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Fuck Netanyahu and the murderous Israeli regime. Free Palestine!
It had taken a while until I arrived at the stage where I could lope along on the big Italian vee twin with a disgustingly large grin written across my face. First impressions were a distinct turn off. The gearbox was a nasty piece of work, both clutch and throttle outrageously heavy going and the shaft drive reaction very distracting. The test ride was not very impressive but the engine sounded OK and the owner only wanted 600 sovs. There were no other big bikes available at that kind of bargain price.
I was impressed with the ease with which the motor roared into life on cold winter mornings. And power flowed in with as little as 1500rpm up. The old motor rumbled rather like a tractor, but the torque hit was as good as the best of the old British twins.
The gearing was on the tall side, the horrible clutch needing to be slipped slightly when taking off from a standing start. 5000rpm in top was equivalent to 85mph, which made for a very relaxed touring poise; vibration being largely absent. I always knew that the vee twin was working, but the sensation was so pleasant that it could not really be described as vibration. It was echoed by the steadfast bark out of the stainless steel silencers that the previous owner had thoughtfully fitted. Even at 85mph there was enough power available to give a handy dose of acceleration to escape the attentions of mindless car drivers.
This was one of the Guzzis fitted with a 16" front wheel, an absurd pandering to the then race track fashion; one that did not sit well with the Guzzi's conservative steering nature. The T5 still felt quite sharp and stable, but certain combinations of bumps and angles of lean would cause the front forks to twitch. This would occur at about 60mph, which was tolerable, and at the top whack of 120mph, which tended to make me grab the brakes and roll off the throttle. Happily, stability in the 70 to 110mph range was good, with no frightening surprises.
A set of Koni shocks out back complemented the Paoli forks, both a reasonable compromise between comfort and tautness. They were probably no match for the latest Japanese stuff, but even with nearly 100000 miles on the clock, at the time this is written, they are still more than tolerable.
The major flaw in the handling is that the shaft drive will lock up solid if pedantic care isn't taken when doing down-changes. The novice Guzzi rider will find this tendency off-putting and despite nearly a decade's experience on other machines it took me a good six months before I had mastered the gearchanging. Even now, I am occasionally caught out.
The gearbox does not help any in this department, being the kind of device that would give even old Beemer owners nightmares. The key to successful changes is a very slow, firm action with a heavyweight boot and the developed feel for how the gears are meshing. A distinctly vintage feel here. Luckily, as the bike has aged it has not become any more intransigent.
The linked brakes couldn't be better, though. A very powerful set-up, yet with a surprising amount of feedback. Pad life was poor (around 6000 miles) and the discs would turn to rust at the merest hint of rain, but apart from that I had no complaints. The calipers would need a clean up every 20000 miles, but having owned some Jap iron that needed the whole braking system replaced at that kind of mileage this was acceptable. And I've only had to change the brake fluid a couple of times.
Less enjoyable was sorting out the wiring, an old Guzzi complaint. Just about every switch, relay and bit of wiring needs replacing once more than 15000 miles are on theolock. The switches will actually fall apart if this ritual is ignored.
The stock front light was adequate for sane speeding on unlit country roads and didn't blow very often. The horn was a pathetic bleep until it self-destructed. Breakers love these bikes, as they can off-load their surplus Japanese electrical parts.
Just to compound the electrical problems the generator wears out its bushes every 10000 miles, or so. No great problem if you know it's going to happen but a pig if it occurs in the middle of nowhere, as happened to yours truly. Luckily, I managed to charge up the battery, after pushing the bike for about half a mile to a friendly village, which got me the 25 miles home. I took that as the hint I needed to do a complete electrical refurbishment. Apart from putting in new bushes every 10000 miles, the electrics have since been very reliable, as has the motor.
The T5 has Nikasil bores which make re-bores impossible but improves initial longevity My bike is still on the original bores and pistons with 97400 miles done. It has started to smoke a little and oil consumption is heavy - 80 miles per pint! lt'll still rumble up to the ton and cruise at 80 to 90mph without feeling like it's about to tear itself apart, but the initial surge of high speed acceleration has long since gone.
With a windshield out front, the bike still makes an ideal long distance tourer. The tank holds over five gallons, which at 40 to 50mpg gives an easy 200 mile range. That's more than enough to test the comfort of the K&Q seat I'd fitted in favour of the rather hard stock saddle, which anyway fell apart at a mere 48000 miles. I have done over a 1000 miles of continental touring in a day, and still been able to waste the night away in fine style.
Minor annoyances have included a throttle cable than snaps every 5-10000 miles (despite attempts at re-routing it) and a universal shaft joint that is notorious for not lasting much more than 25000 miles. The latter I change every 20000 miles to avoid on the road catastrophe whilst the former is catered to by the simple expedient of taping a spare cable alongside the existing one. An old ploy, long practised by riders of British machinery.
Another annoyance is the oil filter hidden away inside the sump - these Italians have a funny sense of humour! And, a rear tyre that doesn't last more than 4500 miles. The front is not much better, 16" wheels being notorious for ruining rubber in short order. The older Guzzis would get almost twice the front tyre life. I have stuck with the cheaper Avons with no real cause for annoyance.
I can't complain, though, in the past five years and 64000 miles the bike has not cost me any major money and provided loads of fun filled riding now that I am used to its strangeness. I was so impressed with its general robustness that last year I was happy enough to head off for Europe on a 6000 mile canter around Spain and Italy, the latter especially appropriate as it was the home of the Guzzi.
Quite a few older Guzzis were spied, some had gone around the clock a couple of times! The climate there was rather less harsh than in the UK, most of the bikes having a better finish than my own pride and joy. I had to work hard on the T5 to keep up even a semblance of smartness. The frame had been resprayed twice and many minor parts rechromed.
I expect to break through the famed 100000 barrier shortly and have secured a newish set of barrels and pistons to mark this event. I don't know how much wear I will find in the engine, but I've talked to some owners who have done more than 250000 miles on similar machines. Their engines have obviously needed some quite major attention to achieve that but they are easy to work on, with an adequate supply of used parts found in the breakers.
Prices vary enormously, anywhere from £250 to £3000! The former will buy a non-runner with a minimum of useful parts. The latter, a really nice, low mileage, one owner job that should have loads of life left in it. I was lucky with mine, but for under a grand there are some nice big Guzzis on the market.
I was tempted by a Le Mans. but after the relaxed feel of my T5 everything felt very stressed - l loved the kick in the guts from the excess of torque! T5s are a bit at an acquired taste but once a firm friendship is made, they do tend to get into your soul. Every time the engine churns into life, I feel the blood flowing through my veins. Even the mundane commute into work is turned into an adventure. I bounce into the office full at the joys of life, looking forward to the trip home when the day turns pallid.
There's nothing quite like sticking to a marque come what may. I've been a Triumph man since the sixties started off with one of those nifty Tiger Cubs and rapidly moved up to the big twins. Two machines from that period have stayed in my garage all this time, a neat Tiger 500 and a rather wayward Bonnie, tuned to the hilt but only sometimes all the better for it.
It needed to be with all the high performance Jap crap of the seventies and eighties on the road. I got my own back, in the end, by buying one of the new Triumph 1200 Trophys. Now I can be proud to ride British iron and keep up with just about everything else on the road. The older Triumphs have not been neglected, as they each have their own particular tune to offer.
The 1969 Triumph T100 quickly found a special place in my heart. It was practically brand new when I acquired it. in beautiful condition, having done less than 1000 miles. From a distance it looked pretty much the same as any late sixties Bonnie, to my mind always the most beautiful looking Triumph. The engine was the single carb version of their then ubiquitous OHV twin. Displacing a mere 490cc with a 9:1 compression ratio. power was a very mild 35 horses at 7000mm.
At the time, a hard ridden Honda CB250 twin would have given the Tiger problems, they both sharing a 95 to 100mph top speed and the ability to gallop along at 80 to 85mph. However, the Tiger's willingness to rev was combined with a lot more low speed punch than the rev-it-until-it-dies Honda.
Other benefits included chassis components that were basically set up for the 120mph Bonnie model, so coped well with the milder Tiger, although by modern standards the suspension travel, or lack thereof, is very crude, but it still manages to hold a line and the 350lb machine can be tossed through the bends with all the ease of most Jap 250s.
What endeared the T100C to me more than anything was the effortless way it ate up the miles and the sheer versatility of its nature. As happy potterlng around town as it was blasting down motorways or cutting a path though, the back lanes. Unlike my other Triumph, vibes were not too intrusive and maintenance chores confined to 1250 mlle sessions. One or two bolts did show a need to come undone in the early days, but once wired in position they started to behave themselves.
Although the Tiger is equipped with speedo and tacho there's hardly any need to consult them - the bark of the motor always indicates how hard pressed is the engine and how fast the bike is going. The Tiger is always communicating its state of health to the rider.
I am quite meticulous about maintenance and oil changes, don't use more than 7000 revs (only an idiot would as the harshness of the vibes indicates the motor does not like it), and try to keep the machine looking smart. Thus, in twenty years I have done 38000 miles without having to do anything serious to the insides of the engine (alas, I have a car for the family which takes up too much of my time).
