopped raining. A short roadside discussion, but we hadn’t even reached the east coast yet, and the idea of being beaten before we started by mere acts of God was pure anathema, so snow was brushed off, loins girded and the breach re-entered. This time we made it as far as the base of Sutton Bank before I decided that not all of the frantically flashing and hooting car drivers could be delinquent hooligans and pulled over into a convenient snowdrift to take stock.
It was clearly snowing up on the bank, but the clouds parted occasionally to reveal that something else was also going on up there. Short jigsaw visions of frantically flashing brake and hazard lights added up to the realisation that cars were getting about halfway up the bank and then slowly sliding down backwards until they could get enough purchase to turn round and come back down.
It was the work of a moment to stop one of these returning motorists and discover an alternative route, so I scrawled Road Closed in the snow over a convenient road sign and pointed the Revere once again at the village, ducking as we passed a gritting lorry coming the other way.
Seconds later we were firmly jammed in a mass of cars attempting to turn around and follow it, but I can think of far more enjoyable things than following a gritter up a slippery slope on a motorcycle, so I fought free of the pack and headed south.
The new heading was a wide sweep around the southern flank of the Hambletons, and we thundered along in the weak midday sun that picked highlights from the dark cloud that had now permanently settled over Sutton Bank and its luckless motorists. We turned east under Wass Bank, and the same sunlight reflected from the golden stones of Byland Abbey and, soon after, from the lenses of our cameras.
Regretfully, we decided against the nearby pub, and packed our photographic equipment away in one of my three Givi 45 litre boxes. The Monokey system had cost me around £350, a few hours swearing and the manufacture of a 2" spacer out of pine. By reversing a couple of the brackets I had managed to knock a few inches off the width, but fully loaded it still took up a lot of road. This trip was something of a proving run for them, and so far I was impressed by the amount of junk that I had been able to pack in.
We wanted to get to Whitby before nightfall, so we looked up into the hills and considered our options. We could continue our lowland detour, which would not take us far out of our way and which would avoid the Hambletons altogether, or we could chance Wass Bank. The gradient was fairly fierce but clear of snow until the final 30 feet, where it became a steep ramp coated with a couple of inches of fresh powder. We rolled to a halt just below the snow line, and squinted into the glare. Traffic signs indicated that there was a crossroads on the brow, but the thick woods on either side obscured our view of oncoming traffic.
Apart from the sensible option of returning to Wass and taking the low route, there were again two choices — take a run up and try to stop at the junction or go straight across, praying that nothing was coming. Crazy I may be but not that crazy, so I left Iain by the roadside, took a run up and slushed gently to a stop exactly level with the Give Way sign. Numbly, I watched two Volvos scrunch past.
One of the things they didn't teach in the old Part One test was moving off from inside a 1 in 2 snow drift, and if I had been alone I would have had to stay there until the snow melted. Fortunately, Iain was wearing hiking boots and so once he had struggled up the slope himself, he was able to get enough traction to give me some sort of a push. Halfway across the junction, the back wheel attempted to overtake the front, and I put my foot down to steady the bike. Unfortunately, I was wearing flat soled boots and on the slippery surface I may as well not have bothered. With an expensive crunching sound, the Revere toppled over in the snow.
For some time it has seemed odd to me that we spend hundreds of pounds on motorcycle clothing, hundreds more on ski gear and more again on clothes for climbing, walking and watersports, when the basic purpose of all these is to keep you warm and dry in adverse conditions. Not only is there the possibility of mix and match but there is a lot that these different specialised industries can learn from one another. While I was wearing a quilted one piece plastic motorcycle suit and two piece leathers, lain was just as warm and dry (if a little less crash proof) in a ski suit covered by a windproof overall. And, more to the point in this instance, if my purpose made bike boots had had Vibram soles like those on Iain’s walking boots, I would never have dropped the bike.
Still, there it was, lying on its side in the middle of the A170. Cars pulled out over the snow wall on the white lines in order to pass but did anyone stop? Did they hell! Again, it was Iain's boots that saved the day, that and the fact that a bike bearing 45 litres panniers is physically incapable of lying flat on the road. With my slick soles I was almost totally helpless, reduced to operating the brake levers and falling over while Iain did all the heavy stuff, but mutually the Honda stood by the side of the road, quietly pointing eastward while we surveyed the damage.
The hard plastic of the right-hand pannier had cracked like an eggshell and a piece about 4" long was missing, but the box had maintained its integrity and nothing seemed to have fallen out. Iain went back to try to locate a white piece of plastic in the snow, while I stood by the equally white bike trying to pretend to motorists that it was bright red and bore absolutely no resemblance to the snow bank against which it stood.
A couple of miles down the road was the town of Helmsley, so we stopped to buy some cans, a can opener (my 15th I think, where do they all go?) and a black plastic bin liner. One of the strengths of the Monokey system is that the panniers are interchangeable with the top box, so the casualty was wrapped in the plastic and given pole position, with the hole pointing safely upwards. That same pannier had previously been designated Iain’s, and he was relieved to find that the towel that he had packed under the lid had stopped up the hole and prevented his possessions from getting out and the snow from getting in. The original top box, containing food, stove, tent and cameras, was relegated to the side, which made getting at the cameras a bit irritating until it started snowing again and we stopped worrying about it.
And snow it did. A storm came up out of the west and threw everything it had, as I fought the bike northwards towards Whitby. l was virtually scraping the pegs just to travel the dead straight road over Goathland Moor. The snow drove horizontally across the darkening landscape, my hands were going numb even protected by Meraklon inners and Sportex leather outers, and l was back to wiping the visor with my left glove, which long ago I learnt to equip with a roll of Chamois. One day, I swore, I would buy a set of heated grips.
And then, as dusk finally fell, we entered Whitby and the snow stopped. The place was deserted. We parked up in the shelter of some public toilets by a child's paddling pool and considered our next mm? This was obviously just a lull in a storm that looked set to blow all night, so for the first time that day we used the logic that raises us above the apes. To shelter from a westerly storm, we reasoned camp in the lee of an east facing cliff. Whitby stands on the east coast, separated from the sea by a vertical drop of some 100 feet or so, with a small tarmacadam footpath winding in a series of hairpins down to the beach - the path is exactly the same width as a fully laden Revere.
We parked up about a third of the way down and erected the tent a few yards away on a convenient flat. grassy shelf. Soon, some hot food and cold beer later, we drifted off to sleep. I had no qualms about camping in such a seemingly precarious place, for my somewhat battered tent had provided me with literally hundreds of comfortable nights in the most appalling conditions, and can be pitched on any flat surface large enough for two people to lay down. Dubbed the Green Coffin by my friends, it folds away to a parcel the same size as a two litre Coke bottle. All in all. a tremendous piece of engineering, and my next tent will undoubtedly have been designed by the same man.
Nobody knew where we were apart from a vague on the bike north of Coventry and we certainly hadn't planned to camp on the sea front at Whitby. It had just turned out that way. So for me to be woken up a few hours later by someone standing outside my tent calling my name was utterly ridiculous. In bewilderment l poked my head out, to meet the eyes of an embarrassed policeman looking most uncomfortable unbalanced on the edge of a cliff in a thunderstorm.
Apparently, someone out for a midnight stroll down the beach in the rain had seen the white Honda perched on the path, and had reported it to the police. A constable was sent down, took the registration, failed to notice my camouflaged tent in the darkness, rang my girlfriend in the small wee hours to tell her that they had just found my bike halfway down a cliff... after the hysterics had passed, the police admitted to her that it was in fact parked and locked rather than crumpled and smouldering. She had ordered them back to look for the tent.
