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I owned a Norton 750 Combat Commando for five years and did about 15000 miles.
That’s an average of 3000 miles a year. Not very much, is it? Before I bought the Norton I used to average 10-12000 miles a year, which says something about its, er, practicality. On the other hand, it’s the only bike that I’ve kept for more than 18 months. I don’t know whether that’s a reflection on my stupidity, the bike’s charm on the odd occasion when it’s going right or merely a misplaced optimism from the fact that I’d spent so much time working on it that there’s little left to go wrong. It’s also the only bike to bring a tear to my eye when I was forced to sell it - if I had my way I’d still have it now, but the bailiffs wait for no man.
A brief history lesson: about forty years ago Norton designed a twin of 500cc, which went, as time passed and desperation seared the motorcycle industry, to 600, then 650, then 750 and finally 850cc. The first 750 was known as the Atlas (the unkind suggested this was because it had a crankshaft that acted like it had the weight of the world on it). Even die-hard Norton freaks have little good to say about this machine. The Commando had the Atlas engine stuck in a brand new frame with isolastic mounts to absorb its fearsome vibes.
The Combat was a tuned version of an already frail engine to, er, combat the Jap fours. This device goes like crazy and looks quite rorty but at the same kind of mileage as a Honda four owner was changing his oil, the Norton owner was having to change his engine! This I wasn’t aware of at the time of purchase. In fact, I was looking for a Z650 to replace a boringly reliable Z400 Kawa twin, and came across the Norton entirely by accident when visiting a friend. His neighbour had a garage full of bikes, and naturally we got talking. In the corner there was this slim, bright yellow Norton with a Dunstall exhaust system and 18000 miles on the clock. Did I want to have a go? A brief ride, that started with a wild wheelie because of the excess torque, had me hooked. The poor old Z400 felt a right slug afterwards.
Some back pay from a delayed pay rise meant I had some money to waste. I phoned the owner, who wasn‘t keen on selling but said come over for a pint anyway. The ride that followed was one of the most terrifying and exhilarating of my life. Even with good rubber, heavy fork oil and the shocks jacked up to max, a Z400 isn’t much of a scratching tool. He was riding a Trident two-up and appeared to regard Worcester’s one-way system as his personal race track - the kind of speed we achieved would have left us in deep shit on the motorway had we been stopped. Somehow I kept up and he seemed quite surprised that I was still behind him, albeit white faced and trembling, when we stopped. I was later to learn that he’d put two other prospective purchasers through this test...
A month later I’d sold the Z and went to buy the Norton. The oil seemed on the low side so we topped it up. Hands up all those who’ve left a Commando standing for a few weeks, thought the oil was low and done the same. Lesson one to British motorcycles and the charm of a separate oil tank. Do something silly like that and Norton spews up the excess oil like a headbanger after twelve pints and an Alsatian curry.
The first couple of months were mostly spent becoming used to the idiosyncrasies of the bike. Vibration was very apparent until I worked out how to sort the isolastic mountings. This stopped the number plates breaking (three), headlamps blowing (too many to count) and petrol tank splitting (once) As a further safety precaution I also rubber mounted the headlamp and number plate with the patent Enzer anti-vibe system (two rubber grommets and an old mudflap). The tank split around its mounting stud where I found the rubber washers had been misplaced.
Next problem was the clutch. Not only did it slip (cured by new plates) but also had a self-destruct cable, no matter how well it was routed it only lasted for a couple of months I ended up carrying a spare at all times. The tyres were old TT100s and let loose, especially in the wet, without any warning - when they wore out they were replaced with a set of Roadrunners.
With the above sorted, the bike ran happily for about two years, taking me round Scotland plus most of England and Wales. Problems were mostly electrical caused by the age of the wiring loom. Like many motorcyclists, I have a superstitious and wholly irrational fear of electrics, but the experience I gained from tracing the frequent shorts and broken wires exorcised most of it. Maintenance wasn’t as simple as I’d expected and needed to be executed with religious fervour. Exhaust valves were relatively accessible, inlets weren’t. Ignition timing was one real pain, even when new points were fitted and the quick destruct bobweights replaced, it never stayed in tune for long - electronic ignition is definitely recommended. Oil has to be checked in three places — primary drive, oil tank and gearbox. The latter seizes if neglected.
Talking of oil brings us to oil leaks. Yes it did, but not as bad as I’d expected. A weep from the tacho drive and the cylinder head, but the primary chaincase was the worst offender - this massive construction is held on by a mere single bolt. Anything less than the skill of a world class surgeon in tightening up this bolt will lead to the corners buckling. Instant street cred as a real Brit biker when all the oil spews out.
Did you know that the Commando was bike of the year for five years running and was the first motorcycle to obtain a British Design Council award, entitling it to one of those black and white triangular thingies seen dangling off uncomfortable pieces of household furniture? Last time I buy a toaster with one of those...
Another Commando problem is the brakes. The rear drum is spongy but works okay after a fashion. The front Lockheed disc looks pretty but that’s all. On a ten year old bike it’s not all that surprising when the master cylinder goes or when the caliper seizes, but I had the whole system rebuilt to as new - disc skimmed, the works, but it still wasn’t very impressive. If it was slightly better than some Jap jobs of the same period it was only because the Norton weighed so much less.
My Combat was fitted with high bars and a small tank. Fine for shooting around town but absolute hell out of the city. Pillions were not very happy either, one actually fell off the back when we hit a bump and she cracked the rear light in the process. Still, it’s as good an excuse as any to get a lithe young lady to hold on very tight. I fitted rear- sets and clip-ons which transformed it for fast work but made it sheer hell in town. Pillions were not too impressed, either, as their feet were stamped upon when I changed gear. Luckily, the Norton combined low mass with a motor that chucked out great gobs of torque, making it such a pleasure to drive. This was just as well, because after two years the thing decided that I must be taking it for granted.
First, the carbs leaked fuel which fell between engine and gearbox upon the tarmac in front of the rear tyre - the lurid slide across three lanes of traffic scared me shitless. Second, the bolt that holds the advance unit on the end of the crank fell off leaving me sparkless. I managed to fit another, but that only lasted a month. Third, on the way to Birmingham, there was a very expensive sounding rattle followed by an explosion. I thanked providence for the paranoia that made me join the RAC.
The engine strip showed things not as bad as I’d feared. The pistons, small ends and possibly the con-rods were shot, but the valvegear, pushrods and bottom end were undamaged if looking somewhat worn. Don’t let anyone kid you that Commandos are easy to work on. They seem to require another special tool, or improvisation thereof, every time you turn your back. Deciding that I’d rather be in the pub out of the dreadful cold, I handed over the job to the local Norton specialist.
A few weeks later it was back on the road, with new big-ends, valves, collets, springs and con-rods just to be on the safe side. The motor sounded as near perfect as it was possible to get a Norton. So good that I was able to notice the other things that were wrong. The Amals were worn out (not helped by the lack of filtration), but I couldn’t find any good used ’uns and new ones were too expensive.
