Welcome to our little corner of the WWW! We offer real motorcycling stories rescued from Interweb oblivion for your enjoyment, edification and reading pleasure, with horrible layout and questionable grammar as standard since 2010 ;)
Fuck Netanyahu and the murderous Israeli regime. Free Palestine!
There's always some loud mouthed yob in any group of motorcyclists. In a drunken slur they will admit only that they could do anything they wanted. Nothing to it. is their usual refrain. When the idea of a two week run around Scotland was proposed, the drunk roared his approval. Piece of cake, nothing to it, mate.
Thus, for I was he, a couple of weeks later I was a bit astounded to find myself at the head of a pack of motley motorcycles. I was supposed to have planned out an interesting route, read some guide books and generally know what I was doing. In fact, I‘d only had time to grab the brother-in-law's tent, change the engine oil and give the ancient GPz550‘s tyres a kick.
We all come from North London, so it was pretty obvious that all we had to do was put our machines on the M1, hold open the throttle, just stopping for an occasional fuel up. Do it in a day, I heard myself muttering to the half dozen bikers who were gathered outside my house at 5.00am. The neighbours were never very friendly to begin with and after the awful racket we made that morning have since completely ignored my existence.
The other bikes consisted of two ratty 350 YPVS's, a wild old Z1, a recently reborn CBX550 and a cafe racer CB500T. With a bit of desperate right-hand work we could all put a ton on the clock and even the Yamahas were reliable enough to be pretty certain to make the journey The one proviso was that we would all be paying attention to our oil levels at each and every stop. Old bikes can lose a sump full of oil when thrashed hard for a few hundred miles!
Truth to be told, my Uni-trak back end had a bit of wear In its bearings which caused all kinds of madness at high speeds. I'd been meaning to get around to fixing it, but I just knew it would involve a deal of hassle and expense. I could also recall going on at great length in one pub session about the line high speed, as in 125mph, stability of the Kwack. Me and my big mouth.
The Z1 owner was even worse off, but he was one of those mad buggers who didn't seem to notice the way his bike leapt around until he was thrown off. The strokers just loved to wail all the way across the country, so there was nothing for it but to take a firm grip on the bars and roll along on full throttle in sixth. As we were running into a strong headwind this only put 110mph on the clock, which had the Z1 sniffing up my tail.
I finally wrapped my somewhat porky frame around the tank and got my head down on the clocks. The half fairing began to work when I was thus contorted, helping speed to creep up to 120mph. The vibes and the waltzing chassis did not make this a very pleasant experience. I shouldn't have bothered as the Z1 sailed past, leaping across a couple of lanes of carriageway. The others were not in the mirrors, so I at least had an adequate excuse for backing off to a more moderate 90 to 100mph.
We'd agreed to stop off at some services, so we would not get strung out too far apart. The Z1 owner sported a huge grin, complaining that he had been waiting for hours. I took the edge off his amusement by pointing out that his cylinder head gasket had started to blow, judging by the amount of oil obscuring his engine. Last in was the CBX550, not a slow bike but the owner was so sick of fixing the camchain tensioner that he refused to thrash the engine - not that gentle treatment made much difference to tensioner longevity. The CB500T was the most surprising of the bunch. cruising at the ton, and if the owner was telling the truth averaging nearly 60mpg, about twice what the strokers managed.
The one thing that could have ruined the whole adventure was if the weather turned bad. There was nothing worse than sitting in wet clothes for mile upon mile. Luckily, although there was a slight early morning chill the sun had risen as we sped up the country and the sky was so blue and free of clouds that it was hard to believe we were roaring through the heavily industrialised and therefore polluted heart of England. Scotland would be another matter. notorious for the tickle nature of its weather.
By nine o'clock we were drawing level with Sheffield, some bright spark insisting that we call on his relative in Manchester. An absurd idea that l was all for vetoing, but some others were in favour of spending the night in the Lake District. I would have been bloody annoyed if I had gone to the bother of planning a proper itinerary.
Traffic between Sheffield and Manchester was a snarled up mess that took a good hour to filter our way through despite some suicidal antics on our part. It was a bit of a waste of time riding like a lunatic as invariably one of the others was left behind and we all had to cools our heels awaiting his arrival.