The rest of the night was uneventful, and next morning we got up with the dawn (not as early as it sounds in late December), repacked the panniers and wandered up to the Abbey. The cold soon drove us back down, and a different policeman directed us towards a cafe and fried breakfast, so that it was with full bellies that we set off to explore the North Yorkshire Moors.
We had decided to take the plethora of minor roads that accompany the railway on its journey towards Middlesbrough and had chosen two routes, one that wandered out over the high moors and another that stayed safely in the valley with the trains. We planned to 90 high in good weather and stay low in bad, and there was plenty of scope for switching between the two as circumstances altered.
The morning was glorious, the roads dry and the bends evil: in short, perfect touring conditions. We admired the scenery around Egton and paused at Glaisdale where road, rail and water routes cross in a picturesque deluge of bridges. We were just about to take our high road when the rain started up, so amazingly we took the sensible option and made our way down through the mass of roads around Castleton, pausing briefly at a vandalised sign before continuing westwards.
Almost immediately, I was presented with a ford crossing, something l'd never done on a bike before Iain got off, and I tentatively selected first gear and eased gently out into the torrent. The water came over the hubs but I was delighted to find that the bike showed no tendency to float like a car, but just ploughed along the bottom and up the other side. Rather than stop on the immensely steep valley side I ran up to the top and waited for Iain, who had crossed over the footbridge The hill should have made me think, but I was extremely chuffed about the ford and the weather was clearing again.
Five minutes later we were riding blind through a cloud under a deluge of icy water. Visibility was down to a few yards and the road was littered with soggy sheep. We weren't as miserable as the sheep, for we knew that we had only to cross this small ridge of high ground before the descent into Kildale. But the ridge went on and on and on, until we fetched up against a road junction that had no right to be there.
There was a road sign but we had to get off and trace the letters with our frozen fingers and then huddle over the dull yellow glow of a headlamp that l was sure used to be a fierce burning halogen. There was nothing wrong with the electrics, just a thick coating of ice particles that no amount of rubbing would shift. That page in my OS atlas is now warped beyond recognition, but we found out where we were, neatly sandwiched between two symbols that mean viewpoint; balanced right on the highest point of the moor.
It was time, once more, to turn around. I successfully negotiated the sodden sheep and then, out of the cloud and full of new found confidence, burned down the hill toward the ford, braking at the last minute and contemptuously hitting it at about 20mph! At the other side, I stopped and thoughtfully emptied the water out of my boots.
Once off the moors we stopped at Stokesley for a pub lunch and to dry my socks out. They had good beer, good food and lots of drinkers who watched in polite amazement as we peeled off layers of damp clothing and stacked them in front of the fire. Inevitably, there was the man who used to ride a Vincent, and he reckoned that the A66 through the Pennines was now open. We lingered as long as we could, but we had to get to the pass in time for an early crossing the next morning, to give us time to detour south if the need arose We donned our gear and went back out into the rain.
Richmond, situated in the lowlands to the east of the Pennine passes, looked like a town worth spending some time in. All that remained was to find a place to sleep, and a few minutes ride soon revealed a wide grassy verge next to a quiet layby. It was the work of a moment to pitch the Coffin and to set up that other miracle of technology, my stove. For many years I held that nothing could beat the ease and convenience of a simple cooking fire and carried nothing more than a tin of matches and some Metafuel. However, nowadays I am never without my Trangia, which occupies the same space as my old billycan but which comprises pans, kettle, frying pan and stove all in one neat parcel with all the dirty surfaces stored on the inside. It runs on minute quantities of moths and lights easily under literally any conditions. There is no smoke, no mess and you don't need to find dry tinder or blunder around in the dark looking for firewood. Tea was ready in minutes.
The next morning was unbelievably cold. Dying for a pee, I pulled on a pair of Goretex Seals (socks) and stumbled out naked in the snow. Duty done, I dived back into the warm tent and swiftly dressed, breaking the crust of ice that had already formed on the Seals before regretfully putting them back into lain's boots. I don't know about his ox, but I certainly covet his footwear. There has never been anything so warm and snug as Goretex socks. Warm toes on a motorcycle? You’d better believe it.
The alloy of the tent pegs was cold enough to burn, but we couldn’t grasp them through our gloves, so we ended up taking them off and returning every few minutes to jam our frozen fingers up the exhaust pipe. The stuff all fitted back in, but as l was locking the last pannier the key snapped off in the lock. it was that cold. Luckily, the Revere toolkit contains a pair of pliers. We locked the pannier to the frame, chipped the ice off the seat and headed for Richmond, breakfast, tea and warm radiators.
An hour later, much restored, we set off on foot to explore the town. There was a lot to see, but we spent most time at the castle around which Richmond is built. The restored tower commands tremendous views and the lady who sold us our tickets used to be a biker herself and allowed us to bring the bike up from its two hour parking zone and leave it in the castle grounds. Below the castle is a wide brown river that tumbles over a small cataract of falls. I commented on its suitability for canoes and the local standing next to me admitted they lost one or two canoeists a year!
A closer look at the falls and then, deliberately not thinking about it, we blasted up towards the Pennines and the infamous A66. The pass was, in fact, open but the dales were deeply buried in snow and the traffic slowly moved nose to tail in each other's tyre tracks. We passed the hotel where, until very recently, a group of guests and motorists had been trapped for a week without food, and then thankfully dropped down the other side to the tea shops of Appleby, and the fast winding run through Windermere and Ambleside to the warm welcome and hot showers of the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel under the Langdale Pikes. The ales were settling in their barrels and the first arrivals were trickling in for the annual celebration of the end of the old year and the beginning of the new.
It was Tuesday 28th May 1991, I had just serviced the newly acquired Honda CB750F1 (seven owners and 20,000 miles to be precise). Lynne (my girlfriend) and I planned to see Southern Ireland, so this was it. l tore the grab rail off the bike and fitted a rack instead. We put our two small suitcases on the rack, threw over the saddlebags, sleeping bags and Wendy house (aka tent) with the aid of some useful bungees.
We were off! Our ferry from Fishguard to Rosslare sailed at 3pm, so we left Caerphilly at 11am, got there at 2pm. Perfect. After tying the bike to the rail on the lower deck we went up to the top deck to take some photos. Three and a half hours later, the sun was shining as we arrived at Rosslare harbour at 6.50pm precisely.
Filled the tank up outside the ferry port and rode 12 miles to Wexford town. No problem with the B & B (£12 each), had a quick cup of tea and an even quicker shower as the water was cold. We went out to sample the Irish stout and Guinness, very nice. Next morning, after breakfast, we loaded up the Honda and set off. But nothing happened. I think it was something to do with not first taking the combination lock and chain off from around the back wheel (must be the Guinness). No damage.
We then set off for Jerpoint Abbey and Killkenny on the N25 and R700. A mixture of road conditions that the heavily laden CB did not take to very well. A tendency to run wide when bends tightened up suddenly had the whole chassis wobbling as I hurled the beast back on line. Arrived at Killkenny, well invigorated, consulted our borrowed travel book from the library which said there was a campsite on the outskirts of the town. We pulled in and a young girl came out of the house shouting, ”Yer okay, two pounds each, pitch your tent in the long grass.” The shower was rather quaint, an outside device where you were supposed to throw water over yourself. Not so bad for me but I think Lynne was a bit put off by the thought of stripping to the waist to have a quick swill.
Anyway, that evening it was more beer, staggering back to the tent arm in arm, hitting the pillow (rolled up jacket) and waking up the next morning.Consulted the map, then set off to Cahir and Connel town. Found a campsite only this time a real one called the Apple Camping and Caravan Park, it is located on the main road between the two towns. The site has free hot showers, a tennis court, a pool room and even a piano for the musically minded. A nice field to camp on so we spent the night there (£2.25 each), ready to leave the next morning for the coast.