The petrol pipe split due to old age and the wiring was going as fast as I could repair it. The master cylinder and caliper needed rebuilding again. As soon as that was done the Dunstalls went. Then the mystery misfire started. It wouldn’t happen for weeks, and then it would appear and go away as suddenly as it started. A plug chop didn’t help. The ignition appeared okay. The carbs were the prime suspect but new needles combined with a careful strip and rebuild didn’t help. The breather in the fuel cap was clear. I gave up, as the tax had run out, and stuck to a borrowed CB750F1 was later to buy; also, my fiancee was getting rather annoyed at having her toes trodden on all the time...
I was forced back onto the Norton when some moron ripped off the tank of the Honda, wrecking all the fuel lines in the process. I was all set to go to Stonehenge, so the girlfriend had to share the cramped accommodation on the back of the Combat with a set of throw-overs and a tent. Much to our surprise the Norton ran really well all the way there. I let my mate have a go on the Norton (he owns a 400/4 with 40,000 on the clock and claims to have never laid a finger on the engine, which sounds like a diesel). He’d gone 200 yards when the clutch stopped working.
In between manic giggles (this was Stonehenge) we stripped it dewn to find that the enormous circlip that holds the diaphragm spring in position had broken. No problem, just get the puller out of the toolkit... oh christ, in the rush I’d brought the Honda toolkit. We spent the next day wandering around asking Norton owners if they had a clutch compressor - ironic because once before one had asked me if I had one. I eventually rang a friend who was travelling down later and he brought mine.
For all that I would have another one, but not at todays prices. There was the funny side as well, all the happy memories of other people trying to start it, for instance. It was a bit like my Doberman, fine with me but temperamental with strangers. I used to take a sadistic pleasure in lending the bike to people who, having heard of the Combat’s reputation, would pussy foot it instead of throwing their full weight into it. On more than one occasion, this resulted in some anguished yells, and once in someone being deposited on the other side of the bike after it kicked back.
To some extent the rebuild costs are offset by low running costs. In 15000 miles I changed the disc pads once, rear tyre twice and front once. Fuel averaged 50 to 55mpg. Most bikes, unless they’re owned by real cheapskates, will have Superblends fitted (they cost twice as much and last four times as long). An SU carb conversion is expensive at £120 but two Amals cost £75, don’t last as long and need constant balancing (not to mention the improved economy). Spares are readily available and not too expensive.
They can be good bikes but need a lot of time and money. At todays prices they simply aren’t worth it. In MCN prices range from a box job at £500 (ho ho) to a concours at £2999 (full blown hysteria). These people may not get what they’re asking and I’ve been watching a JPS replica going down in increments to its present level of £2100.
I doubt very much if most readers of a mag like UMG would consider paying this sort of bread for a Commando, but if you’re thinking of it read the comments on Commandos in Issue 6 and add to those faults problems associated with old age... and forget it.
There are some people who have never heard of a Ducati Mach 1 and there are some who have heard but never want to hear again - I come into the second category. Back in November 1965 I was in the RAF, had no transport, little money and less sense. My family lived 100 miles from camp, so having only a provisional licence I decided to buy the fastest 250 available for the odd weekend trip home. I’d decided to buy new for reliability so the following Saturday I thumbed a lift to the nearest dealers in Oxford, clutching the few pounds I’d managed to save.
The choice boiled down to two bikes, a Honda CB72 (civilised but bland and heavy) or a Mach 1 (red, exciting and lean). The claimed top speed of 106mph (ho, ho) of the latter bike was the final selling point for me. Perhaps I should describe the Mach 1 at this point. Fire engine red, slim, light at about 285Ibs, a single cylinder 250cc four stroke with 10:1 compression ratio, gear and bevel driven OHC, 28hp, SLS brakes, no tacho but a 150mph speedo (that bit really impressed me), clip-ons, rear-sets, no pillion footrests. The history behind the bike was quite simple - Ducati merely diverted some from the race track, hung on the cheapest and most inefficient lights they could find and then flogged them to prats like me.
After I signed the HP forms and was ready to go, the dealer explained that the kickstart wasn’t really usable and only there to make the bike look complete - only to be used when asking unsuspecting friends if they’d like to have a go (he was right, the ignition was so far advanced that any attempt to use the lever would invariably result in a near fatal blow as it retaliated with a vengeance). Ten minutes later, blinded by sweat and face a funny colour, I’d just about got the hang of the staning technique. Into first gear, free the clutch, back on compression, fistful of throttle, run like a loony, leap up and sideways to bang down on the seat at exactly the same moment as dropping the clutch, left foot on the footrest and swing right leg over madly accelerating machine to stamp right-hand gearchange into second - and that’s it, you’re airborne.
The next trick to learn, as I left Oxford like a deranged jet-jockey, was to keep the revs up at all times; anything less than an estimated 2000rpm would result in an engine trying to rotate in the opposite direction, an undignified stop and yet another go at the dreaded starting technique. There was obviously only one way to ride this bike - bails out. Well, that's fine but at some point you gotta stop, right? This turned out to be the next problem (idiosyncrasy) with the Mach 1.
On careering round this bend, like a marauding missile, with a vicious grin as wide as the sky, I was confronted with firmly closed railway crossing gates. I wondered for a moment if I could just pull back on the bars and jump the gates (anything to avoid starting the soddin' thing again) but quickly sobered up and hit the good ol’ drums. Well, nothing much happened so I pulled a bit harder, and a bit harder... and stopped a few feet from the gates with the alloy front brake lever touching the twistgrip. Of course the engine stalled so I hauled the plot off to the side of the road, trying to give the impression that I’d planned to have a smoke break right there at the crossing gate. As soon as the gates opened and the traffic disappeared I got down to a close inspection of the brake lever to see if Ducati had inadvertently supplied me with a plasticine item, but, no, it appeared to be some sort of metal although, judging by the ridiculous ease with which I straightened it, it must have had a high lead content.
Starting the bike didn’t seem to be quite so hellish this time and l was already feeling leaner and fitter myself, so I was in good heart when I discovered the next problem (feature). I was now five miles further up the road and man and machine were as one, so to speak, as I came up to join the A40. The lights were against me so I snicked through the box to neutral - except it didn’t, it chose first instead. So I snicked (more of a clunk really) back to neutral - except it didn't, it chose second. The clutch was starting to drag so in mild panic I gingerly tried for neutral again the clunk changed to a kerrunch as it went straight through to first. The clutch was dragging so much that it was easing me through the red lights so I reluctantly let the engine die and once more hauled the plot off the road, trying to give the impression that I’d planned a smoke break at the traffic lights on the A40. This was not so easy to do as the back wheel was locked up and I must have looked like a clumsy bike thief.
Ten minutes later, the clutch cooled and, traffic lights timed to perfection, I roared off up the road almost back to base. I say almost because I was only half a mile from camp when, on a tight bend on a hill, the Pirellis let me know that they wouldn’t allow the same angle of lean as the rearset pegs would. After trying to give the impression that I always park my bike half-way through a hedge whilst having a quick smoke break, I finally made it back to base. I had nowhere to park the bike but out in the open outside the barrack block, so I left it there overnight while I had a couple of pints and a good nights sleep, apart from the nightmares.
The following morning I went outside to admire my gleaming steed - except it wasn‘t, gleaming I mean. The silencer and rims were already faintly pitted with rust and the chrome was actually peeling off the exhaust pipe as I stood there watching. That exhaust was to last less than six months before it was rusted right through. I made a decision there and then to ride the bike as far and as fast as I could in the shortest possible time because the way things looked before long I’d be making monthly payments on a small pile of oxide.