Finding the relative's house blew another hour as half the population couldn't speak proper English and the other half ran away in terror at our approach. Still, by then it was near enough to lunch time to demand some food from the relative and open up a couple of six-packs. Two of the younger elements could hardly walk, let alone pilot their machines, so I couldn't complain too harshly about being forced to spend the night at the somewhat distressed relative's house. We weren't invited to call in on the way back down, something to do with rolling up drunk at 3.00am.
A late morning start meant we didn't make it to the Lake District until about three o'clock in the afternoon. The roads were crowded with too many caravans to make them much fun. I'd nearly lost the end of my handlebars on one occasion when the gap between two caravans going in opposite directions suddenly started to close as I was overtaking one. The guys behind thought I was a goner - luckily, I'd stopped shaking by the time we pulled up a few miles before Ulverston.
A mile long trek led to a bit of open ground, testing the bike's abilities as off-roaders to the limit. The Z1 owner was swearing his head off when we finally slewed to a halt. Protests at the lack of amenities were quickly quashed when I pointed out it was free. My tent turned out to be a huge job that could accommodate the six of us and our machines. It took several attempts to erect, but we got there eventually. The beer was opened in celebration and the night ended in a massive farting competition, which I won!
The next day was spent quite enjoyably roaring around the Lake District, having agreed beforehand to meet up at Carlisle bus station. So, we could all ride at our own pace, either with a death wish or just enjoying the scenery. l was soon involved in a wild dice with the Z1. What I lacked in speed I made up for in flickability, even if my suspension was shot to hell. There were really too many cagers towing huge great caravans to enjoy the winding roads, which had they been deserted would have been as enjoyable as the IOM. The sun still shone, not a hint of precipitation given in the blueness of the sky. Fantastic scenery in the Lake District, too.
We hustled along the coast for most of the time, making fast and furious dashes inland whenever we spied a clear road of an interesting character. Some patches of highway were such fun that we turned around and did them again. The Z1 owner and I called it a draw before one of us threw our bikes off the road.
Had a late dinner in Whitehaven, where by one of those curious coincidences the others turned up. One of the YPVS's had a dose of tarmac interference but no serious damage to the rider and the Yamaha was kicked back into shape with a bit of brute force. The lights didn't work any more, but he could always ride between two of us at night.
It was only three o'clock but we were all a bit knackered, so we decided on a gentle saunter to Carlisle and a B&B for the night. Of course, a few bursts of wild acceleration soon got the adrenalin going. A mad race developed, last one there buying the first two rounds. I had the throttle wound open in fourth, good for the ton and a deal of vibration, with no intention of slowing down.
I look this lorry just as we were coming up to a bend, figuring I could cut in front of him. Only there was another lorry in the way. I bounced around the bend on the wrong side of the road, banked over so far l felt I was near to being tipped off, just sitting there petrified. The terror intensified when I saw that a bloody great Sierra was coming towards me, apparently oblivious to my existence. I just made it by diving in front of the second lorry, so close he had to whack on his brakes, giving me an angry blow on his horns.
At least it lost my mates. who turned up about ten minutes after I'd hit Carlisle. The Z1 owner lost the race, much to our hilarity, complaining that the bike would not pull more than 6000rpm. The hissing noise from the blown cylinder head gasket gave the game away. The head was torqued down to within a notch of stripping the threads and a liberal smearing of Araldite on the outside for good measure. Our most respectable looking member tore off his leathers and started knocking on B&Bs, no sign of any motorcycles. On the third attempt he found somewhere. Bit of a doss house with the six of us sharing three double beds in one room. We were too drunk, again, after a night on the town, to care! The repair to the Z1 seemed to work, but he didn't take much notice about keeping the revs down just to be on the safe side.
We departed Carlisle on one wheel at about twice the legal limit! The blue-rinsed landlady would probably regale her neighbours for months to come with the time she had the house full of Hell's Angels. Especially as one of us managed to crack her toilet bowl! One hard blast got us into Scotland at last. I'd decided that the thing to do was follow the West Coast as far as possible and then come back down the east side, with the occasional blast through the centre when somewhere of interest appeared on the map.