The great appeal of the Tiger is its simplicity, both in its engine and its lines. A friendly and reliable nature more than makes up for any lack of speed. The Bonnie is the complete opposite, with a highly tuned motor running, in a similar chassis to the Tiger. If the two bikes did not look so similar they could easily be the products of two different factories.
The Rickman top end consists of an eight valve head and new cylinders plus high compression pistons that increase the capacity from 649cc to 680cc. Over 60 horses at 7000rpm were claimed for this conversion. The bottom end was basically stock, although l eventually up-rated the oil pump.
The machine was basically a standard 1968 model to which I'd fitted the Rickman bits in 1973, becoming tired of being burnt off the road by youths on Japanese rubbish. The bike weighed in at about 370Ibs, so the power to weight ratio was better than anything the Japs had on offer, even up to the early eighties.
Even a stock Bonnie is a gutsy machine up to about 110mph, so after carefully running in the new engine for 3000 miles, I was not that surprised to find that the acceleration was scintillating enough to put those enormous CB750 fours in their proper place. It was real arm straining stuff.
As was the handling. Both the swinging arm and the suspension objected to this new found energy. Rolling on the power in corners had the back end waltzing in a way that made a mockery of all the myths surrounding fine handling Brit bikes. Even on the flat the bike went into vicious weaves come 120mph!
One thing that did surprise me was that the mill was appreciably smoother than the old one, despite the increase in capacity. What had been a filling threatening 90mph buzz turned out to be a nice and smooth cruising speed.
The one initial disappointing area of the Rickman engine was fuel economy which was for then a quite heavy 32 to 45mpg. The stock motor did 40to 60mpg, whilst the good old Tiger did an exceptional 55 to 80mpg!
For about 6000 miles I had the time of my life on the Rickman. I'd fitted some better shocks and heavier springs, which tamed most of the chassis nastiness. Both the Tiger and the Bonnie share TLS front drums which are both powerful and sensitive, but though more than adequate for the 500 and passable on a stock Bonnie, was a bit lost on the Rickman, as it faded from speeds greater than 90mph something chronic. Racing linings were tried but proved so vicious in the wet that I could not tolerate them, so had to suffer the fade in silent bouts of horror.
After the euphoria of the first few months, I was annoyed to find that the main bearings had failed, rumbling like an old washing machine. That was when I put in a better oil pump, because the rockers and cams were also showing signs of wear. I went to the trouble of having the rebuilt crankshaft dynamically balanced which made the motor smoother still, but if all the performance was used it still demanded a rebuild every 8 to 10000 miles. As the whole point of the bike was to see off the Jap challengers in a heroic fight against the mass invasion, performance was used all the time!
At times i was forced to seek refuge in my car (British, naturally), whilst the Bonnie was being rebuilt. There was nothing wrong with the Tiger, just that I liked it so much I didn't want to risk thrashing it, so sometimes had problems holding off screaming 125s!
I could have blown a wedge on an 850 Commando or 750 Trident but neither of these bikes appealed, the Trident as overweight as most Jap fours and the Commando so unreliable when tuned that not even the most patriotic could make excused for it's eccentricities.
By the end of the seventies and beginning of the eighties I was beginning to tire of the fight, but absolutely determined not to buy any foreign rubbish. The car got used more and more, the Triumphs kept for pleasurable weekends and occasional holidays. When prices went crazy I was even tempted to sell both machines, only a couple of friends who were British bike fanatics persuaded me to hold on to the twins.
It wasn't until the late eighties that l started using the bikes seriously again. The roads had become so congested that going to work on a motorcycle suddenly made a lot at sense.
Then, of course, rumours about the new Triumphs started to appear. l was not convinced that any machines would ever emerge, having heard too many times of the rebirth of the British motorcycle industry. Then, suddenly, as it by magic, there were Triumphs for sale in the showrooms. They were modern, the factory was actually doing some hard engineering rather than just assembling other countries' bits and I liked their looks. I have never bought a new bike and had no intention of starting. however much I wanted a reborn Triumph, so I stalked the used market tor about a year until a Triumph 1200 Trophy turned up for a reasonable price.
The huge water-cooled tour cylinder engine developed a mind warping 125hp at 9000rpm. Which in itself was a massive step tor me to take. Even more worrying, the bike weighed in at about 560lbs with some fuel in the tank and oil in the engine.
The test ride had consisted of being taken for a wild blast on the pillion. The owner had taken one look at me and decided there was no way he was going to entrust his pristine machine to an emaciated ancient, whose arrival on a Tiger 100C did not impress one tiny bit. He agreed to ride the machine to my house a few days later where I handed over a huge stack of fifties much to the wife‘s dismay.
Early the next morning, when there were no witnesses about, I set out on the magnificent Trophy, my ears still ringing from the rather shrill way the nearest and dearest had threatened to dial 999 it I wasn't back by eleven. Within moments l felt right at home on the bike, everything tell so smooth and controlled that as soon as there was a little bit of momentum gained the massive mass faded into the background. The only thing I objected to was the racing poise of the riding position, which hurt both wrists and neck.
I soon forgot all about that, having lost myself in the six speed gearbox I came to a long, deserted straight, where l wrenched on the throttle, expecting to be rapidly hurtled forward. My whole body was viciously jerked backwards as the gentle growl turned into a terrifying wait, what had been a long straight suddenly disappearing to be replaced by a rather sharp left-hander. I was unsure it I should have been grinning or screaming.
As can be imagined, used as l was to sixties drums, the power of the triple discs was almost as alarming as the acceleration (in what turned out to be third gear).
Still, they lost a huge amount of speed, almost scorching the tyres. I knew that after that experience the Trophy would take some getting used to, but also that the process would prove to be a most enjoyable one. Wrenching my back, trying to reverse the machine into my garage later that day, gave pause for thought, although the centre stand proved relatively easy to use.
The main problem was every time I went to use one of the older Triumphs, I had to get used to their characteristics all over again, not particularly helped by having the gear and brake levers on different sides. On a couple of occasions, overtaking cars, I've managed to think the older bikes would cover the distance only to find that I'd misjudged their power, so used, so quickly, had I become to the Trophy's abundance.
In a way it's made me realise all the fun I could have had on some more modern bike in the eighties, but I'm determined to make up for lost time. Already, I've done a continental tour of about 4000 miles. The bike ran fine, except that it went through a set of tyres and needed a couple of oil changes (I'm still doing them at 1250 miles despite what the handbook might suggest). I blasted the bike up to 150mph on a German autobahn, revelling in its stability and smoothness. It still wasn't flat out at that speed but I didn't have the bottle to try for more.
If I had to sell one of my bikes it would be the Rickman Bonnie, mostly because I don't need its speed and am tiring of its need for constant care and attention - the more time I spend on the Trophy, which can be thrashed with apparent impunity, the less I am inclined towards weekends sorting the older Triumphs.
The 500 Tiger, on the other hand, has been so durable that I can‘t ever see myself parting with it; it's still a lovely way to spend quiet weekends exploring the back lanes.
Whichever bike I use, though, I always come home with a big grin that sets me up for whatever may follow during the rest of the day.
In my glory days I used to rush through London traffic on a string of fast, even fearsome, fours. A whole crowd of us used to have fantastic fun whilst earning more than most from despatch riding. We thought of ourselves as real road warriors who could take the worst that the cagers could throw at us. We thought that we were beyond the pathetic laws that tried to restrict our madness and even beyond the harsh realities of the frailty of our bodies
Everything began to fall apart in 1990. when in a short space at time two of our group were killed in road accidents. Then the recession began to affect our earnings. Used to 400 to 500 smackers a week in our pockets, our incomes suddenly halved. It soon became obvious that there was no way we could justify the extreme expense of running the big fours. It was just the question of face that stopped us selling up, no-one wanted to be first to appear on some mundane commuter.
But it had to happen. One guy turned up on an ubiquitous Honda C90. We never laughed so hard, but his running costs were minimal and he'd made a nice pile of cash on the sale of his GT750 shaftie. The next to fall ended up on a GS125, going on at tedious length about its economy. It looked quite neat in its way, so he didn't have to suffer much abuse.
I was next to fall. My much loved and harshly abused XJ900 was sold off for a couple of grand and replaced with a tiny Yamaha RXS100. that had only cost £200 because the front wheel was cracked in a crash - easily repaired with a replacement from a breaker.
The first few days were difficult. For a start, it was so light that every time I'd breathed heavily the little beast veered off up the road. The front brake was pathetic even with so little mass and speed to react against. The main problem, though, was overtaking. The engine only knocked out ten horses, which meant that acceleration was frightening in its slowness. Gaps in traffic that the XJ would polish off without a thought, had me shaking in my boots as the space disappeared whilst the motor laconically screamed away.
It explained the sudden hair loss of the 090 owner, who had to grapple with even more constipated performance. Youth was on my side and after a couple of days I began to change my tactics. The best plan for the Yamaha in heavy traffic was in its narrowness, which allowed ingress into tiny holes in the queue of cars and its lightness meant it could be flipped up on the pavement when necessary. The latter needed a bit of skill, the first time I tried the front wheel hit at too acute an angle and threw the bike sideways. | narrowly avoided having the RXS crunched by a car but damage to the machine was minimal.