Starting the followng weekend I made regular trips to my father’s house in Nottingham, a distance of 100 miles each way. Typical journey time was one hour forty minutes, an average speed of 60mph. The first sixty miles was on the old Fosse Way - here’s where I loved the bike, sure-footed, responsive, almost an extension of my own body. Then into Leicester - here's where I hated the bike, sometimes stalling at every red light. Then out on the A46, back in love again. Into Nottingham - hate again. Out of Nottingham to my father’s house to arrive with very mixed emotions. The fuel consumption was always good news, though, a reliable 70-80mpg, never more but never less. Vibration was always present though never unbearable and only two or three things ever fractured or fell off. The riding position was just great on the open road, sheer purgatory in town.
It was on one of these trips home that I had an unusual experience. I normally travelled on a Friday night but this time it was a Saturday morning and the traffic out of Leicester was heavy and slow (ie 50mph in a 50 limit), so I decided to white-line to the head of the queue and make like a scalded cat. The first thing to do was to stand on the pegs and check behind for any dormant blue lights, which I did. Unfortunately, when I turned back to the front, I found that the traffic had slowed to a crawl and l was heading at 50mph for the back of a truck. With great presence of mind I promptly tested my underwear, whimpered, then dropped the bike under the tail-gate of the truck, sliding along under the diff towards the front axle. Fortunately, before I appeared on the road in front at what would have been a very startled truck driver, the traffic gathered pace and back I went under the diff to reappear again in front of the fortunately stationary traffic behind me. This time I couldn't pretend that it was my unique way of stopping for a break because l'd left the contents of my cigarette packet scattered down the road. I’d also left one at the Ducatis foot-rests in the road, so that necessitated riding the rest at the way home with one foot on the crankcase - not recommended on a bike that has a thinly disguised plank as a seat and rock hard suspension.
I'd had the bike tor some nine or ten months by then and chromium plate was just a cherished memory. As it happened, this didn‘t really matter as I was shortly to give up motorcycling for a while, although I had no feeling of impending doom at the time. The way it happened was this.
My girlfriend (later wife) was going home to her folks for the weekend and l was on duty at camp. Innocuous enough start but as we all know, when the cat’s away the mice will play. And so I did.
On the Saturday evening I thought that the RAF wouldn’t miss me for a couple of hours so I slipped quietly away - well, as quiet as you can on a Mach 1 - to visit another girl whose father owned a country pub (the perfect combination). The journey there, through Gloucester countryside, was pleasant but uneventful - apart from noting the pungent aroma of a field of kale as I took a left towards my destination. The evening in the pub seemed to consist of a laugh a minute coupled with several pints of scrumpy - although, to be perfectly honest, I don’t remember much of it now.
However, the journey back was a little different. It started well enough - I got the bike going nicely and settled down to a familiar rhythm - but I couldn't help but notice that a fair mist had settled and visibility was none too good. No problem, the young and stupid amongst us will say, just blast along until you smell kale and then hang a right. Which is exactly what I did - except that I never smelt the kale. I don’t know it it was the surfeit of scrumpy, the smoke in the pub or what, but I didn’t smell kale. So l wasn’t ready to hang a right. I was doing seventy and singing happily when all of a sudden out of the mist in front of me loomed a Cotswold stone wall.
I stood on everything, pulled on everything and just dropped the bike looking for maximum friction. The bike hit the wall and I hit the bike. It's awfully dark In the countryside at night. I pulled myself to my knees and just tried to breathe but all I could manage were little ik-or-ik-or noises. It would appear that I had stoved in my left ribs and I’d left half an inch of right buttock somewhere up the road. After five minutes of feeling sorry for myself I realised that I wasn’t going to get better just kneeling there, so I hauled myself to my feet and managed to drag the bike almost upright. The rear wheel was buckled but it could be moved so I set off painfully down the road.
Three cars came past me in the next five minutes but all gave me a wide berth on seeing the blood and mud, even though I did my best to flag them down. The fourth vehicle, a van driven by a biker, skidded to a half and hauled the bike and a collapsing rider into the back, administering first aid. Thank you, whoever you were, I’ve never forgotten.
At this point I had to give up biking and it took me 10 years to get the taste back. I sold the bike to a friend who was on the ground staff of the Red Arrows - he had fun trying to feed coloured dyes directly into the carb so he could make out like a low-flying Red Arrow, but all he succeeded in doing was to destroy the valves.
Would I buy another Mach 1? Nobody would dare produce such an uncivilised bike agaln. Would I buy another Ducati? I doubt It, but maybe their quality is better now. Have I grown up? I suppose so, I’ve had eight bikes in the last 12 years and haven’t dropped one yet. Did I ever get 106mph out of the bike? No, the best I managed was the ton. How did it compare with other bikes of the era? Good. It was evenly matched with my mate’s CB77 (305cc) and he was at least two stones lighter than me. Have I got a photograph of it? No - and I don’t want one!
I had noticed a couple of Moto Guzzi V50s about town. The styling appealed and so did the name - not your usual Jap bike. One fateful day in the town centre I suddenly heard a deep roar. A black Moto Guzzi California appeared at high speed, the rider chucking it from side to side to avoid pedestrians belore having to make a swift exit up the street. Ahhhhhhhh!
After a brief and not entirely happy ownership of a GT250 in 1980, l was bikeless for six years. For practical reasons I decided a step-thru would be handy - I became the proud but self-conscious owner of a Honda NF75. Okay, it’s gutless but it’s automatic and it’s fun. Although it had become more than a mode of transport I wanted a real motorbike. Knowing virtually nothing about engines I was gently directed away from Bonnevilles towards the Japs, but then it hit me - I could own a bike l’d admired for a long time and upset my friends at the same time by not buying Japanese.
After some research Into prices I made the long trek down to Oxford to see a T3 California at £950 ono. Well, after travelling all that way I wasn't going to leave without buying the bike. After a brief ride on the pillion (it didn‘t break down so it must be okay), I headed up the road.
Not having ridden a bike over 250cc before and not having used a bike with a clutch for six years and never having driven a Guzzi before, the journey back up north was, er, character forming. I got a friend to check the bike over - pitted forks was the only problem. I considered myself lucky.
The bike had no screen and a broken pannier, but good value all the same. Stanchions and fork seals came to about £100. Replacing them was an ordeal. I resorted to using a hammer - one replacement secondhand fork leg and £20 later I resumed work. It took about ten hours in all and lotsa muscle, but hopefully I won’t have to do it again. In terms of reliability the bike has only let me down once in 6000 miles (better than I expected).
The ignition switch decided it was just too tacky to continue functioning - a bit of tin foil had the bike back to normal. The only other black mark on an otherwise respectable record is that occasionally the left-hand cylinder doesn’t fire until the revs are quite high - this happens mostly In the wet. The last time it happened it was cured by pushing the outer part of the cable properly into it’s seating at the choke. Of course, the main failings of Guzzis are reputed to be the parts which don't actually involve the engine. The electrics have a bad reputation but I haven’t had so much as a bulb blow in 6000 miles, although the starter motor does sometimes hesitate unnervingly.