We headed for Tipperary, Bruff, Ballingarry and Foynes on the S59; some beautiful scenery to be seen here, but I had to pay attention to the road as staring gobsmacked at the surroundings was likely to encourage the Honda to wander off towards the side of the road or into oncoming traffic. Road surfaces were not that bad but the CB’s suspension was down to the stops under all the weight so there was not much travel left to absorb the bumps. We were not hard charging across the countryside, averaging not much more than a 100 miles a day, we were in a relaxed mood; one which the Honda seemed ready to share.
We made our way down to Killamey (a mistake). Rode into town wishing we hadn't. It's a yuppie and tourist paradise, so we went back to the campsite.Next day we took off for Molls Gap and Kemnare on the N71.Some unforgettable scenery, so we took plenty of photographs.We stopped on one steep mountainside for one last photo, going back to the bike I found there was no ignition, just a clicking sound.
I checked the fuses then located the trouble in a loose battery connection. I tightened it up and soon we were off again towards Cork on the N22 and N25. Arrived at Kilmeadon, which is six miles from Waterford, the sun was still shining so we camped on what's left of the field after the Custom Bike Show. Had a few Budweisers in the local pub which is just across the field. The Sweep Bar has a thatched roof, bikers, music, the lot. Highly recommended.
Left the next day for the ferry home. We stopped for directions, not wishing to take the N25 via New Ross Wexford, we were told to take the back roads to the R783, but he forgot to mention that after 9 miles you come to an estuary and harbour which needs a ferry to cross. I wondered what the V had meant on my map. Riding back to Waterford was enlivened when my sleeping bag fell off, something to do with the back end leaping about, I think.
It was just gone eight o'clock and we were supposed to check in on the ferry an hour before it sailed at nine o'clock. I rode like a mad dog to try to make the ferry, reaching 90mph, which was a bit hair raising with a pillion wearing an open face helmet and two suitcases leaping around on the rack. We eventually reached the check point at 8.55 and were told, not surprisingly, that we were too late. All that effort for nothing, so I rode to the edge of the pier to watch the ferry gracefully sail away.
What a wonderful sight, so after muttering some bad language, I picked up my helmet and returned to the waiting area. Having just been informed the next sailing is at 9.40 that night, we had to keep ourselves amused for twelve hours. We had £15 left so I bought a plate of chips and a cup of tea for the two of us. God, those twelve hours were boring, it was like watching paint dry. If I looked at the clock once I must have looked at it a 1000 times but eventually the time came to board the ferry, so we put the bike on and went up to the top deck to try to sleep through the three and half hour night crossing, which was not too bad considering how rough was the sea.
We reached Fishguard at 1.15am next morning, so we put on our wetsuits knowing how cold it would be riding back the 115 miles at that time of the morning. The seven quid we had left I used to fill up the tank just outside the port, like everyone else did as petrol was cheaper there than in Ireland. We set off on our journey, I had my leather gloves which were absolutely useless, and Lynne had a pair of ankle socks over her hands to act as gloves; but you know women. My fingers were so cold they were tingling with pain. God knows what Lynne's fingers felt like but I kept a steady 65 to 70mph most of the way, praying nothing went wrong with the bike because it was too cold to stop.
I was thinking ,who the hell in their right mind would ride a motorcycle in this climate Anyway, we got to Lynne's place at 3.15 in the morning, she struggled to dismount, she was stiff with the cold. I had to undo her helmet strap because she could not move her fingers. I rode the extra mile to my house, put the bike in the shed and locked it up. I went into the house and made myself the best cup of tea I've had in ages. After sleeping on the ground for a few days you appreciate a real bed all the more.
The CB is an excellent bike to tour on, being comfortable, powerful with a good range, and with adequate handling with the new Phantoms I'd fitted. We managed to cover a total of 817 miles in seven days. The Irish people we met were very friendly and helpful. One old chap we stopped to ask for directions in Tipperary began telling us about the Gold Flash he once owned and how much it would be worth nowadays.
We are saving up our money for another trip, next time we will be staying a lot longer as there is a hell of a lot to see.
I did not expect very much from the 1980 RS100. It was already worn out. Requiring ten to twelve kicks to start up, the Yam yowled noisily from the rust burnished silencer, covering the local area in a pea soup type blue fog. Flogged mercilessly in first gear it slowly bounced up the road. the gearbox creaking up into second and eventually third. There was no point changing any further up the box as the engine lacked the power to hold such a tall gear.
Bought from my neighbour for £20 I could expect little more That did not stop me thrashing it as hard as I could for the next three months. Top speed was down to 40mph and fuel economy a mere 55mpg. The little two stroke single engine was covered in crud that no amount of Solvol could clean up Similarly, where the frame or cycle parts were not rusted through it was only because of a protective layer of grease, grime and mud. Cleaning the bike, I soon realised, was a complete waste of energy.
The first problem was a link in the chain snapping, the chain whacking the engine case. The only good thing about this was that the back wheel moved so freely that it was no great task to push the bugger four miles home. The chain was full of tight spots, so stretched that I had to take another four links out in addition to the one that snapped. Soaked in Linklyfe on the once immaculate kitchen stove, after being freed up with a combination of oil, pliers and hammer, it went back on and lasted for the next ten weeks.
A week or so later, the front mudguard fell off, jamming up the wheel, throwing the machine down the road and myself on to the tarmac. Dented and battered, no serious damage to the Yam. It looked such a wreck to start with that a few more dents just added to the character. An old alloy guard and bracket were attached to the front fork, the gleaming alloy looking completely out of place.
Something must have been twisted in that accident, the bike developing a tendency to veer off to the left if I loosened off the death grip on the handlebars. I looked the machine aver, kicked the tyres, but could find nothing I could hit with a hammer. This handling trait, along with the tiny drum brakes, compensated for the lack of speed — the machine was so weird to ride that I never became bored.
Persuading my girlfriend on to the bike was not a brilliant move What little performance was available solo disappeared, the bike down to 30mph max. Her weight on the back had the rear guard rubbing on the tyre until I gave it a few kicks to aid its relocation. The front forks wobbled most of the way home. As she was wearing a short skirt and stockings the local yobs went into a frenzy of cat calls. Dropping down to second gear, bouncing the piston on its worn bearings, I got my own back by covering the area in that light blue smog.
The engine sounded more like a ratty four stroke, the various pinging, clicking and knocking noises evidence of imminent} demise I don't know how many miles I did in those three months, the speedo along with the lights, indicators and battery were all long since shot. I do know I rode the bike every day and even in its terrible state found it great fun!
The end was gradual and dignified. Not for it some horrendous seizure leading to crunching of metal and battering of rider. The engine became more reluctant to start, the speed. if that's the correct word, diminished. In the end she would only fire up after being pushed up and down the road for half an hour; top speed a paltry 15mph! Everyone was amazed that it had lasted for so long. I dismembered the bike in the garage but there was little I could salvage.
Impressed by the machine's toughness, the next hack to come my way was another Yamaha, a £75 XS400. It was complete, tatty but not running Removal of the engine was straightforward, as long as you were willing to use a lump hammer to remove seized engine bolts. The alloy in these engines is terrible, bolts tended to strip their threads rather than undo, something to do with alloy and steel corroding together, I think.
The cylinder head was cracked, one of the valves was bent and another was missing half its head — as the pistons still moved it must have gone straight out of the exhaust port. I couldn’t find any bits in local breakers. A local engineering company welded the head so well I could not see where the work had been done. Two new valves from the local Yamaha dealer and an afternoon grinding them in completed the rebuild.