After two weeks I rather surprised myself by doing jobs just as quickly across town on the little stroker as I'd been doing on the big four. Fuel worked out at around 75mpg. not as good as either the GS or C90, but better than most DR bikes. The C90 owner wasn't very happy as he kept falling off going around comers and the police kept stopping him - he'd taken all the surplus bits off the Honda and painted it bright pink.
Work was becoming increasingly scarce, earnings dropping even further as 1991 went deeper into recession. There were weeks when I didn't even earn a hundred quid. The RXS kept going, though, just needing the odd part worn consumable from the breaker. Maintenance was mostly checking the oil levels and doing a decoke about once a month. The latter probably down to using cheapo oil. If I'd still been on the XJ900 it would not have been worth turning up at work.
I was forced to get an evening job at a City pub, which at least meant it was an easy saunter from the, office to the local. Rates of pay were even worse than in despatching but after I got the hang at it I found it quite good fun. These days you have to be versatile to survive. When they started having strippers in the evening, things got even better.
Back at the DR scene, the boss decided that there were too many men tor the work available, slashing the workforce by halt, on a last in first out basis. I survived that debacle by the skin of my teeth - l was next in line for the chop if things turned even more serious. Still, it firmed up the work situation, most of us making over two hundred notes a week.
I'd had the RXS about eight months and it now sported 38000 miles. The motor was making some rattling noises and most of the chassis bearings had developed some slop. Time, obviously, to think about acquiring something better. l figured the deepening recession would make finding something decent relatively easy but the hike in insurance rates for bigger machines meant that there was a lot of demand tor sub 125cc motorcycles.
I ended up buying a newish engine from a breaker and putting some new bearings in the chassis, as well as washers in the forks and better shocks. The refurbished Yam smoked a lot more than the old one and wouldn't do more than 60mph. The gearbox wasn't much cop, either, often refusing to change cleanly between first and second. Overall a great disappointment.
I tolerated the RXS for another three weeks then sold her off for a very reasonable sum. I'd found a low mileage GSX250 Suzuki tor next to nothing. A bit of surface rust on the chassis soon cleared up; the bike was looking almost as good as new.
The GSX felt really heavy after the Yamaha, but was much more punchy, actually giving me a kick in the guts when revved out in second or third gear. I was King Rat at the office, just about everyone else reduced to riding mangy step-thrus. There was a standing competition to see who could spend the least money in a month - that was how desperate things had become.
The GSX proved shockingly reliable over the next seven months, needing nothing more than the odd set of spark plugs and occasional oil change. Fuel was good at about 65mpg and it would still put the ton on the clock with a bit of a following wind. Yes, I know they have a reputation for burning out the electrics but mine did not even blow any bulbs, although the horn did fall to pieces - no problem, I had some air-horns left over from the XJ900 experience.
The end came in an almost classic confrontation with a black cab. I was riding along the gutter, minding my own business, when some nutter decided I did not exist and rammed his cab into the curb. Not content with throwing me off, he viciously turned the cab into the pavement flattening the GSX in the process.
He was a near midget, so I was going to smash his head in, but was restrained by several pedestrians until the police turned up. They were all for booking me for using threatening behaviour and attempted assault. They were also demanding insurance and MOT docs, not too amused when they found out that I had not bothered to register the Suzuki in my name. The cab driver was also claiming I'd jumped off the pavement into his vehicle.
Luckily, some old dame came forward to back up my story. The police began to lose interest in me when it became apparent that the cabbie wasn't licensed and was probably an illegal alien.
None of that helped any with salvaging something from the crushed Suzuki. It looked so wrecked, and I had no insurance, that I decided the best thing to do was to quietly walk away whilst the plod interrogated the shaking cabbie. The boss nearly sacked me when I told him I'd had to abandon a parcel. Doubtless if the police wanted to trace me they could have done so. but I heard no more about It.
I was forced to borrow a C50 for a couple of weeks until I found something more suitable. Ambling along at up to 30mph this decrepit device was fine, but going any faster had the shot suspension all hot and bothered, giving the Honda the directional accuracy of a horse and cart.
I was well relieved when an MZ150 turned up for fifty notes - a measure of my desperation. To be fair to the Iron Curtain stroker, stability was as good, if not better, than any other commuter on the market. It was the horrid engine that drove me into such desperation that I used to dread going to work in the morning. The gearbox was diabolical, only matched by an engine that would refuse to start or cut out for no apparent reason. This made commuting in the crazy London traffic incredibly dangerous - the lack of braking from the SLS drums did not aid my peace of mind one tiny bit!
After about two weeks (and five crashes) of this anarchy, the engine seized solid whilst I was bouncing along at 50mph. I saved the skid from turning serious by grabbing the clutch lever like my life depended on it, which it probably did. Rather than throw the MZ under a bus, I pushed the heap home and went looking for a replacement engine, ending up with a much newer 125cc version.
In normal times I wouldn't have bothered, just thrown a match in the petrol tank. But, these were not normal times, 1992 turning out to be much worse than 1991 as far as work went. My income was hovering around the £150 mark, only my night job letting me keep up with my commitments. Amazingly, the deeper the recession got the more popular the strip shows had become. degenerating into the odd bit of live sex. Decidedly unsafe sex, if you ask me, but no-one did and I wasn't going to turn my nose up at the tips offered by the slick city types.
The 125 engine turned out to have a gearbox that a normal person could operate. most of the time, and although starting was dubious there was none of the disturbing cutting out on this one. I almost began to actually enjoy riding the Iron Chicken, although the smokescreen proved a rather mixed blessing — useful for obscuring the number plate but liable to send cagers into a homicidal frenzy.
This machine saw me through three months. For a while work picked up again, the week I made 350 notes a cause for great celebration, but it didn't last and by mid-year l was back to spending long periods in the office. Still, by cutting my personal costs to the bone, and spending most of my time working rather than frittering away my income, I managed to save a few thousand quid over the years of the depression. I had enough to buy a decent bike again but had no faith in the future of DR work.
When a chum's son wanted a 125 to learn on I off-loaded the MZ on him. The replacement was another RXS100. For all the abuse these ignominious commuters attract, low mileage ones are the business if you're after low running costs and longevity. This one had only done 3200 miles and was in pristine condition. I couldn’t believe that it was only five hundred notes and was waiting for some serious fault to turn up, but it never did.
This machine saw out 1992 and was still running fine in early '93. I had decided I‘d had enough of despatching, started applying for some jobs in the catering trade, itself badly hit by a lack of tourists, but I felt that my bar experience and a completely false CV could turn up some interesting possibilities. It passed the time in the DR office when there wasn't any work to do, anyway.
I found that in early 1993 I kept having accidents. Either the cagers had become especially crazy or my concentration was all shot by too many hours in the saddle and the long nights in the pub. Or a combination of the two. Either way, I had a couple of serious accidents, nearly losing a foot in one and wrenching my neck something chronic in another. I didn't stay around to argue the toss, not having my documents anywhere near being in order; even continued working whilst in great pain.
In February another friend was killed, this time by an oblivious delivery van running straight across a junction. I'm not against taking risks but not for the silly money we were turning over. The weather was dull as well, really depressing my spirits. I was close to blowing my stash on a holiday in the sun, but the thought that I probably wouldn't find any work on my return restrained me.
April eventually came round, the RXS running as well as could be expected, given that I could not be bothered to do anything to the machine other than wring its neck all day, I'd started taking outrageous risks in the traffic, as if to defy the reality of what had become a really miserable way of earning a crust. There were enough down and outs around London to remind me that I had a lot further to fall.
The end of April a letter plopped through the door demanding my presence at an interview. I got all dolled up, put on my most brash and bright demeanour and had one of the best interviews of my life. Desperation and persistence finally paid off, a few days later I was offered the job as a steward on a cruise ship if I could leave within the week. Like yesterday!
I bought a practically new Honda C90 almost by accident. A friend‘s wife acquired the 1989 machine tor doing the shopping on. She quickly became so afeared of the cagers that she would not put a dainty leg over the machine. Hubbie was moaning about all the money thus wasted and the silly loot the dealer was willing to pay for the bike. Before I knew what I was doing I had offered fifty quid extra and the devious Honda was mine.
I had never ridden one of these step-thru devices. After an embarrassing number of stalls before I finally got the hang of the gearbox, there being no clutch lever just an automatic clutch, I finally managed to lurch up the road. Gearchanges were a series of crunching noises and dramatic leaps. It was not just that I was not used to the way the box worked but also that everything was very tight, the speedo sporting a mere 88 miles.
It took about a week to perfect a smooth gearchange. The Honda came with a massive windshield, leg protectors and a large top box. They made it a very convenient bike to ride but one that was also shaken about a lot by passing lorries. After 200 miles I had decided that the running in period was over, did an oil change and let loose on the throttle. Top speed was a mind churning 62mph. On the positive side, it would take me the six miles to work in the worst weather imaginable and could pop through the narrowest of gaps. Fuel was so good that I never did work it out, but better than 100mpg despite the absurd aerodynamics.
I don’t like beaches, hate hotels and don‘t like to waste my hard earnt money, so it didn't take much thought to work out that the summer holiday should be a camping tour on the C90. I had no qualms about reliability, Honda have been churning out these motors since the sixties and they are all but indestructible. I like to travel light and with the exception of the tent managed to pack everything into the top box.