The previous owner had the foresight to fit a spare throttle and clutch cable alongside the ones in use. A good idea since these cables are prone to breaking, which is hardly surprising given the weight of the clutch and throttle. Bleed nipples? The alloy is so soft you can forget about trying to remove them if they’ve been untouched for a long time. This may mean getting the caliper drilled out - and there are three of them and six bleed nipples! Similarly, the front engine bolt needs to be removed and greased every six months - if only I could loosen mine off. A job for a rainy day, I suppose. I will save everyone a long explanation of the linked brakes - you either hate 'em or love ’em and you won't know until you’ve tried them. A Ford Escort battery fits and is a lot cheaper than stock.
I sometimes wonder why I run a bike with a lot less performance than most Jap bikes of the same size which has higher running costs. It is only when on runs of more than a few miles that it becomes apparent. One can’t measure a bike by speed alone. What about the exhaust note, the character, the handling, the looks, the ease of maintenance? In the face of these redeeming features, performance figures become less relevant. The Guzzi isn’t slow but it's certainly isn’t fast either. With a healthy spread of torque, the Guzzi is great fun in the traffic and along winding country roads. On motorways it’s adequate able to cruise comfortably at 80mph all day, save that the lack of a screen means the upright riding position imposes a bit of a strain on the rider.
For this type of tourer, the handling's fine, way ahead of fat old things like Gold Wings. It’s got an old fashioned feel, stable in a straight line and flickable enough through the bends (helped by the very high bars). The rear shocks are the weak point in the system and shaft drive torque reaction is not unknown. But, overall, it’s a very secure ride with plenty of feedback.
Starting from cold the Guzzi feels like an old dog but after 50 miles it‘s settled down to an amiable hum, revs freely and inspires the rider to ride off into the distance just for the sake of it. For a leisure run the bike is a real treat. Or you can thrash the thing with little fear of getting it tied up in knots - thrash the engine and it sprews out lotsa oil, the oil pipes should be routed to the back of the bike so that following cars are splattered rather than man and machine.
Despite having the occasional longing for an LC350, FJ1200 or even a Jota, I can see no reason for selling the Guzzi. It is, as they say, a bike that rewards long term ownership. After 6000 miles I suppose I do feel a bit rewarded.
The bike now has 33500 miles on the clock and I hope to double that without any real problems. Is this asking too much?
I'd only owned the Morini 350 Strada for half an hour when things began to go wrong. You know how it is when a bit of paranoia creeps in on that first ride home alter travelling halfway across the Country to buy the damn bike of your dreams (well. I‘d really wanted a Sport, but a ’77 Strada tor £350 seemed a good deal). I was shooting down a deserted B road that snaked around a packed out motorway - ideal Morini country. l was running up and down these little hills, waiting for the last moment before slamming on the TLS front brake and really scratching through the bends. I was congratulating myself on buying such an ace bike, opening up the throttle wide as I hit the bottom of the hill, the front wheel skimming through a small puddle... er, hell, a great plume of water was thrown up in the air, vision disappeared as my visor was drenched in water and I was absolutely soaked through. I had to make a vague guess as to the direction of forward motion until I managed to flip up the visor.
Oh well, the little Morini was steady as a rock all the way through and seemed to have shrugged off the experience. I decided that the only way to dry out was to travel as fast as possible to get the water blown off by the wind. The 72 degree vee twin engine is quite a strange creature. It can be revved off the clock just like a Jap four, but unlike most 400 fours it has plenty of low speed pull when you need it. I soon got the bike up to an indicated 80mph (actually, the needle leapt 10mph either side) and was crouching down low over the flat bars, the riding position fine as the previous owner had been thoughtful enough to fit rear-sets, trying to knock her up to the magic ton on a piece of A road that was boringly straight.
Guess what happened next? With 95 on the clock it started to weave, none too gently. Just as I thought it was going to turn into a tank slapper the engine went dead, the sudden lack of power throwing the chassis out of balance and sending the whole plot leaping back and forth across two lanes of highway. I tried to hold on tight and brake hard. If I was going to fall off it made sense to do it at a low a speed as possible. I was just getting it into some kind of shape when the power switched on again and the bugger nearly shot off the road into a hedge. I managed to wobble to stop and hurt my foot when I kicked the engine. If I knew where I was I would have dumped the bike and hitched a ride home, but I was following the setting sun.
There seemed to be a lot of wires hanging out from under the tank and I saw that one of them was bare... I eventually arrived home - some 300 miles - with a sore bum, a grimace instead of the grin I’d hoped for and a foul temper that I inflicted upon the wife when she was silly enough to ask what the new bike was like. The next day, determined to get the better of it, I ripped off the tank, seat and side panels and tore out the total mess of rotted wires and toy town cells. I kept a large hammer close by in case it objected. The electrics were relatively simple as most of the switches didn’t work so I was able to wire it up with an on-off switch for the ignition and fit an old CD175 handlebar switch for the lights and horn. It fired up first kick and was such a delight tor a 100 mile buzz around well known local lanes that l forgave it everything and apologised to the wife.
It was still in the original colours and had 54000 miles on the clock. The paint was peeling off the frame and petrol had faded the tank paint. The tyres were well worn out and the brake pads well worn down. The chain was either too tight or too loose when the back wheel was rotated. A lot of the alloy was corroded, but the overall effect of the engine and shape of the cycle parts still gave it a kind of beauty; I could feel the beginning at a serious love affair. Yes, I stripped the damn thing down, painted it up and fitted new consumables, including a set of shocks. The new tyres and suspension removed the tendency to weave and it never approached a tank slapper again, thank god.
There was a bit of vibration, but nothing to worry over if you're used to British bikes, just the engine telling the rider what’s going on down below. It would cruise along at 80mph without a hint of protest and returned around 65mpg however hard I screwed the motor. Quite impressive. The previous owner had told me that the engine was completely rebuilt at 42000 and the fact that I did 5000 miles with just basic servicing seems to bear this out. In the curves it was a real delight, with so little mass, a good strong frame and stable geometry it had to be one of the fastest things on two wheels.
I could have kept it for a long time but some chap raced after me on a Honda 400/4 (both bikes were introduced at the same time and were rivals of sorts) and offered me £1500 cash for it. The wife was pregnant and the money was too much to resist, so it went to a good home and I bought a V50 for £400 as a replacement, thinking another Italian vee would be a good replacement just shows how wrong you can be.
I had about £1000 to spend and after much scouting through old motorbike magazines narrowed my choice down to either a GPz550 or CBX550. As luck would have it, a mechanic friend of mine had recently purchased a CBX550F and was restoring it before selling. Although it was four years old, it hadn’t been used for two years due to a drink-driving ban. I knew the bloke he’d bought it from and he insisted that it had never been thrashed or dropped, so I decided to make my friend an offer for the Honda. We eventually agreed that he would completely strip and rebuild the bike to put it into mint condition in return for £750.
When I eventually handed over the cash the bike looked stunning — brilliant paintwork and chrome, not a spot of rust to be seen. According to the terms of the sale, he’d had to shell out a fair bit of money to make it A1, including new exhaust, battery, fork seals, brake seals, pads and chain. In addition, the anodised castings had been treated to come up like new. The end result was a bike so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes.