The XS was eventually persuaded into life Someone had fitted electronic ignition but I didn't know which way the wires were supposed to connect up — trial and error solved that one. The XS engine rattled much as I expected. The chassis finish was slightly less ruined by rust than the RS but its disc brakes were seized up solid. They never did work in a satisfactory manner, but then I wasn’t going to spend twenty quid on a new pair of pads.
On the road it was capable of 80mph but the chassis twitched so violently that I rarely did it. It was safe up to 65mph. so that became my maximum cruising speed. The gearbox was awful, only second through to fourth could be relied on, other gears slipping out in a manner completely lacking in predictability.
This one had a working speedo, although the tacho only worked spasmodically and then erratically. I kept the machine for five months and did nearly 6000 miles. Problems were mostly down to rust. One silencer actually fell off when l was riding along. The petrol tank felt paper thin in places and seeped fuel which rotted the seat. One of the OE shocks broke its spring, a most perplexing sensation that ended with me rushing into the side of a car.
The driver was quite understanding, he delivered a massive right-hand punch to my face and went on his own way. I lay in the gutter for a while running my tongue over the broken teeth. No-one came to my assistance, so I pulled up the bike and myself, doing a reasonable impression of a pogo stick riding to the local hospital. I only lost two teeth.
I used a friend’s welding equipment to make up a two into one exhaust which was silenced by a car type silencer. The XS engine developed a few massive flat spots but this did not worry me, it seemed to make riding all the more exciting. The bike was a bit of a death trap in the wet, the cheapo Taiwanese tyres sliding all over the road when ever the engine decided to spurt out some power. And, the disc brakes refused to work in the merest hint of rain.
Its demise came not through any mechanical failure, but due to the usual blind Noddy in a Volvo. It was a classic manoeuvre, your worst dream come true. The car indicated left, I swung out past him and then he turned violently and rapidly to the right. I must have missed the crush zone as the Yam's steering head snapped off and the car was only scratched. I went over the bars, over the car, landing on my head -— which was probably why I was able to walk away from the accident. The petrol tank had split open and the crankcase had a crack running through it. The poor XS looked a total wreck, seeping fuel and oil, resting on its flattened exhaust with the headstock and forks a yard or two away. The insurance company handed over £250 three months later.
By then I had bought an old Honda CB450 twin for £200. This 1967 machine looked better than the other two hacks, more faded than corroded, but had a loose swinging arm and no silencers. The engine still ran, after a fashion, and it was quite fun to have the bike bellowing away, flames shooting out of the down pipes. After fitting some megaphones it was not much quieter, I found a reluctance to rev between 2000 and 5000 revs, but this could be overcome by reaching down to the carb mounted choke and putting it half on.
The bike was sometimes most reluctant to start. Twenty or even thirty kicks were required to obtain internal combustion. I put a new battery in at great expense but it didn't help. Vibes were fierce at lower revs, the battery only lasted four months.
The chassis and brakes were adequate even for the ton plus speeds the 43hp bike was still capable of. A slight weave at 90mph never became nasty. The Honda was good on consumables and returned 65mpg, which was better than most small bikes I've owned. The mileometer read 79800 miles when I bought the machine, by the time it read 85000 miles power had disappeared and the gearbox was almost impossible to use. I had the feeling that its useful working life was coming to an end, although the surprisingly hefty frame and cycle parts showed few signs of the dreaded red rash. The TLS drum casing started to crack up, evidenced by a juddering front end. I had it welded up by the same firm who did the XS's head, but I was always suspicious thereafter that it might fail.
When the bike starting pouring out blue smoke from the engine breather and exhaust l was not very surprised. The complex DOHC cylinder head is a heavy lump of high tech (the valves being restrained by torsion bars instead of springs, the rockers sat on eccentric shafts for altering clearances...) which was completely wrecked. Lumps were missing out of the camshafts, the valves had gorged their way into the seats, the camchain had chain-sawed through large chunks of the cylinder.
The alloy cylinder has steel bores which fell out when the cylinder was removed. The pistons were heavily scarred and the rings bashed to bits. The small ends (part of the con-rods) were gouged, the pistons had two or three millimetre of vertical movement The crankshaft was supported by four massive bearings that looked like they might last out the millennium.
There was no way I could afford new bits and no way I could find used spares. I did the only thing left, bought a crashed CB500T to fit its engine in the CB450's chassis. It went in alright after elongating a couple of the engine mounting bracket holes. The CB500T engine had done 35000 miles and was not in the best of health, vibrating in a frenzied manner below 6000 revs and not being willing to push the bike to more than 85mph in fifth gear, although the gearbox itself was wonderfully precise after the rotten four speeder in the 450.
The fuel tap fell off in the first week, splattering the engine with petrol. After that it went from bad to worse. It developed a huge oil leak through the cylinder head gasket. At every stop for petrol (around 45mpg) I had to top up the oil. The engine also took to stalling in traffic and refusing to start. As the clutch dragged and it was impossible to find neutral it was very easy to lose the motor. The points fell apart when l was doing 75mph down the motorway. The sudden cessation of motive power almost had me run over by the plod vehicle that was a few feet behind.
The cops looked the machine over. They found it hard to believe that anything Japanese and so old could still be on the road. They then booked me for a long list of offences, insisting I pay a huge amount of money to be trailered off the motorway. The older cop added, that if I'd been riding an old British bike in a similar state they would probably have let me off with a warning.
After fixing the points, there was no end of trouble. Bits kept falling off, including the whole rear light assembly and numberplate The CB450 chassis gave every indication of being gravely insulted at having to cart the 500 motor around! The bitsa only lasted 2200 miles when, the front brake cracked up. I was: doing 50mph at the time and not surprisingly fell off. Having front wheel collapse is not the ideal way to start the day. It tore off the sleeve of one jacket, mingled my jeans with my blood and gave me a large enough bash on the helmet to have me seeing stars. The bike had done‘ a series of somersaults which ended up tearing off one side of the engine and bending just about everything that could be bent.
I never did see the remnants of the crash again, l just walked away from the wreck after picking the number-plate out of the ditch. I suspect they ended up in a metal crusher. I still have the CB450 engine bits littered around the house and have fond memories of that bike, it must have been very good when new.
I'm still hacking, though, I went back to the safety of a two, stroke...an old MZ250, you know the one with huge guards, an integral headlamp/tank and leading link forks. It's well weird but kind of fun.
Imagine the scene. Banked over in a long 80mph bend, halfway through your brain is suddenly left incredulous by a moronic cager deciding it’s the ideal place to do a U-turn. The shiny Renault 5 reversing into the bit of road needed to complete the corner. The moment of collision would see the front wheel crunching into the middle of the car... even if you used all the power of the brakes there's no way the machine will pull up in time.
I wrenched the bike up, doing an instant change of direction and somehow hurled the machine through the gap between the front of the car and what space was left on the wrong side of the road. I was both amazed that l was still aboard the FZ600 uninjured and that the Yamaha had performed the crazed directional change with nary a twitch. Any bike that can save your bacon in such very desperate situations can be forgiven much.
And there is much to forgive on the FZ600. Not that its faults were immediately apparent when I bought a new machine in 1988. The FZ was a tuned up version of the XJ600 which as well as cafe racer styling had 70 horses to propel a mere 400Ibs of mass. It was a stop gap model, a rival to the CBR600 until Yamaha could come up with the FZR.
The head in the clocks riding position was alright by me, I knew that the pain in my wrists would disappear as soon as the machine was run in and I could obtain some decent speed out of the DOHC four. I had previously owned an XJ550. which I sold with 68000 miles on the clock, so I had no qualms about the basic toughness of the engine After a 1000 miles of relatively restrained riding I let rip, getting 140mph on the clock and rock solid stability on the motorway.