The rear suspension reacted by using up nearly all its travel; combined with a rather sparse seat this made more than 50 miles a struggle. A couple of folded cardigans on the saddle helped. Around town vibration was not really noticeable but when the bike was rolled along at full throttle for hours on end, a rather annoying buzz attacked first my feet and then my hands. Rather surprising considering that the engine was a small OHC unit.
Living in Bristol, I wanted to get as far into Wales as possible on the first day, but avoid the motorways except at the Severn bridge, where I pretended the Honda was a moped and used the cycle path. I made it to Swansea on the first day, about a 100 miles on the motorway but twice that on the back road route I took. Apart from my backside, fatigue was minimal. A couple of hairy moments were encountered on the B4265 just past Llantwit Major. A combination of over-confidence on my part and red hot shocks on the Honda, meant we ran very wide through some corners.
The couple of cagers who we woke up when in such a state were not much compensated by the fact that l was almost screaming in fear. Playing chicken with oncoming traffic is not my idea of an amusing time. Wrenching viciously on the bars whilst flicking the horrible Honda upright usually sorted the nastiness.
After a pleasant look around Swansea I ran the Honda down to the Mumbles coast and set up tent on a nearly deserted site. Dressed in bright yellow waterproofs there was little likelihood that I would be mistaken for an Hells Angel.
The next day it rained and rained, so I stayed in the tent playing mind games. The following morning l was up with the sun. The little Honda, having been drenched something rotten, refused to start. Half a can of WD40 got it stuttering but only a change of spark plug finally got the fires roaring. Tenby was my next stop, following the coast on minor roads as much as possible and stopping off in any town that took my fancy.
Under such circumstances the Honda hardly ever had to do more than buzz along at 50mph. Only when it was unavoidable did we join up with the major A—roads. Here, traffic was frenzied in behaviour with even the odd farm tractor trying to overtake us. By the time I reached Carmarthen I was happy to have a rest in an old-world pub, munching my way through a couple of rolls and swilling back a pint of beer. I got a few weird looks from the glitzy brigade but was not actually turfed out on my earlobe... one of the advantages of the recession is that they now let me in just about anywhere.
The Honda refused to start again. I didn‘t have a spare plug so pulled the HT lead apart as it was the only thing that was easily accessible. I put this back on and the little jewel burst into life first prod. By then, quite a crowd had gathered to watch this strange apparition in their Merc and BMW dominated midst. I gave them a two finger salute as we sauntered out of the car park.
Somehow, we got caught on the treacherous A40, where, to be honest, the Honda’s lack of speed made it an accident looking for somewhere to happen. Luckily, there was a following wind and the little engine was buzzed up to all of 70mph (I'm assuming that the speedo on this particular C90 is even more inaccurate than is usual... Ed.). The wallowing meant that the cagers kept a safe distance. After about half an hour of this abuse the turn off for Pendine came up. I pulled over as soon as I could and leapt off the Honda. I staggered around for a while, shaking my hands and feet, trying to get some feeling back into them. The Honda had responded to the acute over-revving with a scourge of vibration to my extremities.
I enjoyed the ride down to the beach and was amused even more by the spectacle of some youths on trail bikes ruining good citizens‘ holidays. They zigzagged along the sand, billowing clouds of grit covering those people who had not gone screaming off the beach, hands clamped to their ears to cut out some of the banshee wail of the unsilenced strokers. l was given enough evil looks to last a lifetime.
The rest of the afternoon was spent bouncing along neglected roads, being throw all over the place and having to keep moving on the saddle to dim the pains in my backside. I did not stay long in Tenby, too crowded with cars and shoppers for fun. Out of the town then for a pleasant bop down to the campsite. My little tent was rather swamped by the grandiose marquees of some other campers. I was a bit miffed to find everyone so serious, was hoping for more of a Carry On Camping atmosphere. Wandering around I found another small tent hidden away and an old Guzzi parked up next to it. The grizzled adventurer and I spent an hour or so swapping reminisces.
Still sunny the next day, I was in the mood for a bit of a hard slog. It was Aberystwyth or bust, well over a 100 miles on the obscure route I intended to take. Mostly B roads all the way, the C90’s suspension had a tortuous time and my body had a good work over from the bumps. The little hamlets would've been interesting had not the people started shouting Welsh at me! They couldn't have been nastier if I was a member of the royal family. Some of the scenery did take my breath away and I was happy to romp along at 30mph taking in clear blasts of fresh air.
A big celebratory meal in Aber, then luxury for the night in a B & B. I took a hike up the mountain with a fellow guest, a real old Englander who moaned about the way the world had gone all the way up, but despite being in his seventieth year he didn't lose a breath. Half jokingly I offered him the pillion of the Honda and much to my shock he accepted right off. We spent the rest of the night annoying the Welsh by out drinking them in various pubs.
The next day was hard going. A strong wind howled in off Cardigan bay, buffeting the front end wildly whilst the rear was wallowing under the excessive weight. Not helped any by the huge suitcase my passenger had insisted we tie down on to the top box.
We made it around the coast to Aberdovey, which under the heavy rain and grey skies didn’t look very inviting. 60 miles had taken us about five hours, so bad were conditions and so subdued was the Honda’s engine. Our imitation of drenched rats was pretty exact and we had to try seven Welsh Iandladies until one took mercy upon us. We made it to the nearby pub where my new found companion regaled anyone who would listen with tales of the indignities he'd suffered during the war. I drank so much beer that he had to help me back to the B & B.
The next day he was nowhere to be found, evidently having decided that motorcycling was not to his taste. The sun was threatening to break out as I left the lacklustre Aberdovey, which will be forever associated with British weather at its worst. Fearing that the coast might turn nasty again I took the B4405 up to Dolgellau and then suffered the A470 all the way to Ffestiniog, making surprisingly good time as the howling gale had turned and was allowing us to float along rapidly on just a hint of throttle. Without the weight of the passenger and luggage the little Honda felt transformed.
I should really have then started to look for a campsite, but the momentum of the road had grabbed me again and there was still half a day left. We rattled and rolled along the B4407, took a right for a while until we came to the B5105 at Cerrig-y-druidion which would take us up to Ruthin. Before we reached there I fell off. l was tired but not willing to pull over. with the predictable result that I went into a corner too fast and ran wide through the bend, sending Honda and I skittling off the road to be cruelly stopped by a rather prickly hedge.
With the light beginning to fade it was obviously time to set my tent up. There was no way the Honda could be ridden on unlit roads with its paltry headlamp. It took six attempts to erect the tent in a large but wet field and I fell asleep almost before my head touched down. The next morning I awoke to the sound of cows munching on nearby grass. Before I could wrench my stiffened frame out of the canvas, a cow had snagged on the ropes and collapsed the tent upon my body.
The country yokels who were roaring their heads off did not offer a hand whilst I tried to extract myself. Just to start the day off on the right theme, when I did escape I stepped into a huge cow pat. Ugh!
Amid much laughter I put everything back into the Honda and tried to start the little bugger - no hope. Ended up pushing the thing about a mile to Ruthin. The damn machine started first kick after that little bit of exercise. That day I was content with a gentle potter down to Wrexham where I had a mate who put me up for a few days rest and restoration, which was mostly getting stone drunk every night and sleeping it off for most of the next day.
Another friend lived in Manchester, rather a slog in one day. The roads were treacherous, filled with huge holes and masses of indifferent traffic. I had several near misses, wishing for a machine both sturdier and faster. The closer we came to the city the more snarled up became the traffic. Envious glances were cast at the Honda and l, as we sneaked along in the gutter past the stalled cars.
By the time I got to my friend's house the sun was disappearing below the horizon and huge gasps of red hot air were coming up off the engine. The exhaust downpipe had turned a funny colour and I could have fried an egg on the cylinder. I was gobsmacked when I found there was hardly any oil in the sump. It usually did not need much attention and I hadn't checked it since Aber. The friend had a can of motorcycle oil to hand, owning a CB750, which soon had the Honda back in its usual fine fettle.
Had I been younger I would never have left Manchester, an amazing number of attractive women being found there. Not that I cut much of a dash on the Honda, which had amassed to itself an amazing amount of crud that no amount of wire brushing could shift. All too soon it was time to head south again, so I put the Honda on the A523 all the way to the town of Ashbourne where a mate of a mate had been persuaded to put me up for the night.
Someone had a sick sense of humour as I eventually rolled up to this rich bastard's minor mansion whilst he was in the middle of a posh dinner party. He was not too amused to be reminded of his obligation to give me a bed for the night. He probably passed me off as some kind of eccentric millionaire but I didn‘t make an appearance as l was knackered after struggling with the Honda for too long on too fast roads.
I slunk out of the house early the next morning, my calling card being a muddled rug where I’d left my boots. The next great haul was down to Brum where I didn‘t know anyone but had always felt at home as many of the areas are similar to Bristol. l was making pretty good time, the sun was shinning and the Honda whirring away when the rear tyre blew out. I was within pushing distance of Lichfield, so I pushed the Honda there.
It was about two o‘clock in the afternoon and the sun was very hot. By the time the inner-tube was fixed it was eight o'clock in the evening. Not to worry, I was invited to stay at the mechanic's house and had a wild old time in a couple of the town's pubs - once I'd got used to their strange accents.