Having got my hands on the bike I decided to go for a ride with my girlfriend to some country pubs. My first impression was the power of the machine, which was simply awesome in comparison to any of the cars l’d owned or my 125. Even two-up, it would pull with ferocity from anywhere in the rev range with a superbly smooth power delivery. Handling was impeccable also, the bike very flickable, yet steady as a rock around the tightest of corners. Even pothole strewn bends posed no problems for the excellent Pro-Link rear suspension. I couldn’t bear to stop riding the 550 that night and when I did I couldn’t sleep. I was in love.
The next day I arrived home from work, parked the bike outside while I went in for my tea. After an hour or so I remembered that I hadn’t put the padlock on and went out to do just that. No bike. I couldn’t believe it, I'd had it no more than 36 hours and it was gone. The bastard must have smashed off the steering lock and wheeled it away because I didn’t hear it start up. The police told me that most bikes turn up in a day or two and that I’d most likely get it back but I was inconsolable and close to tears - it felt like a loved one had died.
After a day had passed, I began to come out of mourning and went to the pub to cheer myself up. On returning I noticed a motorbike at the side of the house. I cautiously approached, not daring to believe that it was mine. Lo and behold, the CBX had returned to me. I later discovered that two friends had spotted it about half a mile down the road and had brought it back.
At first glance it appeared okay - all that seemed damaged was the ignition switch and the wiring loom. I could not believe my luck. My relief was short lived, however, because when my mechanic friend inspected the bike he diagnosed a seized engine and seized front brakes. It didn’t take Hercule Poirot to deduce that the front brakes had seized on when the thief was still too close to the scene and he’d red-lined it to get through the braking...
Since I was supposed to start a new job in London in three weeks, I couldn’t afford the time consuming business of an insurance claim and instructed the mechanic to fix it. The seized front brake was traced to a faulty master cylinder and cured for less than £10. The seized engine was traced to an exploded clutch bearing and this, along with replacing the stretched cam chain and final drive chain, amounted to a repair bill of £250.
With the CBX running again I left for London. Riding the bike was as good as I’d remembered and within hours the whole robbery episode was pushed from my mind. I’d been warned when I bought the bike to take it easy, since I wasn’t used to such a powerful machine, and under no circumstances to use it in the power band until I had ridden it for at least a week. Having tasted the ferocious mid-range power I felt the advice was warranted and waited a couple of weeks before seeing what mayhem lurked above the 6500rpm mark. If the power below this point was interesting, then the performance from 6500 revs up to the 10,500rpm redline can only be described as maniacal. I never once had the guts to powerband it in less than third gear for fear of my hands being ripped from the handlebars.
Despite the power, the CBX550 is physically very small. However, the combination of a relaxed riding position and a comfortable saddle means that only the tallest of riders would feel cramped. Suspension is state of the art 1982 stuff (air adjustable front and 4 position anti-dive) and can’t be faulted when new. In contrast, the three enclosed disc brakes are often cited as a reason for avoiding the Honda (quote enclosed discs are sick joke - UMG). While it can’t be denied that they make brake maintenance difficult, they do actually work in the wet, although I would have preferred normal discs. One feature that must be commended is the accurate fuel gauge why can’t all bikes have one?
At this stage I was convinced that my luck with the bike had improved. However, less than 2000 miles after the cam chain replacement, the engine began to rattle excessively from the top end. I decided to fit another cam chain and a new tensioner. Since this meant splitting the engine the bill was close on £200. However, with the engine in pieces, he diagnosed an enlarged con-rod, whatever that is (ahem - Ed) and reckoned the original robbery was the cause of both the con-rod problem and the quick wear cam chain, although I’ve since learned that cam chain tensioner problems are endemic to this model - he advised that I sell the engine while it was still sounding sweet.
By this time I’d concluded that the bike was an albatross around my neck and decided to cut my considerable losses by selling the bike. The engine sounded beautiful in Liverpool, but by the time I’d reached London it was rattling again. I decided to sell it as soon as possible and within a week had off-loaded it for £700. The bike looked so immaculate, that despite the rattle, the bloke probably thought he’d done me. I sincerely hope he’s had more luck with it than I did.
Having since ridden other, bigger, bikes, I can honestly say the CBX is a superb bike to ride and that few, if any, motorbikes can give the same enjoyment for such low used prices. However, I would not recommend buying a CBX to anyone except the bloke who nicked mine because all the CBX550 owners I’ve spoken to have complained of engine problems. Honda apparently cured the cam chain problem with the last model and if this is true it may well be worth purchasing a more modern CBX, but I can’t help thinking that a GPz550 is a much safer bet even if you have to pay lots more money.
After selling the 550 I went back to the Cortina for the winter but recently bought a 650 Katana on which I have so far done 6000 trouble free miles. After the experience with my CBX550 you may be forgiven for thinking I was insane to get another motorcycle, however the sheer exhilaration of riding the 550 made me realise that the cause of my initial decision to sell my car and get a bike was not temporary insanity - it was divine intervention.
XS11s are tough brutes - mine had just written off the Mini which had wanted to argue over rights of way. Unfortunately, the black beast's forks had bent over backwards in their efforts to reposition the car‘s engine block. Help! I had a cottage booked for a week’s holiday and no bike, other than a non-road legal Kawasaki KC100 of dubious touring ability. The other thing I had was the conviction that the sun was going to shine tor a week and ale would be flowing in convivial Welsh pubs.
In this sort of situation brazen faced begging is the only course at action. Throwing myself on the tender mercies of my brother (cheers Derek) produced the offer of his Norton Commando’s backup bike - a Moto Guzzi Spada 1000. Having recently had the privilege of following my other brother‘s Le Mans 1000 around the Lake District and needing to open the Yam’s throttle wide to keep his tail-light in view, I quite fancied getting to grips with some of my favourite roads on one of these strange Italian devices.
I travelled from Leicester to Manchester to get the bike, the only advantage I can see in train travel is that you can get totally ratted on the way - I had to set off back to Leicester the next morning. The Spada had a new battery, a new speedo cable, a sheepskin seat cover and a brain damaged muscle bike freak piloting it. No amount of persuasion would tempt the speedo into life.
I’d been warned about the clutch, the lever appeared to operate an on/off switch connected to the rear wheel. I stalled ignominiously before wobbling off towards the motorway. Guzzi switchgear completely defeated my fuddled brain and I spent the first 30 miles flashing the oncoming traffic instead of indicating. At around tour grand in top the engine seemed to stop working - no vibration at all. This must be why Guzzi owners don’t carry their internal organs around loose in their pockets. The tractor like effects of the Spada at low revs are migraine inducing in their severity. I kept the revs above four on the Richter scale for the next hundred miles until I reached Leicester. The Spada then carried myself, girlfriend and luggage - the exhaust pipes have atendency to set fire to throw-over panniers, but then my brother has a unique talent to lose or destroy these items - non-stop across the Midlands and Wales to the Lleyn Peninsula. Over 300 miles covered on my first day with the Spada and no major disasters.
There is a real contrast between the Spada and similar capacity Jap tourers. The Guzzi is physically small, handles beautifully and is a real dog at low revs. With no speedo I couldn’t measure fuel consumption but compared to the excesses of the Yam I wasn’t wasting too much beer money. The front end seemed taut despite the lack of a fork brace and a plastic mudguard, but on bumpy roads the rear shocks were only slightly less painful than the thumps I received from my, normally pampered pillion.