Almost as soon as we crossed the border there was a squall and the sky dumped down a dose of icy cold water that soaked us through before we had a chance to don our waterproofs. There was nearly a mutiny as we were headed away from the blue sky into black clouds but I got a bit stroppy with them and they agreed to carry on. By the time we got to Dumfries we were all shivering like exposed arctic explorers and cursing the howling gale that made the rainstorm all the more fierce. We found a bus shelter in which to change into dry clothes and hid out in the town for a couple of hours until the storm abated.
The CB500T refused to start until lavished with two cans of WD40, even then spending a couple of minutes coughing on one cylinder. My GPz thought it was a triple for half a mile or so, but cleared up when I hurled down a hill flat out in second. The damp road surface proved treacherous, with the poor old Z1 going into a massive skid that ended with the bike sliding down the road. Tough bugger, took out a huge furrow of tarmac with the engine bars but was otherwise OK except for a couple more dents.
A light drizzle made sure we stayed on our toes, speed never more than 50mph. If this was Scotland at its best they could stick it up their kilt. Rather than follow the coast we decided to cut across country, following the road through New Galloway to Ayr. A bit of sun, some nice roads running through the hills and the odd stunning view got us back in the mood. Prestwick didn't do much for our spirits, so it was another mad dash, this time for Glasgow, the threat of another cloudburst to our rear making us employ our right wrists as God intended. Would have been a great run had we not got caught up in the late afternoon traffic on the outskirts of the city.
We perpetrated the same scam to get into a B&B, but it cost over a hundred notes for the six of us! Glasgow was better than we expected but we couldn't understand anything they said, I think they deliberately thickened their accents just to annoy us. Made me think we were in a foreign country.
This is the real Scotland I enthused to my disgruntled mates. We had hit a good pace up to Crianlarich, getting out of Glasgow at first light, with the roads mostly deserted of traffic. We had all played wild tunes with our throttles, using our experience to keep the weaving beasts in line. The Z1 had turned so wild when the road went suddenly rough that I bumped into his number plate at about 50mph. The way the GPz's front end wobbled almost made me drop a load, but I caught both my sphincter muscle and the bike before disaster struck.
The real reason for the disgruntlement, though,was that the rain had returned with a vengeance. It hissed down heavily, although we had been riding all day with the waterproofs on just in case we were once again caught out It turned even heavier, lowering visibility so that we could not do much more than 20mph. It was follow your leader time, with each of us clinging on to the taillight in front. Only, as l was the leader, I had to up the visor to peer through the murky vista to ensure I didn't take the whole procession off the side of a mountain.
By the time Ballachulish was in sight my eyeballs had had more than enough, going red and standing out on storks. There was little sympathy for my plight and no volunteers to go on sight duty. Some friends!
Enough was enough, it was obviously time to find somewhere to camp. We found a tiny bit of flat land next to a raging torrent of a river, which I thought would be idea as a source of water and public toilet area. The huge tent was most difficult to erect, once threatening to hurt itself and the foolish chaps who were holding on to it across the river. Persistence paid off, both ourselves and machines finally getting out of the rain which was now accompanied by a concerto of lightning and thunder!
It was only then we realised we had neither food nor beer. It was obviously my fault, so the sadistic bastards despatched me into the maelstrom with a long shopping list and a couple of haversacks to sling on the back. It was only four miles to town, but by the time I'd returned I was soaked through, shaking with the cold and the terror of having the 550 slew all over the road. Too much weight from the beer and victuals had wrecked the single back shock. At least I was greeted as a great hero on my return.
We were hunkered down there for three days whilst the storm played out its full force. At one point the river burst its banks, leavrng us swamped in fetid water and the odd dead sheep. Luckily, the built in groundsheet stopped the water from getting into the tent, but another day's rain would have seen us submerged.
There was a strong contingent for abandoning the adventure and heading back to civilisation, but I reckoned the least we could do was head for Fort William and then a quick run up the Loch to see if we could spot the Loch Ness Monster. That would get us to Inverness where we could indulge in the luxury of a hotel for the night. Only about 200 miles, I told them, a piece of cake for real men like us.