The next day there didn't seem much point going to Birmingham, so I sped as fast as possible past that city, having strayed on to the M42. I stayed on the hard shoulder all the way until I made the A34 turn-off for Stratford-upon-Avon. Nice place but the hotels were too expensive and I ended up sleeping in a car park, hoping it wouldn’t rain.
It didn't, but the scampering sounds of the rats kept me awake despite downing more than my fair share of the beer. I knew the route well all the way down to Bristol and had a lovely time scampering along near deserted B-roads with magnificent turns and roller-coaster changes in altitude. The Honda was often thrown clear off the top of minor hills. Great fun but rather exhausting when it has to last for most of the day. Bristol was a welcome sight.
After that little adventure I'd really had enough of the Honda as a tourer, as it needed an hell of a lot of effort to travel long distances in a reasonable time frame. I've kept the bike, though, it's a laughably cheap and competent way of getting back and forth to work every day. Hardy ever misses a beat or needs any attention.
With 28000 miles done all I‘ve had to buy is a set of tyres, even the fully enclosed chain has refused to wear out so far! I’d love to do some long distance touring on a bigger machine but don't see how I could afford to run one at the moment. Long live the Honda C90!
Sometimes. things take on a momentum of their own. A mate working in Rome phoned up and demanded I buy him a newish Kawasaki 1100 Zephyr and ride it down to him. It was February at the time and I decided he hadn't a chance in hell of my granting such a request. However, he said he'd let me off a debt I owed him and would locate a nice Ducati vee twin that I could buy to sell at a profit in the UK.
Throw in a distinct lack of DR work in the UK and a strong case of wanderlust (not to mention lust tor Italian frails), and it only took me a few minutes to acquesce, although I demurred just long enough to have free board and as much wine as I could drink thrown in.
The biggest Zephyr hadn't been around long enough to be in great abundance but there were a couple in MCN at what seemed very low prices. The first one I saw, I bought. No point pissing around when a good 'un falls right into your lap — 7000 miles and less than six months old.
The ride home was such fun that l was tempted to keep it for myself. Great gobs of torque that squirmed the back wheel and pushed the massive beast forward so wildly it left my stomach way behind. A couple of times I screamed with the joy of the acceleration and turned up home with a disgustingly large grin. However. reality closed in when I realised there was no way I could raise the cash.
For a week I hurled the 1100 around the English countryside despite frozen feet and hands. or a groin full of water from the occasional fierce rainstorms. The more I rode the bike the more impressed I became. Despite its huge weight, the relative tautness of its frame and suspension stopped it from indulging in the massive weaves and wobbles so beloved of earlier Kawasaki fours.
Even when one of the old Z1000s have been modified with better shocks, stiffer forks and all the rest of it, I doubt that it would be able to match the combination of stability and comfort with which the big Z is blessed.
Mind you, with its most crazed acceleration and 140mph top speed it's not a bike that I would recommend a 125 graduate leaps onto. Ultimately. there is too much mass for the inexperienced to control when putting down excessive amounts of the power.
Even someone used to the older fours could get caught out my the way the back wheel would twitch off line if you were silly with the throttle in the lower gears in tight corners. The 1100 isn't the kind of bike that can be saved with a quick dab down of the boot; more likely to break a leg than stop the machine falling over.
I never actually came off as I was always aware that it wasn't my machine and l doubted if my friend would have appreciated delivery in the form of a crate full of busted parts. With this in mind, I headed for the Continent, both the UK and France awash with enough water to convince me that this lark about global warming was a total myth.
Both the Kawa and myself were soaked before we hit the ferry, my wrecked footwear deciding to fall apart just as l was trying to slip the Zephyr into an ever so narrow gap in the ferry hold. Only some prompt action by one of the sailors saved the Kawa taking out a whole line of pristine bikes.
My spare footwear was ideal for the disco but once on the road in France proceeded to soak up masses of water in a record lack of time. l cursed all the way to Paris where I had a free bed for the night, but made the journey in record time. rather surprised at the high speed stability of the 1100 (on Metz's) and my own strength at being able to hold on with more than the ton on the clock for most of the time.
Just as we neared the outskirts of Paris the engine started cutting on to three cylinders intermittently. I needed some fuel, anyway (about 30mpgl), so pulled over and emptied a can of WD40 over the top end, which worked OK. This never recurred, and it should be borne in mind that the rain was so fierce that when I got to Paris my underpants were absolutely sodden with water despite two layers of waterproofs and l had to throw my shoes away! i borrowed some boots off my friend.
Early the next morning the sun was shining brightly, which persuaded me of the rightness of doing the 500 miles to Milan in one shot. About 50 miles into the journey the rain fell again, but I decided no way I was going to back off, keeping the speedo on 110 to 120mph for most of the time.
I shot past one cop car like it was standing still, the huge plume spray off the back wheel hopefully obscuring my numberplate. Full throttle, down on the tank madness followed, with the speedo hitting a doubtless inaccurate 150mph at one point. The vibes were fierce and l could see damn all in the mirrors. The back end waltzed a little and the bars felt kind of loose in my hands.
I thanked heaven for the powerful discs, hauling ass and getting off the motorway in one hell of a dangerous manoeuvre that had the cagers playing interesting tunes on their horns. Ended up in Macon at a hotel where the proprietor winked when I asked if I could stash the bike round back.
Took another two days of hard riding to get down to Rome. The Zephyr ran tirelessly flat out most of the way, apart from the poor fuel economy, which worked out at 33mpg, and finishing off the rear Metz, I could find little to complain about. These big fours have come a hell of a long way since the seventies.
I was less than amused to find that the promised vee-twin was a rat 600 Pantah. It felt pathetic after the brutal Kawasaki, but my so-called mate was quick to point out that it only cost a couple of hundred quid and would sell easily in the UK. The ride home is for another, not so happy story.
First impressions count for a lot. My £100 hack was acquired in the depths of the night. although I'd been able to inspect the machine to my heart's content in a lighted garage. All seemed OK, so cash changed hands and I pottered off on the 30 mile trek home.
The bike felt solid on the road, with none of the wandering that could be expected from its utilitarian appearance. The motor vibrated all the time, somewhat disconcerting from a mildly tuned 125cc stroker, but we plodded along at 30mph with the only worry the minimal level of illumination emitted from the front headlamp.
Whatever technological advances the East German factory might have claimed for themselves in the design of two stroke engines, it certainly didn't apply to the electrical system, which was a pathetic 6 volts when all the connections were free of rust and the battery holding a charge. I was muttering to myself about communist plots, when the front headlamp went out.
Brakes, I screamed out loud. At that low speed the SLS drums responded well. I stopped just before the bike was about to launch itself off the road into a ditch. I knew this because the light had not actually gone out but fallen out of its holder. It dangled on the ends of its wires, illuminating the fetid ditch inches away from the front wheel.
I shoved it back in, sort of securing the reflector with a bungee cord wrapped around the headlamp casing. This did nothing for illumination but held until I was able to roll up at my house, somewhat bleary eyed and shaken up by the experience.
The next day I wandered out to the garden to find the MZ had disappeared. Bloody hell, I muttered, who the hell would be silly enough to nick one of those. Noone as it turned out, the thing had fallen over on its stand, hiding behind a low stone wall in the garden. I pulled it up without too much of a struggle, and could find no discernible damage to the already battered form.
Not a good way to begin a relationship. Starting turned out difficult. The previous owner had managed a nonchalant kick. but it took me the best part of thirty minutes to make the motor stutter into life. It did get better as I learnt the technique. tour or five desperate lunges were all that were needed to light the fires when the mill was cold.
I ignored the headlamp, and went tor a last thrash to see what the communist iron was made of. It wailed up to 50mph without too much hassle. but then acceleration slowed so much that I thought we were going backwards. A ten mile long straight revealed that top speed was 65mph. Hardly worth all the drama, as the engine was vibrating away like a jackhammer.
Coming back, performance all but disappeared as we battled against a strong headwind, not much more than a pathetic 40mph available, with the stroker sounding like it was about to explode. The bike was six years old with only 16000 miles on the clock.
Just the one owner, who had assured me it had only been used as a summer commuter and, apart from the time the speedo cable broke, the mileage was rather more than less genuine. Handling turned out strange. It felt firmly planted on the ground in a straight line. So much so that it was reluctant to go around corners. When it did eventually decide to lean over it did so with a rather vicious lunge that threatened a violent dose of tarmac rash. The tyres didn't help, some Far Eastern crap, but they were probably no worse than the Pneumats that were original equipment.
It took about a month to develop the necessary reflexes to throw the little MZ around corners. In town, it was somewhat easier, although by no means a lightweight, as at commuting speeds the TS responded in a more predictable manner to steering inputs. The bike was slow enough to get in the way of cars in the traffic light GP.
The brakes were surprisingly effective up to 40mph. Higher speeds predictably enough led to overheating and fade. In the early days I had some close shaves, with the dodgy brakes and weird handling causing me to run right off country roads. After a while, I was impressed with the toughness of the chassis, which appeared capable of taking out bloody great trees, but weary of the bruises.
After the first month I deemed it necessary to pull out all the wires and start again on the electrical system. Even after I'd secured the glow-worm front light, it loved to blow. Also, fuses would burn out with religious fervour and I once had the horn come on continuously until I'd maniacally pulled out the offending wires. The indicators didn't even try to work so they were chucked. After much ritual abuse I got everything working again and had fitted used Jap switches and regulator.