The one aspect that really surprised me was the engine’s unhappiness at low revs. Unlike my Yam XS1100, the Spada wouldn’t glide silkily around picturesque Welsh lanes on a flying carpet of torque. The schizoid nature of the motor meant riding anywhere slowly was painful and required a big handful of throttle to get her really moving. Where the bike really came Into its own was on motorways and smooth A roads. Sitting at an estimated eighty or so felt relaxed and comfortable. The odd looking two piece fairing kept the wind off my body and head, and my knees off the cylinder heads. The mirrors flopped around like demented spaniel ears, but looking over my shoulder in the protection of the screen was no problem at motorway speeds. At first I thought the fairing wonderful, but then it didn‘t rain until the journey home.
The downpour started at Harlech and continued all the way back to Leicester. The fairing’s design actually encourages water to drip onto your hands and whilst the leg-shields may work for skeletal Italians they didn't for me. However, the electrics withstood the rain better than some Jap bikes I’ve known. The Pirelli Gordons did what they’re supposed to and the linked brakes are truly wonderful in the wet. Shame about the fairlng, a few pounds extra plastic would have made all the difference.
After living with and relying on the Spada for a week, covering about 1500 miles, I can see why you need to be an enthusiast to run a Guzzi. The bike was reliable and capable of serious distance work - the only maintenance that I attempted was checking the oil level and filling the tank with petrol. I had some great rides on the bike but, for me, the clutch, vibes at low revs and the inefficient fairing spoilt the experience. A nice bike to borrow but not one that I could stay with.
My brother eventually felt the same - after planning to uprate the engine to Le Mans spec and sold the Spada for more or less what he paid for it. A W-reg Spada at around £1100 is a good bet if you want a tourer for the summer months that you can unload easily enough come the winter.
The drizzle turns into rain as I pass under the M25 on the M3. I’m on my way to Basingstoke because in my top box there’s a package that I found was wrongly addressed to IBM in Chiswick when I arrived there. When I rang my controller he told me to take it to Basingstoke, which meant I had a bit of a raw deal as it was a solo job. This didn’t put me in the best of moods and there was only one thing for it - knock it out as fast as possible and get back into London.
This also gave me the excuse I’d been looking for to see how fast my Kawasaki GT750 would go. I was forced to cruise at 90mph until the traffic thinned out, when I rolled open the throttle to take the bike up to the ton, overtaking the last line of traffic and pulling into the middle lane with nothing ahead of me.I looked over my left shoulder just to check there were no sneaky cops about to pounce; when I looked ahead again I saw two pieces of road coloured wood completely blocking the middle lane. No chance of avoiding them, not even time to get the throttle off the stop.
Still accelerating I hit the first lump, the bike leapt up off the road. Everything starts to happen in slow motion, which is a very bad sign. It seems to take minutes before we land, and I start to think that we’re going to make it, when the handlebars start turning lazily in my hands. First to the left, then despite all my strength resisting it to the right — then they’re smashing from lock to lock. The power of the tank slapper is truly awesome - all I can do is hang on.
Meanwhile, the bike is on a crash course for the armco, which we’re going to hit at full power as I still can’t get the throttle off. For a split second I give up, I know I’m going to die, then I get angry and start looking for an escape route. I briefly consider trying to make it over the barrier - it means losing my right leg but there’s too much traffic coming the other way. Then, it's too late anyway - in a desperate bid to survive, with adrenalin strength I throw the bike onto the tarmac on its left-hand side.
We smash into the armco, I’ve got my eyes tightly shut, but I see sparks as my head hits the road. Then I’m sliding, it seems to go on forever. At last I come to a stop, I've only got one coherent thought, get out of the way of the traffic coming towards me. Struggling to my knees, I’m amazed to find that I still have two legs - I can’t feel my feet but they must be there because I’m able to stagger to the armco, which I cling to like some shipwrecked sailor. I notice then that I'm not wearing my helmet anymore, it must have come off in the impact.
A man runs up, almost hysterical. I sit down, swearing to myself that I’ll never ride on one of these infernal machines ever again under any circumstances. Jesus, I can’t even see the Kawa, plenty of debris - a silencer there, bit of a top box here, papers scattered all over the place and the damn package, unmarked and lying a few feet away. Then I see the bike - it’s made it over to the hard shoulder, at least 150 yards away.
The pain starts about then, and the nausea - I almost go unconscious with it. The police roll up and try to get the traffic moving again. It’s a real nightmare because motorists keep slowing down to get an eyeful, other cars almost slamming into them. At one point a lorry almost jack-knifes avoiding some dickhead. It all becomes even worse when the ambulance pulls to a stop in the fast lane. I stagger into it as fast as I can.
In the hospital, after X rays, the doctor informs me that I haven’t broken anything. I just have bad sprains on my ankles and left thumb. He wants to put my feet in plaster but I talk him out of it by promising not to walk about. The nurse had phoned the office in London, who sent a taxi for me and the package.
The taxi takes us back to Chiswick - yes, it’s all been a giant cock up, it was meant to go to Chiswick after all! This last kick in the teeth sends me into a black depression. The driver asks me where I want to go next. I don’t want to go home yet because my present state would upset the wife, so I give him the address of a friend - like a wounded animal I needed somewhere to hole up and lick my wounds.
After a couple of days I feel better; luckily I heal up fast. I could even walk again, if a bit slowly. Things could be worse. But I’m in a tricky position, ten months ago I had hit a Mercedes that pulled out of a driveway without looking. I broke my leg and was out of work for eight months, but got fit enough to start despatching in London just before Christmas. My previous occupation had been as a trawlerman, but there’s not much call for fishermen in London and my body couldn’t take the gruelling punishment that passes for work on a leaky old trawler mid-winter in the English channel.
Unfortunately,I still had a pile of debts to clear, so decided to go back to despatching, after all — the chances of having another crash like that must be pretty low, I hoped.
That afternoon I caught a taxi to see my boss. After plying me with whisky, he asked me if there was anything he could do. I said yes, lend me £500 to buy another bike - he agreed to this. That night I caught a train back to East Grinstead. I told my wife I’d had a slight accident, but it was OK because the boss had lent me £500 to buy another bike.
Later, my son woke up and I got to him before my wife could stir. I change him and give him a bottle - while I’m holding him I start to cry, a result of the pain both physical and emotional — I had almost lost everything and it was then that I realised how much I valued life and the ones I loved.
The next day I rang up a friend who I’d sold a doggy old XJ650 to a year before. He still owned it, and, yes, he wanted to sell. I went around there, he started her up, it ran and I’m not in much of a condition to test ride it. So, we just agree a price, the deal done I ride home very slowly.
The bike’s a real dog but I show up for work the next Monday. Somehow I struggle through the day, thinking that I’ll go home after the next job. Gradually, over the next couple of weeks, I become better, although it was months before I fully recovered. , A friend of mine went to recover the Kawasaki 750. He couldn’t believe that I’d survived. The front end’s bent and smashed, the back wheel is broken, the frame’s bent at both ends, the petrol tank ripped off its mountings, one handlebar has been ripped off and is missing, but the engine, despite losing some fins and CDI unit, might be salvageable. He gave me £100 for it.