It would have been fun, too, the sky turning clear and the heavy rains having persuaded the tourists to stay at home. The only problem was that one of the YPVS's seized up solid. The rider forgot to pull in the clutch, the machine bouncing off the road and sliding into the Loch. At least the rider remembered to fall off before getting a dousing. A few bubbles and it was like the Yamaha had never existed. The rider was dumbstruck. almost in tears as his pride and joy did a disappearing act.
We decided that the bike would be nicked that night and a claim made on the insurance. The rest of the ride was pretty subdued. We didn't sight the famous monster and Inverness turned out to be Dullesville in comparison to the surrounding scenery which was often eye popping. Rain fell heavily in the night, but by the time we'd finished with the cops it had cleared up.
Everything sparkling fresh by the time we were ready to hit the road. I was all for going north but this was met with sullen silence from those who wanted to hit the main road south as fast as possible. We compromised on the east coast. A fastish bash to Elgin, Bantf, Fraserburgh. Peterhead and Aberdeen, the enjoyment heightened by a bracing breeze off the North Sea. There was some muttering about getting the hell out of there before it turned into another howling gale, but I ignored that.
Aberdeen turned into a battleground when the road weary Z1 pilot knocked his pint of Newcastle Brown over a native girl. I didn't approve of this oblique means of introduction any more than her boyfriend, but we had to stick together, didn't we? When the Z1 owner butted his assailant in the face all hell broke loose, with about a dozen louts piling in on top of him. We were all well built and a few well placed blows with the beer glasses and our knees extracted our friend from the mess. We had to run like hell once out of the pub though.
We left early next morning with a wild roar through the town centre, helped by the way my baffles had rotted away. We had probably put back Scottish-English relations by about ten years. We couldn't really leave Scotland without seeing Edinburgh, so that was the next stop. The day was dull, threatening rain all the time, taking the edge off our enjoyment, as did the miscellaneous bruises from the Aberdeen lads.
We were all a bit the worse for wear and in need of a night in a luxury hotel, but not at Edinburgh prices. Ended up in a pretty awful doss house, lulled to sleep only by breaking out a couple of bottles of whisky, which had the tramps eyes aglow with wonder. Even the strong smell of whisky could not shut out the odour of meths that hung over these down and outs. Almost turned me into a socialist until I realised it was my income tax that was supporting the bums.
We spent the next day wandering around the city's many amusements and wonders. Then did a quick dash down past Kelso and over the border back into England. As if by magic the dying sun welcomed us with forgotten heat and brilliance. Our mood lifted as we put the tent up in a record twenty minutes. The last of our Scottish whisky went west that night and we sang ourselves to sleep with chorus after chorus of rude songs.
We still had a couple of days left to make it back down to London. One of our lot reckoned that Scarborough was worth a look, bound to be full of crumpet. Until I looked at the map l had no idea where it was - at teast it was on the right side, about 250 miles away. Do it in a morning we all said in unison, a sudden coming together of spirits occurring.
The caravan and camper brigade were out in force again. it took most of the morning just to get to Newcastle, where we wasted two hours wandering around the shops whilst eating fish and chips - jolly nice they were, too. A good motorway blast down to Darlington made up some time, the Z1 owner reckoned he put 140mph on the clock. The Kwack was running rough, even the CB500T was able to stomp on me. The shame of it. Just as well, really, as the rear shock had not recovered from the previous bout of abuse. We turned up in Scarborough just as the sun was disappearing but no problems finding hotels rooms. There were about six times as many men as women; what a downer.
The Z1 had started spewing out oil again, the Honda CB500T was knocking and the remaining Yam had seized its power valve. Only, the CBX550 had escaped any mechanical malaise, much to everyone's annoyance. We all did an oil change, much to the amusement of the tourists, figuring it would be enough to get us the 300 miles home. And it did.