The incredibly long silencer was degutted, the air filter thrown away and a new spark plug fitted. Starting improved but it was still a slug once past 50mph. I stripped one of the cylinder head studs whilst attempting a decoke but fixed it in with Araldite. The decoke did not help performance but got fuel up to 75mpg.
For the next five months the bike was more or less sorted with only the odd fault, usually with the ignition, annoying me. Come 24000 miles, the rattles increased and performance became even more appalling. Honest, it was hard pushed to do more than 35mph!
Even I managed to work out that the engine was in need of attention. There followed a lot of painful action as almost every bolt I tried to undo had corroded in place with Jap-like efficiency.
At first I thought it was just going to be the piston and bore, but the crankshaft turned out to have shot main bearings. Talking to breakers I found out that most engines were in trouble between 20 and 25000 miles. Given the choice between doing a complete rebuild and bunging in a fifty quid engine from a crashed bike, it was pretty obvious which to choose.
The replacement engine had slightly less rattles but was identical in performance. To celebrate the successful transplant, I decided to take the MZ on a tour of the Lake District, this in September. i lived not that far away, so it was an easy run to Lake Windermere. Or would have been had not the rucksack flown off the back of the bike, ending up at the bottom of a cliff.
In a foolish flood of optimism I scrambled down the near vertical rock face only to nearly have heart palpitations when I realised it would not be half so easy to climb back up again with a huge rucksack slung on my back! Fortunately, walking down the valley for half a mile revealed a path back up to the road, but with the way the tarmac winds in the Lake District it was a two hour's hike back to the MZ, which amazingly was still ticking over where I had left it!
I was so done in by then that the first bit of green grass I came to was deemed perfect for an impromptu campsite. The next day the need to keep hauling on the front drum to avoid leaving the road. turned it very grabby. After about five miles it stopped working altogether, just producing noises piercing enough to make the sheep cringe. When I went to take the front wheel off the thread stripped, so there was no way it could safely be reassembled. The brake turned out to have cracked linings with no braking material left. Oops.
It was out with the Araldite again to repair the thread, then up with the tent whilst I let it set overnight. Nothing for it but to ride home five days early the next morning. The bodge held out OK, and might even have lasted much longer, but no way I was going to risk having the front wheel fall off when the bits could be picked up for next to nothing from a breaker.
Even with a new-ish front wheel and set of shoes the front brake thereafter retained its grabby nature, sometimes being a real bugger in the wet, sending the front wheel off into a heinous slide that had sparks flying off the chassis and flesh torn off my poor old battered body.
After one particularly vile slide, the MZ added a new party trick to its repertoire. The first I knew of this was when I'd got the old heap up to a reluctant and somewhat vibratory 62mph (the speedo needle was actually flicking between 55 and 70mph). I started to roll off the throttle for an approaching comer only to find the damn thing jammed wide open.
In a sudden burst of power, the MZ careered forward another 5mph, with the motor feeling like it was about to leap out of its mountings. I panicked, not a coherent thought in my brain, then just before it was too late pulled in the clutch. That together with locking on the brakes, lost sufficient speed to let us bounce around the comer. The cost was in the engine revving to about 20000rpm, giving of enough vibes to have the petrol tank split apart at its seams and then lock up solid. I already had the clutch pulled in so all I could do was haul up pronto, hoping that the leaking fuel was not going to catch alight.
Despite the ferocious heat pouring off the engine, it didn't turn into a fireball. I had a couple of hours to contemplate my life as I pushed the stricken MZ home. In retrospect, I was quite impressed with the way it had cornered with the brakes locked up solid and no stabilising power getting through to the back wheel. What was even more impressive was that the engine started fifth kick the next day and ran just as well, or badly, as before! Tough!
The throttle was treated to a large amount of grease after that but still seized up a couple of times, but at low speeds, so easily survived. After nearly a year of playing with the TS l was becoming tired of its lack of predictability and paucity of performance.
When the engine started losing power again, I was almost jumping with joy after selling the heap for £120. Old ones are a bit too strange to learn on, not reliable enough for serious commuting and too slow for anyone used to something faster than a C90. As a cheap hack that can be kept going on a minimum of money they have their uses, but I am a lot happier with the rat Yamaha RXS100 I bought as a replacement.
With so many magazines covering the used motorcycle scene, real bargains are becoming increasingly elusive, especially the more obvious choices, so greatly have their praises been sung. That leaves a pretty desperate manoeuvre, tracking down one of the bikes badly burnt by its critique in the dreaded Used Guide.
I became a convert to this madness when a Yam XZ550 turned up in the local paper. The engine still ran, just, but the chassis was comprehensively rotted. For a than five year machine its total state of corrosion was unbelievable. The vendor was not impressed, either, reckoned that mere hours after cleaning off all the alloy corrosion and rust, the damn thing had returned to the state it was now in.It was hard to believe that the internals were in much better shape but it roared into life first press of the button and screamed off up the read without any hesitation. The way the chassis wobbled and the brakes didn't work convinced me that it would be a lot safer to push the Yam the mile or so home. I got the bike for £80, which put a smile on my face.
The XZ is a sufficiently rare machine for breakers to refuse to admit its existence, but that did not put me off for long. An XJ550 front end went on with suspicious ease. Some XS650 silencers i had left over from a previous, expensive experience were hammered on to the ends of the magnificently rusted downpipes. The rear shock was another discard l had hanging around the garage, off, I think, a GS500E that a friend was going to throw away until I blagged it, sensing that it was bound. some day, to come in useful.
The list of replacements seemed endless at the time, and deeply depleted my carefully accumulated garage full of junk. Had I paid new Yamaha prices I would have been better off buying a new XJ600, but with old stuff from breakers and my garage l barely broke through the £100 barrier.
I did not touch the engine internals, the clock had 23000 miles on its cracked but still working face and it whirred away without any of the alarming rattles that are often the sign of demise of these water-cooled vee twins. The non-standard silencers made for a bit of a flat spot between 4000 and 6500 revs, but, in typical vee twin manner, it would slog it out at low revs or go for 10000rpm like a snake pouncing on a rat.
The handling was naff in the extreme with various vile reactions, from falling into corners at low speeds to trying to dislodge the rear wheel above 80mph. I didn't mind, really, it would reliably slog into work and back again, lasted for six months and nearly 20,000 miles without needing any attention and when the camchain went still fetched £225, which was three times what I paid for my next dubious hack - a CB500T with 45000 miles on the clock. It was still in the original shit brown and with its huge if rusty exhaust system. The UMG is not too hard on this machine, admitting its usefulness as a cheap hack - one of the other magazines was enraged by its mere existence, which completely missed the point about these bikes - cheap and cheerful transport with a bit of character. Indeed, I came across a couple of owners who were in awe of them, according the CB the same kind of respect that old British twins demanded.
I couldn't muster that kind of enthusiasm - the vibes and vile handling were out of all relation to the minimal performance of its DOHC vertical twin engine. It wandered all over the road above 70mph. For 5000 miles the alarming engine rattles became no worse, then terminal shudders ran through the chassis as the crankshaft bearings disintegrated. Oh dear.
For a while I ran the bike with an XS400 engine, which had turned up out of nowhere tor thirty notes - l bought it when I was drunk and feared it was dead. but it ran OK up to about 70mph. This was a pretty desperate effort as the vibes were bad enough to annoy a Norton Atlas owner, something to do with only anchoring the engine at two points. Still, it got me back and forth to work for a couple of months, averaging a pretty astonishing 70mpg!
When someone offered me a hundred quid for the XS engine I all but tore the motor out with my bare hands, not that difficult as the engine mounting bolts kept vibrating loose. As it happened, I had found another running CB500T engine in a breakers, so soon had this installed for £80. The way this one vibrated harshly everywhere in the rev range soon convinced me that it was on the way out, so I flogged it off for £295 with ridiculous ease. I had the feeling the new owner was convinced he had just bought a classic motorcycle off a complete idiot; more fool he.
Another Honda turned up, this time one of the dreaded G5s, a 250 chassis with a 360 engine installed. The head had new bearings machined in to stop the dreaded demise for which these models are so justly famous, so much so that I was a bit doubtful about paying £45 for this one. The front wheel and forks were bent, easily fixed with some ubiquitous Superdream items a friend swapped for half my porno collection.
The G5 turned out to have such insipid power characteristics that I was not that bothered by the way the chassis leapt all over the road above 45mph. In five months just about every chassis component rotted away beneath me, a huge amount of effort expended to stop it becoming a rolling deathtrap.
When the engine finally seized solid, with a credible 89000 miles on the clock (god knows how many motors the chassis had housed to accumulate such a mileage), there was nothing left of any use on the whole machine. A coupe of mates and myself dumped the heap in the middle of the shopping precinct late at night, throwing a match in the petrol tank. A terrific explosion resulted, the incident being put down to the work of incompetent terrorists! Er, no that was just a dream I had, officer... honest!
I actually paid £400 for the next bike, a Suzuki GS550 that was way past its prime. I paid so much because I thought I could make a killing by doing a quick renovation job on the rat. Such ambitions were rudely crushed when I pulled the petrol tank off to reveal cracked top frame tubes that had been crudely welded and needed only the slightest of whacks with my handy hammer to ping apart.