Over the next three months I did 10,000 miles on the X], but it became a real struggle as I have to spend lots of time fixing it. While I’m in Gambler & Reeks in the Kings Road, buying yet another large quantity of spares, I happen to joke about buying a new XJ900. Faster than a striking cobra, the salesman establishes that I might be able to get finance. The repayments over three years work out at less than I’m spending trying to keep my 650 running.
After some hassle with the finance company they agree to loan £3000 if I can come up with the other £500. I run around to find the money and a few days later it‘s ready for the road. It’s beautiful, in its 1988 black paint job, set off nicely by the white and gold graphics. It’s a stunner, my wife loves it; so does the boss. I start getting more work.
I realise how much I’d been missing simply because I didn’t want to go anywhere on the old bike. The 900 is a pleasure to ride. Loads of low down grunt together with a relatively light mass (it weighs almost 70lbs less than a GS850) and a slim fairing allows me to throw it through the traffic. The seat height is quite low and I have no problem getting both feet on the ground at a standstill. But this does not mean that my legs become cramped as there is plenty of space At 5500rpm in top gear the bike’s doing 86mph and is completely relaxed and vibration free. Above that the engine becomes a little harsh, images in the mirrors blur, a bit of a poor show because at 6000rpm the real power appears and the speedo needle goes berserk. It’s plenty fast enough for me!
One of the most outstanding features are the brakes. Wonderfully responsive with plenty of feel. The riding position is just right, a good blend of leaning forward without going too far and putting too much weight on the wrists. Fuel consumption was truly miserly, 42mpg from really thrashing it, but more usually better than 50mpg. If the suspension seems a bit cheap — there’s hardly any adjustment available — it handles well enough to make more sophisticated stuff redundant.
After I’d owned the bike for a few weeks I was top bike in my firm, no trouble. Then a friend put in a word for me with his mob, even though there is a waiting list of at least a year to get in there - I got the job. It was hard to leave the old company, there are lots of dishonest outfits run by real sharks that pass for despatch firms in London.
A1 Express in Paddington is a straight one, and the boss a good guy - he understood and we said goodbye. After a couple of weeks I began to get the hang of the new addresses I had to memorise and was used to my new call sign, appropriately enough Victor B!
The last day of the week for us (Tuesday), I’ve had a good time of it, made over £100 for a days work, when my radio crackles into life - the controller wanting to know who wants to be in a raffle for a Manchester job. I call in my name and a few minutes late; hear I’ve won. It’s 7.30pm before I can actually start on it. The journey up is slow because of road works and rain.
I‘m a little lighter-handed on the old throttle in the rain on motorways after stuffing the Kawasaki, but I eventually arrive. I have to buy a street map because I can’t ask directions as it’s addressed to the Bank of Scotland. The last thing I’m going to do is ask some dodgy looking character how to get there; a sure recipe for a knock on the head. I eventually arrived outside the back door, pressed the bell when, immediately, the street was filled with light, the door opened and a half seen figure snatched the package from my hands and slammed the door shut!
Time to go home. I’m soon back on the motorway but it’s a real struggle to maintain a constant speed as I’ve a bad case of fatigue. It’s past midnight and I’ve been working without a real break since 7.30am - still 200 miles to go. In my mirrors I see a bike coming up fast. It sweeps past, a true madman on an FZ600, a nice bike with a seat like a plank.
I tuck in behind him to see how long he can stay on it without stopping. We hurtle along through the night, a fast 60 miles later he suddenly slows down. I do likewise and become aware of a car alongside my leg, almost falling off when I see it's the police! They don’t bother pulling us, at the next service station we stop for some coffee and I have my first proper meal in more than twelve hours.
Back on the road we maintain the same formation, him leading. We blast past those police again but they don’t bother us as they have some other poor joker pulled over. The end of the M6 comes up, the sharp right-hand bend reminds me how well the Yam handles, my old GS850 would have needed two lanes to wallow in had I tried to get around at the same speed, but the X] was rock steady.
Some miles later the FZ turned off for Peterborough, leaving me alone again. But because it’s almost midsummer dawn is not far off and I‘m no longer tired. In fact, I was getting a feeling of euphoria, the same way I used to feel when I was on a trawler, racing for the home port to catch the morning market, a hold full of fish and a good trip behind us. The sun was starting to come up when I reached home - it was easy to get off to sleep.
At the end of that day I had been in the seat for 24 hours, the first 14 or so zapping around in London’s insane traffic, then I did Manchester. The fact that I did all that and enjoyed it, as well as being able to get up the next day for more of the same, is a testimonial to what a superb machine the XJ900 is for despatching and what a strange business is despatching and life.
Most people pre-plan, weighing up the pros and cons of a motorcycle, before they fork out large amounts of cash, so why did I have to be the exception?
Perhaps it was the unfortunate experience of 12 days with a Moto Guzzi V50 Mk2 in which I spent more time pushing than riding it — I still cringe every time I see one. Luckily, I was able to dump it back at the dealers and retrieve my money.
An acquaintance complained of a ban for drink driving, revealing that he had an XS750 he could no longer ride. I offered him £350 to take it off his hands. I couldn’t believe my luck, he accepted.
It’s common knowledge that these bikes are considered a bit of a dog, but I was not to be put off. A close inspection of bike, a good test ride and the deal was clinched. Despite it’s age (1977) the Yam was in good condition and stock save for an Alpha 3-1.
After I had the bike for a week it was time to give the Yam some hard riding. Was I in for a shock, you can’t ride the bike hard because despite a rigid frame the suspension is just not up to the job - high speed bends that I could take at 85-90mph on previous bikes could only be taken at 60mph on the Yam.
Where the Yam did excel was high speed motorway cruising at 70 to 80mph all day long. Completion of a long journey left you relaxed and free of a stiff neck or backside. Despite the Yam’s weight, it handled quite well around town, with a useful 1st gear for rush hour crawling traffic and a light clutch.
The first modification I made was to fit a set of lower bars off a XJ650, which helped to reduce wind buffeting on open roads. After 500 miles I was becoming used to the shaftie, and despite being treated with derision for riding such an old hack I was very pleased as it did everything that I asked of it and was brimming with character.
Servicing could be easier. The valve shims and carbs were simple enough but the three sets of points reduced me to a gibbering wreck on more than one occasion. Fortunately, I had a mate who knew what he was doing. Don’t use pattern points as they only last 800 to 1000 miles...
And the brakes are another poor point. Reasonable in the dry, the merest hint of dampness doubles the braking distance - only a madman would ride hard on the XS in the wet. I tried different pads, stripped the calipers down, and used new hoses, but all to no avail; I put it down to the nature of the machine.
A nasty piece of maintenance is changing the oil filter. First I had to remove the exhaust system then I rounded the bolt as the previous owner must’ve had help from a gorilla when he last bolted it back - a new bolt costs £5!
Starting the bike from cold wasn’t much fun, either, for the six month old battery was drained before the engine roared into life — fortunately, the XS was old enough to have a kickstart fitted, which brought the engine to life first kick. Either the starter motor is on the weak side or it‘s tired out - hate to think how all the modern iron is going to start in ten years time, ’cos they ain’t got any kickstarts.
Despite the Yam’s age it was full of useful touches that could be employed on more modern bikes to their advantage. For example, rubber mounted bars, flip-up rear mudguard for easy wheel removal, simple and easy to cancel indicators, allen bolts in the engine cases...