Apart from the demise of the YPVS, things had turned out much as expected on the reliability front. These were, after all, hard used hacks that were past their prime and kept going on a shoestring budget. Two weeks worth of hard riding were enjoyable, but I needed a week's recovery before I felt like joy-riding on the GPz again. Scotland would've been great fun but for all the bloody rain.
Hell, I'd done it again. The exceptional stability of my FZR1000 in bends kept making me think I could do the impossible. In the first weeks of ownership I'd been astonished at the speeds I could hustle up to corners. The effect was all the more pronounced because my previous mount was a hack CB750F1. The shot suspension adding to the quite naturally wretched state of the handling ability. Not only was the FZR fast it was also exceptionally stable.
For most of the time. its 20 valve motor was able to pour out the torque and power, aided and abetted by the EXUP exhaust valve. It did not need wild gearbox excursions to move at profoundly insane speeds. all it needed was a quick twist of the wrist. If gut churning acceleration was just a roll of the throttle away so was a heavy dose of fear.
There were two ways the FZR caught out these relatively inexperienced hands. The first was the ease with which it'd roll up to corners at about twice the safe speed, even for the Yam's excellent Deltabox alloy frame.Yeah, I know, I should be paying more attention but the way it would suddenly plunge forwards come 7000rpm kept enticing me to greater highway excesses.
The triple discs are brilliant stoppers, so much so it's very easy to lock up both wheels. Entering a corner with the wheels squealing and the compressed suspension locked up solid. sure gets the adrenalin running wild. The bike rumbles over the bumps. runs a little wide and throws a large, it singular, twitch when letting off the brakes, throwing the machine upright and making the exit from the corner.
This is not really a complaint against the Yam, on a lesser bike the result of such neglect of basic motorcycling discernment would be a quick trip off the road, thence to the nearest hospital and a dose of multiple surgery. On the old Honda I was so frightened of the consequences of excess speed that l rode it in a very mild manner.
The other problem with a bike of this weight and power is that it's dead easy to lose the back wheel when applying excess power if leaned over. It's not impossible to regain traction with a gentle twitch of the Yamaha in the dry, but it the road is damp then the lurch can become quite alarming. The obvious solution is to ride in a tall gear with a restrained throttle hand, which I tend to do in the wet but in the dry, again, the intoxicating nature of the power makes it very hard to resist.
The FZR‘s mass of 525lb becomes suddenly apparent under such duress, as it does when pottering about in town. Not helped any by the riding position which only begins to make any kind of sense once past the ton, which in the UK, at least, means for most of the time it's not a very comfortable bike to ride.
The seat does not help, being good for a mere 50 miles until my backside begins to complain and even my thighs have been chafed after as little as 150 miles of relatively mild cruising. The fairing is next to useless at keeping off the rain but does make cruising at ton plus speeds enjoyable.
That, of course, makes owning the FZR hard to explain, but I keep convincing myself that its thunderous, grin inducing acceleration and usually stable handling is more than enough reason to justify possession of such a piece of extreme prime meat.
Running costs give pause for thought. Fuel is in the 35 to 45mpg range. The engine's appetite for oil is quite fierce, about a litre every 250 miles. Also if oil changes are left for more than 800 miles the gearchange action becomes a real pain, with a lot of untoward noises and occasional missed changes. It's about time the separation of gearbox from engine oil was reintroduced, as they really need two different types of oil.
The bike eats top grade Metz tyres in about 3000 miles and even the O-ring chain won‘t go past 7500 miles — my excessive use of the right hand goes some way to explaining this. As does the consequent use of the brakes explain pad life of less than 5000 miles!
Those brakes also turned out to have a nasty habit of seizing up the calipers come winter. Worse still, after the first seizure it started to happen more and more frequently until each time the pads were changed I had to go to tedious lengths to refurbish the calipers as well. By the time 48000 miles were achieved the discs were so thin they vibrated in the wind.
I bought the bike as a one year old with 27000 miles done, in the hands of an enthusiastic Continental tourer - he praised the bike's running gear but reckoned he could no longer take the race replica riding position. He was about 55, so I dismissed his complaints as an obvious case of advanced senility but after the first week had to admit he had more sense than I had bargained for.