There are still some GS550s in breakers but they were all in a worse state than my own, god help them. I ended up reconstructing the steering head area with ultra thick bits of steel plate. I'm not very good at welding and had little faith in the frame thereafter.
This need not have bothered me very much as the engine gave every indication of having been around the clock three or four times and would only push the madly weaving behemoth to 78mph! It was in every way inferior to the XZ and even the G5!
I did do a quick tidy up, did the valve shims and polished up the dead alloy, managing to sell the heap for £425 before it expired completely and went to meet its maker in that great scrapyard in the sky. Just goes to show, that a lot of bikes that are highly hyped can't deliver the goods once they have done high mileages - this doesn't stop their owners demanding very silly money for them.
After that experience I went looking for something obscure again. Found it, too, in the shape of a decrepit XS400 twin, the rare it not wonderful version with a DOHC mill and backbone frame guise. This was the custom version, which I found a bit embarrassing as I'd always enjoyed a laugh at people on similar bikes.
The matt black paint and rust rather obscured its nature, which was all to the good, although not the way it always demanded a push start and would stall whilst waiting at junctions. If nothing else it gave cagers something to be grateful for. Still, it was surprisingly fast at 105mph and would turn in 65 to 75mpg. Its decayed appearance hid the fact that the engine did 12000 miles without so much as a carb job and I only sold it because I'd become suddenly desperate to possess a Kawa Z1000.
This was another matt black job in the survivalist mould. It was cheap and very fast. having had an Z1R engine installed in the heavily braced frame. The major problem with this delightful beast was that it ran through the half worn tyres I fitted in 500 to 1000 miles, complaining about my cheapskate nature by twitching all over the road. 30mpg also took its toll on my wallet, which had never spent so much time exposed to the daylight.
The huge grin which I wore after each and every fight with death, and each gut churning burst of acceleration took my mind off my imminent financial doom. I knew that the Kawasaki would have to go, but was determined to make the best of it by doing a decent paint job and passing the Z off as an immaculate classic to some credulous forty year old who wanted to relive his youth.
Much to my shock this scenario worked, bringing in a couple of grand just in time to placate the bank which was threatening to repossess the house. I felt completely cheated, as it left me back where I started with still a huge amount owing on the house and no bike to ride.
From sheer highway bliss was I thus plunged into despair, by way oi a completely rotted Suzuki GT380, another machine that is much hated by just about everyone except for a few fanatics. How can anyone get excited about a three cylinder stroker that is slow, heavy and inordinately thirsty? It's also pug ugly and difficult to start. It was in such a far gone cosmetic state that I only paid £50, even then I felt rather cheated.
After too many late nights l managed to put this bike into running shape, though the XS250 forks, wheels and brakes were probably not an ideal match to the needs of the chassis, nor did the slightly bent frame aid high speed ability.
It wasn't safe above 70mph, but then the motor coughed and spluttered if more than 60mph was attempted. Apart from only doing about 15mpg the wailing triple turned out to be a useful town commuter and reliably took me back and forth to work for a few months.
I sold the heap to some right nutter who wanted to own every one left in the country, paying me £350 for a machine that would barely make it out of the street. The bank took most of the money, yet again - greedy buggers leaving me with enough to buy a Yamaha Townmate that smoked so furiously cagers would gang up on me in town, irately sounding their horns and waving their hands. The engine didn't last more than a week, but I'd only paid a tenner and got another motor for next to nothing. This worked long enough to allow me to sell the bike for £100.
The horrors of a rotten C90 were but narrowly avoided in favour of a RS125 Yamaha, which was old but a one owner, polished every day job in remarkably nice nick. I tottered home, a bit disappointed to find that top speed was only 65mph and that the front drum brake was only good for one rapid retardation a day. Could write a song about it called The Terminal Fade Blues.
With such a paucity of performance I expected about 200mpg but got around 50mpg, not aided any by the way petrol seeped out of the seam in the tank. Careful application of Araldite cured it but I could feel bits of tank where the metal had rusted away until it was almost paper thin. It was about the greatest sign of character exhibited by this most bland of seventies strokers.
I off-loaded the RS on a mate who went wild about its lines - sadly I'm not joking - ending up with a Suzuki GT250 X7 which had the engine worked over and a set of spannies that drowned out jumbo jets on take-off. I soon developed a visible cringe riding this dubious device but knew it would be too much effort to re-jet the carbs to suit more sensible silencers.
This was a blindingly fast machine up to about 80mph and would even wail along at the ton with a bit of a following wind. Fuel worked out at a surprising 42mpg, nothing seemed to wear out and the mill didn't need attention in 9000 miles. It had to go before the noise drove me mad, sold to the first grinning urchin who turned up with a bag full of fifties (notes not broken mopeds).
Latest acquisition is a Kawa GPz305 which needed a newish engine from the breakers - don't expect them to do more than 30000 miles. Nice bike after some of the heaps I've owned but it's up for sale already as I'm a bit bored with it.
One result of half a decade of a sky-high Japanese yen is the resurgence of the European motorcycle industry. The extravagant cost of modern Japanese motorcycles, even with the demise of the car tax, has given other manufacturers a chance to catch up with nefarious Nippon. In many ways the advances in manufacturing technologies means that the new manufacturer is at an advantage and can set up a state of the art factory without worrying about writing off the cost of older machinery.
Not that something as complex as making motorcycles can be called easy. The nascent British motorcycle industry, in the form of Triumph, for instance, had to take on decades worth of malpractice in British industry, had to weather the whole weight of the terrible reputation gained during the fatal final days of the seventies when the antiquated British designs could no longer cope with modern power expectations nor with the idiosyncrasies of the ancient machine tools.
There were those, and I was perhaps one of them (so much angst was there involved in my past acquaintance with Brltish bikes), who were just waiting for the usual litany of complaints to be levelled at just about every motorcycle, even automobile, produced by the British industry... but the new triples and fours proved remarkably robust!
Even Honda, for instance, were not unknown, even with their vast R &D and testing resources, to bring to market some horrible turkeys. Triumph had to suffer some minor problems in components brought from outside suppliers, which were quickly fixed under warranty, but that apart the bikes ran as well as any Japanese multi you'd care to shake a stick at.
I have to admit, that even with their robustness, these motorcycles are not to my taste (but then neither are most large Japanese bikes). Triumph at least pay as much attention to a decent development of torque as an excess of power which made, especially in triple form, their machines all the more enjoyable on the road rather than the race track.
No, what I objected to was their mass. At a time when devotees of advanced design were losing weight and gaining power, to the extent, even extreme, of ending up with a 900 four weighing a mere 420lbs, the new Triumphs were grossly overweight even if once under some decent steam they did not appear too porky.
But, to what's left of my mind, low mass and its corollary throwability become extremely important when the going gets desperate, when some blind moron shackled safely in his cage decides to liven up his day by trying to run moi off the road; then, when every ounce of manoeuvrability is necessary to avoid the horrors of what is left of the NHS, low weight becomes one of the helpful threads towards personal survival. I can see little reason why any modern motorcycle should weigh more than 400lbs.
Not that Triumph couldn't produce lighter motorcycles, but given the choice between matching the latest Japanese designs or ensuring that every component was going to reliability survive the rigours of motorcycling, a new company, saddled with the terrible reputation of most of British engineering. had little choice but to be conservative. Having now formed for itself an enviable reputation for longevity, Triumph are free to further develop their designs whilst maintaining their manifold good points.
It's interesting how the formation of a new engineering company, using the latest in production has shown up a lot of the rest of British engineering as being somewhat lacking in fundamental integrity. Triumph's reaction to the terrors of outside suppliers, other than the now expensive practice of buying components from Germany, Italy and, er, Japan, was to do more and more of the work inside the factory. Perhaps, in a few years time, Triumph will actually end up supplying motorcycle components to other factories as well as making whole bikes! That could really spark the revival of British motorcycling.
Triumph have been criticised in too closely following the designs of Japanese engines, but that is just par for the course as the Japs copied British and Italian designs back in the early sixties when the most they could manage were some pretty awful commuter hacks. What‘s interesting is that Japanese industrial practices are going in the completely opposite direction to the way Triumph are being forced to do business.
Few of the Big Japanese Four actually manufacture much, apart from the really high tech bits which require state of the art technology. Components are subcontracted out, often to small, hole in the wall companies that have none of the employment for life practices of the big firms. Rather than being stockpiled in the factory these bits have to be delivered to the door at a precise time, fed into massive assembly plants, which where possible are controlled by robots, and are so designed that they can switch from producing different types of machines at short notice.
Perhaps the most fundamental difference between the way Japanese companies and British ones work, is that the larger company rather than trying to screw the smaller one will help them develop their techniques so that over time a virtuous circle is attained. The smaller company becomes more efficient, which feeds into a better final product which, at the end of the day, means more sales and more orders all round.
The Japanese car companies, when they set up in the UK, insist upon the same philosophy - British companies that are foolish enough to refuse to play along will find themselves rapidly displaced by component suppliers from Nippon who decide to set up in the UK. Triumph, selling 5000 bikes a year worldwide (an almost miraculous figure given that UK sales are now down to a pathetic 50000) lack that kind of clout and are forced back upon their own resources. The way modern technology regenerates itself every year l have absolutely no idea which is the better way.