At that kind of speed the riding position made sense but above 85mph the secondary vibes came in with remarkable ferocity, the fairing screen thrumming away, the vibration finding its way through the tank. pegs and bars. Below 80mph the engine felt really smooth, although at less than 2000rpm the motor rumbled and clattered like there was something seriously wrong.
The vibes really limited the bike’s high speed cruising potential, brief bursts of speed were no problem but sustained ton plus speeding eventually led to blurred vision and dead fingers. At 80mph the riding position is bearable for a 100 miles but after that the seat becomes positively painful whilst wrists and knees suffer from the strained riding position. One aspect of this limited cruising ability was that the relatively low speeds returned around 60mpg.
Of course, the whole machine is set up for back road scratching. Here, it really does excel. It spins around corners like a 300lb lightweight, the angles of lean induce feelings of dizziness, the vibes and discomfort fade into the background as you test the limits of personal bravery. Its nimbleness is such that you always feel as if you were going much too slow; several times I turned the bike around and rode my favourite stretches of twisty roads again just for the sheer fun of it.
The only weak spot in the chassis was braking when banked over, which induced fork judder, the wheel skipping off line However, this only occurred under extreme abuse and on a bike less good in chassis leaving the braking so late would not have been entertained — it was the kind of bike that felt so secure it encouraged increasing acts of highway insanity until the limits of physics were encountered rather than the machine’s. However, of late, with the front forks losing some of their precision, that judder has become rather frightening, although I've yet to be thrown off. Under such abuse fuel economy dropped to around 50mpg: considering the grin factor involved this was more than acceptable.
To go with its cafe racer looks it has a raw feel that would have, say, a CBR600 owner rushing to the dealer to demand a full service And, indeed, the FZ needed a full service every 1000 miles if its raw edge was not to become dog rough. After the dealer did the first service, I found a lot of popping in the exhaust on the overrun. The grease monkey had tightened down the exhaust valve clearances to zero... I never let the bike near a dealer after that and did the services myself. I must have been doing something right for in three years I managed 32000 miles with no engine problems.
The same could not be said for the rest of the bike. After two year and 18000 miles the inside of the petrol tank was full of rust, clogging up the filter and making the engine run terribly. A new tank was bought as the bike was then rare in breakers. Two months later the silencer was a heap of rust and the downpipes were not much better. I had been told that aftermarket systems wrecked the carburation, so like a fool I coughed up for a brand new system.
By then the suspension had gone soft and some of the bike's stability had disappeared. Not that it was bad, it was just that it had lost the feeling of Incredible security it had when new. The FZ was also susceptible to tyre wear, when they were down to 2 to 3mm the machine became very twitchy. As Arrowmaxes, which otherwise suit the bike well, don't last for more than 6000 miles, this is a seriously expensive business. I did try Roadunners once but found wet weather behaviour was lacking in predictability ~ a kind way of saying that on occasions the buggers let loose with no warning. especially at the rear.
Brake calipers were another disaster area. At 19500 miles one of the front calipers seized on solid, making it almost Impossible to ride the bike. It was not possible to fix so a new one was fitted. Some time later the rear caliper did the same trick, but I never bothered replacing it after freeing it off — the rear was used so infrequently that I never had to change the pads.
I knew the bike wasn't comfortable as a long distance tourer but that did not stop me using the machine for an around Britain charity run of some 3000 miles. I went in the company of a nearly new XJ600, by the end of the first day I was full of lust for its normal riding position and comfortable seat - after 300 miles of FZ the XJ felt like an armchair. Unfortunately, the XJ owner refused to ride the FZ for more than 10 miles, so it was back to purgatory.
I felt like a real hero after that trip. It must have toughened up my muscles, or something, because afterwards the bike was a lot less painful to ride.200 miles in a day seemed nothing — well, not quite, it took an hour or two for my backside to recover. I eventually cut up a piece of heavyweight foam and stuck that on top of the seat, which improved matters no end, it was just the inside of my thighs that suffered, rubbing on the sharp edges of the seat... yet more foam! Admittedly, the bike looked a bit weird, spoiling the racy lines of the GRP no end.
Passengers were even worse off. Sat on a tiny pad, if they were over about six their knees were all crunched up and they were often thrown clean off the back of the machine under acceleration... local kids found it hard to restrain themselves from throwing bricks when l wobbled past with a six foot mate on the back, he was perched high above my 5'6”. The bike does have a nice low seat height for those short of leg.
Up to the ton, the FZ can stay with GPZ600s and CBR600s. Racing them through the curves is great fun, it really ruins their poise when you go inside them, although on longer straights the CBR blasts off at an incredible pace. I prefer racing with LCs, as nimbleness is well matched and I can take them on the straights.
With 31000 miles up. vibes increased and top speed was down to 125mph, so I thought it was time to look for something newer. When, 800 miles later, a dealer offered me two grand part exchange on a new FZR1000 EXUP, I was smitten. I miss the sheer flickability of the smaller bike, but the fantastic grunt of the muscle bike kind of makes up for it.
The FJ resplendent in its blue, red and pearl white livery burbled quietly as l left the midnight burger party on the dealer’s forecourt. All the road tests concurred that this was the machine to own in 1984. With a 16 valve, 125hp engine, wrap around lateral frame, monoshock suspension, triple ventilated discs, an 160 section back tyre, anti-dive forks and nimble 16" wheels it was a watershed in machine development.
The first few hours aboard the Yamaha were favourable, the faster it went the happier I felt. Low speeds (below 40mph) would cause a certain amount of oversteer where the machine would readily drop into corners, but as the speed increased neutrality and stability improved to rock steady predictability. If a change of direction was called for, the smallest shift of body weight would suffice.
The feel of the powerful discs allied to the fat OE tyres and low centre of gravity inspired confidence. Travelling 10-15mph more quickly into bends than on my old Suzuki GS1000 gave no worries. If the chassis was unable to handle the speed. the brakes would.
I had allowed myself five days in which to clock 500 miles before heading off to Europe with my girlfriend. First service completed, I loaded the tank bag, throwover panniers and secured the tent on the ample tail spoiler with bungees attached to the thoughtfully provided hooks beneath the spoiler.
Stuffed with cafe au lait, croissants and confiture from our breakfast in Calais, we headed south. We chose the Route Nationale as fast A roads are suited to a swift sports tourer such as the FJ. Although two up with luggage and tent, the FJ easily sustained 100rnph cruising, sticking to the chosen line as if on rails.
Before leaving London I had set the adjustable mono-shock preload and damping to near maximum. The front suspension was three way adjustable with both damping and preload adjusted by an allen key at the top of each stanchion. Finally, anti-dive, adjustable from the bottom of each fork leg, provided a small amount of resistance, although a combination of braking and potholes seemed to create a conflict of purpose in the system. The adjustments proved to be correct, providing a firm but compliant ride, particularly important over the long, undulating sweeping curves encountered on our southerly route.
The mighty air cooled four showed its credentials as a flexible motor, happy to sit in top gear all day, but when occasion demanded I could snick down through the five speed box with superlative ease One problem did become apparent, the CDI unit has sensors measuring engine temperatures. speed and loading; when decelerating from 90mph plus the engine would sometimes give a little surge forward just as the throttle was closing. This was not disconcerting but more a peculiar quirk of the motor, perhaps a glitch in the ignition software.
At this stage the bike was still restricted to 6000mm. l was nearing the 1000 mile passport to full power and the FJ's promised 155mph potential. For a touring motorcycle the FJ is compact, that is to say small. As a 5'8" medium build rider I found my knees bent too much for true touring comfort. As for my 5'8" pillion, she was sitting with her knees almost doubled, which was to cause problems later. Seating for the rider was very comfortable. well padded and broad.