Nevertheless, in just over a year I have done nearly 30000 miles, the clock now reading 56820 miles. Yes, my spine has some serious twinges after a long ride but the engine is awesome in the amount of abuse it can take without needing any internal attention. I haven't even touched the valves and only had the carbs balanced twice when running became particularly rough. No camchain rattles yet; the tensioner being automatic has not had a finger laid upon it.
As mentioned, the gearbox can be a bit ratty at times, but with some fresh oil it usually works well enough to avoid false neutrals. Unlike the FZR600's box and clutch, which are based on the 400cc engine available in Japan, FZR1000s will go around the clock without needing any attention.
The bike came with a fork brace, non-standard shock and stainless steel four into one exhaust, all areas that anyone looking at a used example would be well advised to study. They are popular on the race track as well - I know one guy who bought a nearly new one with a perfect chassis but the engine had been swapped with a well worn race unit. After two months it threw its rods, writing off the whole bike, as he fell off when the rear wheel locked solid. Nasty!
I've come off the bike once, when doing about 40mph in a bend I hit the powerband in second on a slightly damp surface. The back wheel slid away before I had a chance to catch it. I was wearing a leather jacket, boots and gloves so the gravel rash only got to my legs. The FZR slid down the road on its side, much to my relief only bending a few minor bits and grazing the plastic - that was OK, gives a rider some street credibility! We were able to limp home. Near misses were rather more plentiful, especially in the early days when I had yet to become used to the monstrous power. A couple of times I had to put a boot down to save the machine from lurching into oblivion.
After a year on the FZR, I've decided I want to makes some fundamental changes. The fairing will have to go. higher bars will be fitted and a much more comfortable seat made up. Those will sort out the major problems the Yamaha has as a long distance hustler.
Having complained somewhat of the excess of power available, I'm also going to get the engine tuned up to race track standards - it's the same old story, once you become used to the searing acceleration and highly illegal top speed. you want more and more of the same to keep the level of the kicks up. No pleasing some people!
The battered and bruised 82000 mile, Suzuki GSX500F stood up against the garage wall, the stands long since chucked. The vendor had explained, when l telephoned him, that it was in a bit of a state. It had spent more time on the race-track than the road. Been dropped a few times, he helpfully added. but was basically straight and easy to fix with some cosmetic attention.
The only thing that had got me down to the wastelands of East London was the £675 price tag, which even in the depressed nineties had to be good going for a late 1988 example. It still ran, whined beautifully out oi the 4—1 and open carbs, and tracked around the bends with sufficient precision to convince me that the square section frame was still straight.
The rest of it was pure rat. The copious GRP being cracked where it wasn't patched to the extent that the only way ot ascertaining the original colour was to look in the registration document. Chrome, alloy and paint were all in a state that would only be acceptable in a twenty year old hack!
How many times the engine had been rebuilt was an open question. Thrashed relentlessly on the race track it had obviously led a very hard life. The clutch was jerky, the gearbox imprecise and the power delivery below 4000 revs full of flat spots, probably a function of the ill-matched carbs and exhaust, which itself looked like it was about to fall off. The consumables were all in need of replacement.
I offered 500 sovs. there were too many ways things could go seriously wrong to spend any more. The reaction was the kind of scowl that would stop a Doberman in its tracks. I added that i had the money in my pocket, we could do the deal right there and then. He reluctantly accepted, growling that if any problems emerged I‘d better not come back complaining.
It was dark by then. I had checked the lights over with the engine switched off. I soon found my first problem - the mill refused to run cleanly below 5000rpm. If I used the brakes, when the stop-lamp came on, the engine stopped dead. The solution was to ride home on the parking lights, the route was well lit so I survived the 30 miles without causing any accidents.
Next day, I pulled the plastic off to find that the battery was some pathetic 4 amp job and the rectifier/regulator unit was a homemade mess of electronic components and wires. The GSX isn't as prone to electrical problems as the earlier series, so I was able to pick up replacements for £50 in the local breakers. Next problem was that all the wiring was non-standard, so I had to guess which went where, but it all seemed to work OK.