After a year I decided to junk the standard front mudguard and use a secondhand one off an XJ750 which fitted fine after a gloss black respray. The machine was still providing reliable service, although I wasn’t tempting fate — I carried lots of tools in the two useful compartments under the seat.
After 10,000 miles top speed had been reduced from 110 to 100mph and it was only doing around 40mpg. The ton on a 1977, 520lb Yam is bloody fearful, that I can assure you. I eventually changed the weird mix of front Conti and rear ME77 for front ME33 and rear ME99 - in fact, braking and handling were only marginally improved, probably because the suspension was so shot.
Now to disaster. I often thought that if I did have a prang it would either be on my new bike or someone else’s new bike and not on my old hack. One wet and windy day in October I was 250 miles from home, pissed off and damp, my moral was low. As I approached a set of traffic lights I failed to note they’d gone red — as I entered the junction a Mk3 Cortina pulled out.
Luckily, I was only doing 25mph and I hit the door head on. I admitted liability straight away and the driver didn't inform the boys in blue. The driver was okay, more than can be said for my reproductive equipment, from the force of the impact my body was thrown forward with my nuts coming to rest on the headstock.
The damage done to the Yam was bent mudguard and fork stanchions - £138 to repair which was rather steep but nothing compared to the £660 the Cortina needed. Okay, so I lost my NCB, but just think of the cost of damaging more modern tackle.
After the repairs were done, to exercise a well worn cliche, it never seemed the same again. The Yam had 36000 miles on the clock, the clutch and primary chain (£80 new) were becoming a little jerky.
Luckily, my Yam had already been modified under warranty, look for punch marks on the engine number plate - avoid any bike without these marks for they haven’t had the gear— box, primary chain and camshaft modified and fall apart in under 20,000 miles.
I sold my 750 after two years of ownership, for a mere £25 less than I paid for it, so I was quite happy. To be fair, I will never let anyone bad mouth the XS750, unless they’ve actually owned one.
1980 saw me flush with cash for once and I’d decided to go upmarket to something just under the 900cc insurance limit. The contenders were a BMW R80, Yam XS850 and possibly a Guzzi Spada or Suzuki GS850.
Off I went to try a BMW R80. I didn’t then realise that a few weeks acquaintance were required to fully appreciate the charms of the BMW. A trip around the block merely convinced me that my old Triumph had more guts and felt more modern. I wasn’t really happy and my wife said that for £2000 plus I should be bloody ecstatic.
I knew a nearby Yam dealer was giving XS850 test rides. A blast down the road, the sound of those lovely whispering exhausts; I ordered a black one there and then. The dealer tried to sell one of his showroom full of CB900s but I remained firm.
A couple of weeks later I took delivery. I ran her in as per the book and took her back for the first 500 mile service. The bike went in sounding great but when I took her up the M62 heading for Leeds, I wasn’t so happy with the way the motor ran. On my return the bike went slower and slower, refused to run in top gear and then fourth. Luckily, the dealers was on the way home so I went in to complain.
After a few minutes I learnt that the chief mechanic had left his pet monkey to play with the spark plugs, setting them down to around three thou. After much apologies, honour and performance restored, I eventually made my way home, cursing the so-called professionals.
Was the money well spent? I thought so at the time. MCN had road tested one at 129mph and it was hailed as light years ahead of the GS850, being lighter and faster and only slightly slower than the Honda 900. It was easy to manoeuvre, easy on juice (50mpg minimum, up to 60mpg on a 70mph run), although the dealer did say that another owner had complained about getting only 38mpg.
The bike was also very comfortable, fitting me like the proverbial glove. But, I found I had to leave a bit of extra space for wet weather braking. The bike sat up a bit on take off (but I quite liked this feeling) and gearchanges had to be taken slowly. But, all in all, I was very pleased.
The XS was used every day for work, always starting first time, a 20 mile round trip. In the first year there were no breakdowns at all, but just as the guarantee was about to expire one cylinder started cutting out - I popped it back to the dealer who found one of the ignition pick-ups was duff, replaced under warranty, but only just. No so lucky with the exhausts, they fell to bits just out of warranty. I fitted a Dunstall three into one, it ruined the lovely whispering, making the XS sound like a flat Bonnie giving off wind below 80mph. However, beyond 4000rpm it came on song like a Ray Petty Manx — a pity really, it should have been the other way around. One side effect was a flat spot at 60mph caused by the 3-1, but I learned to live with it by revving the head off it at the top of the scale; more YPVS than tourer.
The Yam was the fastest bike I‘d ever had, so I soon found myself at 90mph thinking I was doing a mere 70mph. It took me a week or so to really appreciate the difference in performance between the Yam and the Bonnie (god help them today on ZX-10s).
During the next five years the bike did over 20,000 miles and never let me down. Probably helped by the fact that I did very frequent routine maintenance, because I’m a great believer in doing it in the comfort of one’s garage rather than at the side of the road.
Front pads lasted 8000 miles and, strangely, the back ones only 6000 miles. The front tyres went about 8-9000 miles and the rear 8000. The brake caliper pistons started to seize up after 4 to 6 months, tending to bind on - it became so regular that I began to regard it as just routine. The battery lasted five years.
But when are the Japs going to learn how to paint frames? After five years the tank and side-panels were still excellent, so where did all the frame paint go? When I first bought it I sprayed WD40 all over the electrics and found no paint at all inside the frame gusseting — they don’t even dip the frames. First task was to buy a tin of black paint to do the job myself - should that really be necessary on a new bike? The black engine was a terrible job to keep clean and the frame paint seemed to evaporate before my eyes - thank god for Hammerite.
The one thing that the bike did need was a proper fairing. That led me to a distant moorland farmhouse, there, in a barn, under a pile of hay, was an early sixties Peel full dustbin fairing. It was blue in colour, painted in Dulux, but I couldn’t part with my cash fast enough.
A mate, who’s an ace welder, knocked up some brackets and the whole thing was soon fitted. I really wanted an Avon Streamliner type dustbin fairing but beggars can’t be choosers. I had a DMD one on a Bonnie 25 years ago so I knew what to expect.
Talk about turning heads. At one of the Leeds bike shows I was surrounded by a mob and my wife became quite scared. The one thing everyone asks is, 'Don’t these things suffer from sidewinds?’ What a load of crap. It would take a force 9 gale twice over to shift a bike weighing 530lbs plus. For all the uninitiated, I can say that I’ve never been blown all over the road as many lighter and smaller bikes have.
The fairing suited the bike well. One day I actually saw 125mph on the clock. I’d rubber mounted the fairing, so apart from a little crazing it never gave any trouble. Only problem was that the lack of lock meant three point turns were not an uncommon experience.
By 1985 she was still running quite well and was still reliable, but it began to be a little difficult to engage first gear. My job had just changed, so I didn’t need a bike for commuting. I sold the bike to a young man at the right price, with the stated fault and l was a little sorry to see her go.
Was it a good buy? Yes and no. She was soon outclassed by the newer, faster models. However, she gave me five years reliable running. I lost nearly £200 per year in depreciation, but like most Jap bikes it’d become a dog after five years. I now own a BMW R80, which I think I should have given a chance in the first place - I’d probably have kept it a lot longer for the build quality is much better.