However, the pillion suffered with an inadequately padded perch so angled that every time I braked she would slide into me — terrific if you’re on a first date, a pain if you're doing serious touring. Most Japanese bikes are a compromise and bought as such. The small screen blade angled air blast straight on to my helmet. fine on the race track but tiresome when touring. Control ergonomics ware excellent, especially useful were the self cancelling indicators that worked with a combination of time and distance sensors. The instrumentation, whilst bland, was easily read providing sufficient warning lights and the biggest, most accurate fuel gauge ever fitted to a motorcycle.
Covering 200 to 300 miles per day seemed a reasonable distance, allowing time to sightsee and sufficient coffee and lunch breaks. One luxury brought on the trip was a portable stereo that plugged neatly into our Sonic intercom headsets. l have found that conversation and music help prevent pillion boredom, although the boredom could be more of a reflection on my riding style or was it the FJ's capable handling?
Having spent three days cruising the beautiful, scenic roads of the Dourdonne in Southern France, we decided to head east into Northern Italy. The rain had started so we donned our oversuits and headed for the autoroute, hoping to outride the inclement weather. As we rode, the rain subsided and our speed increased — 120mph cruising. We covered 100 miles in around an hour. As we left the autoroute we pulled up at the pay booth, handing our ticket over to the money collector, he looked at our arrival point and time and then our exit time. He looked at the bike, looked at the ticket and exclaimed, Mama Mia. The expression on his face said it all.
Most of the roads in Northern Italy are very twisty, hilly and look more like a series of potholes joined by tarmac. However, the beefy 41mm stanchions more than coped with the 500lb motorcycle, luggage and riders. Heavy and prolonged use of the brakes did not cause any detectable brake fade. One area I felt less happy about was the lack of ground clearance. All this tight cornering saw the sprung footrests and bellypan scrape the tarmac with enough frequency that l tended to roll off the throttle where I knew the chassis and tyres could easily cope with more enthusiastic cornering. Shame!
Our journey took us through Switzerland and back into Southern France We now had only two days left to travel back to London, but it was so hot en route that we stopped off by a mountain river to swim in its cool, clear waters and wound up staying all afternoon. Now our only option was a 900 mile trip in 24 hours. We chose to spend the night locally and ride hard the next day. I knew we could do it, the FJ had proved so capable at high speed work over the last two weeks.
Using A roads and cruising at 110mph where conditions permitted, progress was formidable However, 600 miles later my girlfriend began to complain of stiff knees, her leathers were scrunched up into the joint and her knees had swollen thanks to the cramped riding position. This meant that we had to stop regularly to allow the pillion to stretch her long legs. Despite this we caught the 10am ferry to Dover. When we hit the M2, it was the early hours so wound the throttle to the stop.
My girlfriend struck me repeatedly on my shoulders. I turned around to see that she was frantically pointing to the exhausts. Flames were shooting out from the back of the motorcycle The panniers had caught alight on the hot silencers. l jammed on the brakes and pulled on to the hard shoulder. We both leapt off the bike and battered the panniers to extinguish the flames — all our clothes were burnt and the panniers had turned to a gooey mess over the pipes. Ah well, only 40 miles to go!
FJ ownership lasted five years. In that time I covered nearly 25000 miles. The bike always sat outside covered by a tarpaulin but never failed to start. The OE battery was still in place when I sold the machine. Best tyres I found were Michelin radials — excellent high and low speed handling and confidence inspiring in the wet. Rear tyre life was in the region of 4000 to 5000 miles. The front tyres showed an unusual amount of wear in the same period and were invariably changed at the same time The OE chain lasted 19000 miles, finally snapping under harsh first gear acceleration. Unfortunately, the engine sprocket cover broke in two and had to be replaced along with the chain. At 24000 miles the swinging arm bushes had to be replenished.
Mods were a taller flip-up screen, resculptured seat similar to the FJ1200, Goodridge brake hoses, fork gaiters and Fiamm horns, the standard item being as useful as a chocolate teapot. Generally, the standard of finish was good with only a few rust spots starting to appear on the frame after five years all weather use The original exhaust system completely rotted within two years, however the replacement OE system was still good in its third year.
I paid a dealer to carry out the major services as these only came at 8000 mile intervals. Service time quoted by Yamaha is three hours. Intermediate servicing (changing of oil, filter and plugs) I did myself every 4000 miles. From this standpoint the FJ was cheap to run. Best ever speed recorded was 158mph, prone on the tank. The FJ has now been replaced with a ZX10 but that's another story.
The advert was vague but intriguing — Kawasaki 750, £300 — followed by a name and address on the other side of town. I hoped that it might be a 750 four but suspected that it was more likely the twin. Imagine my surprise when a 1976 750 triple was revealed by the owner. He had owned it since 1980, ridden it for a few years then tucked the bike at the back of his garage.
It looked original to me, but then my expertise on Kawasaki triples is vague memories of them screaming around the town in the seventies. It wouldn't run, a quick poke at the kickstart revealed the internals still moved but back pressure was minimal. The expected white alloy corrosion and tarnished chrome were both there, but the paint was still okay and there were no obvious chassis problems. I offered him £200, we eventually agreed on £250.
Pushing home 450lb of dead metal was not my idea of fun, but there wasn’t any other cheap option. The owner told me he had filled the engine with oil and l tended to believe he had expended some time and thought because the chain was still covered in oil and the cables still worked. A long list of bits were bought, including plugs, pads, shoes and a complete oil change done.
It took a lot of kicks to finally fire up I was despondent as soon as I heard the engine. The rumbles and knocks surely told of main bearing demise. The cloud of blue smoke intensified as I tried the throttle... the noises became no worse, maybe there was some hope. Nothing for it but a quick run up the street. Impressive amounts of power came in as soon as 2000 revs were called up, surprising me as I thought the triples were all rev crazy. When it hit five grand I found out what all the myths were about, the front end rearing up as the bike screamed along in second gear. l hastily backed off and adjusted my underwear. Returning to the house I was wearing a most wide grin.
Test, tax and insurance were duly acquired without any problems. The four gallon tank was filled and the open road beckoned. Ten miles later I pulled into the local tyre shop. I assumed that the old TT100s had gone hard and this was the cause of all the wobbling. There were some Conti's on special offer so a set were bunged on. Back on the road I was astounded to find that the handling was no better.
To be fair, the bike was reasonable up to about 75mph, but after that it twitched when it hit a bump and weaved all the time. The wind pressure from the very high bars was something else and could not have helped the handling. Coming out of bends under power was very frightening, as well as the bike having a very loose feel the front end went light, the bars wobbling in my hands. I mean, I wasn't even using much of the power. I started to dread thinking about going into a wheelie when half way through a bend.
Another annoying aspect was the large cloud of smoke the bike left behind, it seemed to intensify every time I opened the throttle. Back home, I was amazed by the rattles and clangs coming from the engine, but as before they didn’t become much worse with the revs. I hadn't seen a triple on the road for ages so there was no-one I could talk with locally to see if this was normal. There was 22,500 miles on the clock and the previous owner had denied ever taking off the cylinder heads, so it could have been on the original pistons and bores.
The suspension was shot, it probably wasn't much cop as new. A pair of Konis were fitted to the rear and a set of heavy duty springs I had in the garage went straight in the front forks. The bike felt much stiffer but it still weaved and twitched even on a dead smooth road. Flat bars, thought I. So, I fitted some. It made a significant difference, the extra weight over the front forks quietening down the twitchiness.