Triumph are not alone in Europe. Ducati are the most notable in their advances, evolving their vee-twin designs into ever lighter and more powerful motorcycles, a route Triumph will hopefully follow. Ducatis are mechanically reliable these days (if you treat the clutch gently) and in their milder, cheaper forms in many ways a much more sensible option than some of wildly wonderful Japanese race replicas.
Given that such real motorcycles, like Triumph and Ducati are available, the new suite of Japanese retros will likely die a death — other than when they are relatively small and cheap. Were Triumph to launch, say, a 400lb, 100hp 900cc Trident at a not unreasonable price the whole Japanese industry might just find itself in serious trouble. History teaches that things run in circles and it may well be time for the Japanese companies to go into full scale decline - and if they keep on producing stupidly expensive (to buy and to run) bikes it will serve them damn right.
But who knows what will happen? For all I know, the newly styled (and rather nicely, too) MZs will be such a hit that East Germany will become the new centre of European motorcycle production. Or maybe the new BMW boxer twin will help that company's flagging profits sufficiently to inject some funds to redesign the gargantuan bricks into something more modern.
Strange things began to happen when the last load of learner restrictions were heaped upon the apathetic shoulders of the biker movement. The sudden imposition of two tests and a ban if they hadn’t been passed in two years, meant that for a short time driving schools began to train motorcyclists until they realised that it wasn’t quite the same ballgame as teaching car drivers and several thousand bikers did excellent ostrich impressions and were suddenly caught out around 21 months later when they suddenly realised that they only had three months of freedom left. The RAC, some local authorities, the BMF and ROSPA did make efforts to fill the void but because everyone seemed to wait to the last possible moment, they just couldn’t keep up. It was becoming such a farcical situation that the local paper interviewed a large, local driving school who had admitted defeat - they just did not have the staff to teach bikers; furthermore, they did not even have a biker on the staff! A plea went out to all bikers who wanted to become weekend instructors (with good rates of pay and all the necessary teaching supplied); thus did the idea start.
It impressed my old man no end, who could see a new and exciting career for me. To keep the peace, and because I needed the money, I phoned. The line was always engaged, which was my excuse for leaving it for a week until my finances became so desperate that I tried again. I must admit that I was very surprised to find it was a woman. Yes, that may be very sexist, but have you seen how some of them drive let alone ride (that should ruffle a few feathers). I was invited along to an informal chat and was told not to forget my licence.
Two days later I was in a poky little office drinking the most foul coffee and listening intently to my new boss — she just couldn’t stop talking. For three hours she constantly asked questions without waiting for answers. All I managed to find out was that I’d be paid monthly at the rate of £2.50 an hour (not that bad then) and it would be weekend work covering three schools. I escaped, really none the wiser and desperate for a pint.
The next Saturday was a training session at her humble abode. When I arrived I found three BMWs, a motley collection of Japs, a Guzzi and a moped. I almost turned around and went home but she answered the door before I could make good my escape. Inside I met the other prospective instructors - I could spot the BMW riders straight away. We were informed that we had passed the first test, although we had no idea what it was - perhaps it was a boredom test? No, this was In come. For a whole three hours we all sat watching three videos on good CAR driving. The first to crack was one of the Jap riders - he just got up and left, no-one said anything, it was as if he didn’t exist.
Eventually, a very bold BMW rider spoke out, "What is the significance of all this car driving?" The rest of us sat agog. "It can be applied to bike riding," was her reply. "I’m off," was the BMW owner’s reply, and off he went. Perhaps this was test two, who can stick the videos. A short while later another bloke came in, asking who owned the Triumph. I smiled and proudly admitted that it was mine. "Well, it’s bloody well leaking oil on my drive." I endeared myself by saying, "It’s a Triumph," turning back to watch the video. It was at this point that I found out that he was the husband of she (with the mouth). It was late afternoon by then and all of us were getting very restless, there seemed no end to the drivel she was coming out with. We had also found out that the moped was hers, as she felt it necessary that she should be able to ride a bike - which meant one of us had to teach her! Finally, a brave few suggested that we’d been there long enough and that their loved ones would be cashing in the insurance policies. We were asked to return the following morning for some actual training.
The following morning saw rain, a hangover and a doggy determination not to give up. I found the training ground where we had to endure three hours of watching her teaching (and I use the word loosely) eight youngsters. After they all packed up and went home it was our turn. We were each shown the course, walked around it and told to do it. It wasn’t easy on a big Triumph vibrating madly, and with my head falling off, but I did it.
One BMW rider refused on the grounds that his bike was too large and that he should use her moped. He was, of course, right. She was not at all amused, but we were. So the course fell by yet one more. A few of the lap riders had difficulties, making many mistakes but were allowed to stay on. The Guzzi owner just didn’t turn up.
We were all treated to a burger and coffee. This was our graduation, we had made it. We followed her home to pick up the forms and books and everything needed to be an ace-one instructor. I must say I was pleased but not impressed by the standard of training - if you could ride around the course and stand the boredom, then you’re in.
At her home the remaining BMW rider suggested escaping for a pint — this man was talking my language. The saddest moment came when she said one of the Jap riders was turned down because he’d only just passed his test and another because he was under 21 - I felt very sorry for them to have put up with all that shit only to be chucked out at the end, what a bummer. Our last warning was that no physical contact was allowed (you know, no bonking the students).
My first course consisted of one very old dear who had always used her C90 for nip— ping down to the shops, two would-be Barry Sheenes and a very quiet mid-twenties bloke. For the first day I had her looking over my shoulder and every time I spoke she would butt in. I was not a very happy man. When I suggested that we go outside to have a go at riding she went white - "You don’t take them out on the first day!" I must have been very thick in those days, but I could have sworn they came for training. So that was my first days training. I was told off for trying to teach and I totally bored the pants off four people. One good thing did come of it, though. I was stopped for speeding on the way home, I showed the officer my instructor’s card, gave him some sob story and got away with It.
The next weekend saw only the terrible two and the old dear. This time we were allowed out. The two young boys, naturally, caught on quickly. Once shown what to do, and given a little time to practice, they were OK. The old dear, on the other hand, was another matter. I’m sure that if she was blindfolded she would still find her way to the shops, as that was the only time she rode a bike. Her husband even had to put her bike in the back of his car to get her to the school for instruction. So there it was, two boys who only needed to be pointed in the right direction and an old biddy who needed constant attention.
Now which would you spend the most time with? No, you’re wrong, she was watching and told me to spend equal amounts of time with everyone just in case of complaint. This I did, and boy was I bored - the youngsters didn’t think much of it either. After 6 weeks I was allowed to enter them for a test, the old biddy was carried through onto the next course, and the next, and the next...
The policy was that no matter how good a pupil they still couldn’t take a test for six weeks. This meant several people were constantly brought back when they could have made room for new people. So it wasn’t long before the limit of four per instructor went up to six then eight and even ten. All the useless cases were put into one class. It was known amongst the instructors as the punishment class. Perhaps because of my outspokenness or because I was late a few times I was given this class. This was the only time I really felt that I was doing something; because of the difficult nature of the task the instructor was given a free hand. In three weeks I managed to get five to pass, ‘ be it by the skin of their teeth. One poor old sod actually ran the examiner over and she wasn’t even on test. It was my fault because I told her to start her moped whilst it was on the stand and forgot to tell her to hold the brake on when she knocked the stand away — off she charged and only stopped when she hit the examiner.
Another old dear had to take her helmet off every time the examiner wished to speak to her as the helmet stopped her hearing aid working. I managed to find a technique for teaching the old fogies. It involved physical contact (no, I didn’t bonk them), I whacked them when they did something wrong. Not hard, you understand, but just enough to remind them not to get it wrong next time. As it was such an unpopular class to teach I got away with this technique for several months before she found out. I was summoned to her house for my wrist slapping. After my reprimand I was taken off the punishment class and watched like a hawk.
A problem we had was finding an examiner every Sunday. This was solved by her husband becoming an examiner, a situation that didn’t appear to cause any concern to the authorities. One of the instructors left and I wasn‘t enjoying the job anymore. All pupils had to do six hours instruction on the road. This was the most unpopular part of the course. After a while you’d send one on a route only to find that they couldn’t tell left from right or they saw a pub was open and stopped off for a quick one, or just that they got bored and went home. Trying to keep track of up to ten people was most exhausting. One instructor lost one pupil and didn’t notice until next week when he turned up and told his story.
Disaffection amongst the instructors was rife. To placate us there was a special evening arranged. It was to be the social night of the year, my lifetime even. It turned out to be a most boring night. All the celebrities who’d been invited turned down the offer. The only people to stay were the local mayor, the chief examiner for the area, some top brass from the local army camp (we taught the pongos as well, but that’s another story) and a TV presenter who was left behind when his film crew did a runner. A running buffet was provided, one for them and one for us. As the actual instructors you’d have thought we’d be allowed some of the good stuff but it wasn’t to be. All the past and present pupils were given a medal for their efforts and she once more proved that speeches should be short. It was then that my mind was made up, the world of teaching with one hand tied behind my back (and ear plugs) was not for me. It was time for pastures anew - I left.