On one motorway run I persuaded the speedo past the ton in fifth (top) gear. Remarkably, when the engine came on to its power band, it flung us forward at a tremendous pace to an indicated 120mph. The bike hadn't felt bad, just a gentle weave but when I backed off the throttle there was some real making of its head. By the time 70mph was back on the clock I felt like Buffalo Bill. After much reflection I've come to the conclusion that the bike has awful steering geometry and a rotten frame, neither of which I can do much about.
Another annoying aspect is fuel economy. The bitch doesn't do better than 25mpg, once it went on to reserve after only 65 miles! It also needed a pint of oil every 75 miles, although the gearbox level never needed topping up, and the change was surprisingly good for a machine of this era. Or it would have been if I’d had Charles Atlas style muscles, for the clutch was heavier than that on a Norton Commando I once tried. The gearbox objected to clutchless changes by making graunching noises.
The Kawasaki was good fun in town, where it would take just about everything in the traffic light GP. The engine was very wide, though, and I nearly took off the alternator cover a few times. The front disc brake still worked in the dry but had the dreaded lag in the wet. The rear drum was a life saver at such times, although there was also a bit of engine braking from the two stroke triple.
Spark plugs only lasted for 700 or so miles and the points (on the end of the crankshaft) needed adjusting at about that interval to stop the engine backfiring or refusing to rev beyond 5000rpm. Other than that, it was just a case of filling the tanks with oil and petrol.
The longest distance I went in a day was 275 miles, which was quite enough as the seat and vibes conspired to make more than a 100 miles tiresome. The frequent fuel steps were a welcome relief. The triple cylinder wail did not impress me much, as the motor sounded so tinny; I am, anyway, a four stroke fan.
I tried various different riding techniques in an attempt to master the beast, but it seemed too heavy and powerful to even approach civility in its road manners.The worst aspect was that its handling was totally unpredictable. There were times when it was possible to motor along at 90mph in relative stability but at other times at as little as 60mph the machine would dance violently all over the road. I never actually fell off, but this is probably down to my innate cowardice rather than any natural ability the chassis might possess.
On the other hand, parking the triple up in any town centre would have some fool come over to tell me he used to own one just like it and weren't they the greatest bikes ever. On one occasion I let a 200Ib enthusiast relive his dreams by sitting on the beast, and the stand snapped under him. The bike toppled over, the guy crushing a Tomos moped and Honda CG125 under his obese form. I haven't laughed so much for ages. I charged him £25 for breaking the stand, but apart from a few scratches the terrible triple was unhurt.
I did 12000 miles in 18 months, nothing much went wrong with the bike as long as it was fed its consumables and the ignition timing was checked regularly. The engine felt as happy at 120mph as it did at 60mph, although the rider and chassis were certainly a lot more concerned. I didn't enjoy riding the bike very much, if the truth be told —- sitting on the surprisingly high seat wondering if it was going to try to throw me off was not conducive to peace of mind.
You won't believe what happened. I went to a motorcycle show on the bike and met a real triple enthusiast there. He had waited for me to come back to the machine in an apparent frenzy of expectation, saying he hadn't seen one in such an original state for years and years. When he offered me £1500 for it I nearly fell over in shock. The next weekend he came down with the dosh and left in a haze of blue smoke with a huge grin of happiness (or perhaps insanity) on his face. He wheelied the bike the whole length of my street, the engine making a terrible din, then he was gone. Perhaps he had more guts than myself, able to thrash the machine to the limit everywhere. If so, I don't rate his chances of making his next birthday very highly.
I’m almost eleven years old now and I've done over the ton a few times. The rider I've got at the moment (I've had him for nearly three years) is the fifth one in my life; some garages are meant to last, as we say. I have to tell you when I got him he knew nothing about mechanics, so l thought I’d see what he was made of with the old crud in the carb — petrol pissing everywhere — can't ride me trick.This was the left-hand carb (I've got four of course, being a Z550A) which collects crap after a while if I'm left on my sidestand all the time.
He was pissed off alright — first big bike, spent his last penny on me and can't even ride me. It was a good lesson for him because he had to learn about asking advice Naturally, all you lot will have come across this problem before It was really funny to see him come into contact with different types of adviser. I tend to categorise you bikers into groups. There are the twiddlers, usually transported by RS250s, MZs or CX500s, who try to solve any problem with string, elastic and soap. You can hear them say things like you need to boil it, mate or I always put soap on my bearings.
Then there's the Mr Tefal type who have garages for pristine VX800s, BMWs or GTR1000s. They have a garage service their pride and joy, and they say things like, it's the pressure differential on the squish area... well, how much are new carbs on these old bikes?
Or, if you can't find anyone who knows what they're talking about that doesn't ask for money then there are always the Smirkers. They drive a toilet, usually a Jelly 2x4 because they grew out of riding or just got bored through over exposure. You find them answering the telephone at HP Never MotorWorld. They obviously know more than you about mechanics which is evident from their banter. 'Ha, ha ha, no offence mate, but Pratl....why don't you put a C50 drum on the front of your CBR600, all Honda brakes are standard fittings. Everybody does it... see ya mate”
I tried to educate my rider by breaking down outside the only decent bike shop in town hoping he'd take the hint. When that fails I just give him a few problems... start off with something simple like battery, tyre, clutch cable until he ends up having to learn through lack of money.
Admittedly, I was a bit soft on him at the start, I gave him 10,000 miles problem free to build up a bond so he wouldn’t flog me when more interesting things needed attention. You see, I'm the type of motorcycle that is usually picked up as a first time big bike, so you can’t be too careful about what rider you chose. Well, I mean, some of you out there aren’t too choosy about when you hit the laughing gas.
I always feel sorry for our little two stroke brethren who get mercilessly thrashed by young Malcolm (can't afford an XR3) Pratt and end up needing a piston and ring transplant every 10,000 miles. I thought I'd try to cultivate this present rider as he's a bit on the boring side (doesn't redline in every gear) which is great for me at my age. Thinking back on our last three years he's coming along. I got him in August '88 when I’d only done 26000 miles, the price was a bit insulting, under £600. That was down to my last bloke, though, he left me for a GSXR1100. Since then, this new one’s gone a bit mad doing me up.
He bought me a new Avon AM21 Roadrunner for the rear and an MT69E Pirelli Strada 325 for the front. I find them excellent footwear. The old A2 Roadrunner was a good tyre, I did 16000 miles with it and it started to rot before the tread went. The new Pirelli has a slightly wider profile and has lovely grip, it seems to match well with the rear Avon which has done 6000 miles and looks like new.
A new battery three years ago is still okay and cost him £20. My rider started to get a bit adventurous with a new Marshall Deeptone exhaust (£142) and S & B filters with Mikuni jet conversion (about £20). He seemed to find it quite easy to do, just try out new main jets under load and check the colour of the spark plugs — rich tea is right.
I had decided that it was time he bought me a new exhaust so I made like a low flying aircraft through Stow on the Wold by breaking the exhaust bracket weld. He didn't take the hint, though, because he got it welded again for £3. So then I blew a fist sized hole in the silencer. Of course, he tried to ix it with Milliput, evidently pleased with himself I took him for a blast just to show him that rock like Milliput is easy to blow out of an exhaust at 90mph. So having to fork out for the new exhaust anyway, he thought he might as well go in for the air filter conversion — the main reason for this was the hours spent getting the stock airbox on and off, which according to him is a complete Ind utter bastard.
Anyway, I was right of course, now l have a lovely power band and my petrol swigging is still 56-60mpg at anything up to 85mph. Above this it drops to 45-50mpg. He doesn't do more than 85-90 for long distances anyway, which is great for me because I can stretch my wheels a bit. I've got him to do my valve clearances now by showing him how much it costs for a garage to do it; so I took him to buy some Draper vernier gauges If 30). Also, if he does it, I know he’ll do it right and he can keep the swapped shims which are over a quid each.
One of my pals, Wutu (a new GT550) has got a rider who's had probably unrivalled problems with camchains and on his owner's understandably paranoid advice my rider decided to change my hyvo camchain (£40) after 35000 miles —— there was nothing wrong with the old one but I'm not complaining and he learnt a bit through that experience.
Then he went and bought me chain and sprockets (£30), very nice — remember you oily lot, 'Lubers cheaper, grinders weepers,’ as we say. Then I got him to get me an £8 set of allen bolts for my engine which areeasier to undo and look good. EBC rear drum shoes and front pads are the business and last well over 10,000 miles (£16 for three pairs).
I was a bit naffed off one Xmas because he wanted me to go out in the cold so they could stuff themselves full of trifle; therefore knackered clutch cable (£6). Ha, ha.
Then we both got sick of a type of toilet driver who’d pull out without looking so I made up for the Xmas stunt by getting him a new £11 twin air horn; watch out for rug wearers. I tried to tell him that bleed nipples are like butter....anyway, his first experience of a breaker got me an as new Z1300 caliper (just swap the mounting brackets) for £15. Points (£8) and their condensers (£13) can be a dosh wasting experience for you riders, so I persuaded mine to send off for Boyer Bransden electronic ignition (£55); better petrol consumption and no pissing about setting the points.
One problem we had one October on the way back from the Outer Hebrides coming over Shap Fell on the M6 (Lake District), I‘d been drinking unleaded for the last few hundred miles around Scotland but suddenly over Shap I couldn't pull more than 60mph! l was a bit worried. I can usually hold my drink and I was well embarrassed being overtaken by skips (convertible Ladas) and Skodas with heated rear wine dows (to keep the drivers hands warm when pushing).
Anyway, my rider had heard that Kawasakis have finer mixture tolerances than other stock bikes and that with all that extra muck in Unleaded in place of lead, that this can lead to carb icing — I had to stop on a garage forecourt so he could remove my tank, I just had to vomit up that unleaded stuff. Everything was alright after I was tanked up with four star. I suspect some of you lot out there will have had similar experiences?
Speedwise, we're talking 112mph two up, before the new air filter and exhaust. He hasn't discovered my new turn of speed yet because before he tried me out I got him to learn about complete rebuilds, but that's another story.
Remember, ride carefully be cause a bike in hand is worth two in the bush, so we say.
Arriving back in Manchester after 18 months despatching in Shit City, only to find that my house had been turned over and both my bikes stolen was the last thing I needed. After a year and a half of living in a lock-up garage I was looking forward to some home comforts, but now all I wanted was to get away again.
But where was I going to go? I'd always loved New Zealand, but just two years earlier I'd been deported back to the UK as an illegal overstayer. Oops. No matter - I had made a good wedge while In London, and deciding to sell the Zapata homestead (a three-story terrace in a shitty, sorry, up-and-coming suburb of Gunchester) would release no less than fifty grand in equity. This meant I could afford the very finest bogus papers available, as well as having more than enough for a deposit on a place in NZ. Bring it on.
Eight weeks later saw me stepping off the plane in Christchurch and getting a bus to Dunedin, from where I headed straight to the shared house I'd been living at when I was deported. I knocked on, but everyone I knew from there had moved on. Downcast, I sat on the kerb and reviewed my position. Had I been stupid to even consider hauling ass half way round the world to resume my old life? Didn't they (whoever 'they' were) always say 'never go back'?
Shrugging my shoulders, I headed back to get the bus into Dunedin, planning to get as drunk as it was humanly possible for a man to be. On wandering back past the rear of the old homestead, however, I noticed something I'd never considered possible; the old Honda Fusion scooter I'd owned when I'd lived there previously was still in the back yard! Two years had elapsed since I'd last swung a leg over it... would it still run? Surely not! I had, for no practical reason, kept the keys - it seemed like a connection to the country I had loved living in so much, more than anything else - and suddenly it seemed as though everything made sense. I pushed the gate open, wheeled the elderly Fusion out into the alley and sat astride. I pushed the key in and turned, as if no time had elapsed since the last time I had ridden it, then thumbed the starter.
Unbelievably, the battery was not flat and against all odds, after about 30 seconds of churning, the old single coughed into life! That was all the bidding I needed; after a cursory shoulder check I fucked off with all due haste. Upon taking the first corner I realised that the tyres were all but flat. Good start!
I had no thought for what might happen if I was stopped by Plod; I had, after all, no helmet, no documentation to suggest that the scooter was actually mine, and a Kiwi passport in the name of some dead dude or other. All I knew was that I had to be away, so off I rode. Back into Dunedin I headed and, in a fit of uncharacteristic profligacy, I booked into a hotel for the night.
The next day I left with a plan. Lid and gloves were purchased, and the out-of-date warrant and rego on the scooter sorted. Insurance isn't compulsory here so I didn't bother. Next came a two-man tent and associated equipment; NZ is nothing if not set up for the outdoor types - it's one of the things that I liked most about the place - so I decided to live out, at least for the Summer months. There are little state-owned (DOC?) campsites dotted all over the place, which run on an honesty box system. Cheap they certainly are, but the downside is that there are next to no amenities. Good job I bought a shovel and a solar shower then, eh?
I took a couple of days to get over the flight, and take stock of my situation. I decided to take an extended road trip, encompassing in both islands. I might not have been legal, but the scooter definitely was, and in this way I hoped to avoid the attention of the Old Bill.
The next eight months saw me travel to the extremities of the country, from Northland to Invercargill at the very bottom of the South Island; from the East Cape to Greymouth via the Southern Alps, covering a total of 15000km. The old Honda held up magnificently, as it had done in the earlier part of my ownership. The vast majority of NZ's road network is made up of single carriageway roads and unsurfaced tracks, and the old 244cc single was more than happy plodding along at 60-65mph while all the while returning 65-70mpg. The hugely capacious boot and Shoei topboxhoused all my personal effects and camping gear, so I could ride into town and park up without fear of getting ripped off.
Handling isn't the greatest, what with the 10" rear wheel and leading link forks, but was perfectly adequate for the performance available. The biggest problem was caused by side winds - it really didn't like those! The 1000 mile oil change interval was a bit of a ballache too, but I was told by another owner to ignore these at my peril, as the Fusion doesn't have a proper oil filter - only a re-usable gauze screen. That said, it's not a deal breaker, as the job takes about 10 minutes to do and the motor holds barely a litre of the good stuff. I did this on campsites and at the side of the road as required. The old stuff would be decanted into a mineral water bottle and disposed of.
Rear tyres are a pain; they rarely last more than 3000 miles and aren't always easily available at every back-country tyre depot. I bought them two at a time online and carried a spare that I could simply pay someone to fit for me. One of the best aspects of the scooter was the huge seat, the distance I could ride was only limited by the range (120-140 miles) rather than rider discomfort.
Wanderlust sated temporarily, I headed back to the South Island - Christchurch this time. The opportunity of some work with a friend who had emigrated there while I was travelling proved too good an opportunity to resist, and soon I riding the latest wave of dot com enterprise/emperor's-new-clothes bullshit. Still, the work (designing web applications) was easy and paid well, so what did I care? Especially as I met my now wife while in Chch!
That was two years ago now; we bought a house (with a garage, natch) and I no longer need the dead dude's passport. The old Fusion is still in the garage - along with another one I bought subsequently - and is still my main mode of transport. It's been a funny old route to get here (not that I'd have missed a second of it) but I couldn't be happier with where I've ended up.