The state the bike was in, it would be a natural target for the porkers. so after some pleasant fast riding to make sure I wasn't going to waste my time, I went to work on the GRP, leaving it in situ. A long weekend with the GRP kit, grinder and spray gun saw the swine emerge in bright white, with red transfers hiding the worst of the carnage. Some skilful welding on the exhaust plus a lot of spit and polish on the rest of the chassis made the machine look more its age. The breaker was raided for stands, pads, tyres, chain and sprockets. Total cost of the renovation about £250.
It was obvious to me that the bike deserved a long, hard thrash. Thus we hit the M4 at seven o'clock Sunday morning. Within minutes i had found out that top speed was 135mph and that the bike weaved persistently above 95mph. By the time the top speed was approached the weave had turned into wild wobble that came close to wrenching the bars out of my hands.
In deference to this, plus hidden police cameras and helicopters, I kept speed in the 75 to 90mph range, which the chassis could handle but the motor put out such an amount of secondary vibes that I suspected it was on its last legs. It was also very revvy, making me want to change up two gears even when in sixth.
By nine o'clock I was in Cardiff city centre. where they have the decency to have a lot of bike parking spaces. Getting off the Suzuki l was astounded to see a huge crack running down the side of the fairing between two mounting holes. There was also a fast forming puddle of oil. The sump was half empty or half full, depending on your state of mind — I was pretty far gone by then.
Oil and some bungee cords were not difficult to buy, but I managed to spill about a litre overthe engine and the bungees were not totally effective in stopping the GRP from flapping around.
It was pretty obvious I'd be taking the A-roads home. On the A48 the Suzi revealed an independent nature, not wanting to follow my chosen route through the curves. instead liking to run wide. Rolling off the throttle caused the back end to twitch violently.
I made it home in one piece. Oil consumption, I later learnt, only became vicious if more than 80mph was sustained for any length of time. More cracks in the GRP, looking like it'd fall apart at any moment. The vibes also blew the front bulb, an all too regular occurrence. I had great fun repairing the wafer thin plastic but after two weeks had the GSX back on the road.
I decided it was an ideal hack to commute to work on. This was fine, except for the length, weight and mass when sharp turns in narrow gaps were needed, for the first couple of weeks until it started to rain. The Avon tyres let the bike skid all over the road, whilst the front discs became diabolical. They became vicious on-off devices until. after two weeks. the calipers seized up. The combination of dodgy tyres and brakes meant I'd slid along the road three times, further adding to the battered appearance.
The calipers proved beyond help, another enriching day for the breaker. I'd done less than 3000 miles, which had left the half worn secondhand pads down to the metal. The replacement calipers were no better in the wet, so it was just as well that the next two months were mostly dry. That put another 2500 miles on the clock, enough to have the tyres down to 1mm. The chassis didn't like that lack of tread one bit, feeling very twitchy indeed.
With nearly 88000 miles on the clock, the engine still knocked out the goods. Vivid bursts of acceleration with more than 6000mm on the tacho, although the gearbox was so lacking in slickness that it was remarkably easy to throw the box into a false neutral when trying to burn off some rival biker. The wretched appearance made all kinds of lowly mounted scum think they could better us, but they rarely did.
I occasionally did a longish run at high speeds, but it was the exception rather than the rule when nothing went wrong. The worst occurrence was when half the silencer fell off, leaving me with a motor that only ran at 5000 to 6000rpm. The engine so overheated that it ended up stuck in third gear for about seventy miles. I had to replace the clutch plates as well as the exhaust (with another ratty 4-1). There are enough 600Fs in breakers to make such repairs a relatively inexpensive hobby.
Another time, the front wheel bearings went, making the bars twitch like there was no tomorrow; took five hours to do 80 miles, leaving me a nervous wreck. After I took the wheel out I discovered some hairline cracks around the hub (I had ridden up pavements a few times) so the bearing failure was a timely warning.
The breaker had a 2000 mile front end for £125, which solved both the rotten braking and suspension problems. l was rather amazed at the way the GSX would scream up to 130mph with only the mildest of back wheel weaves, down to the shot shock or worn Full Floater bearings.
Thus encouraged, I did make it through the tour winter months, doing about 7000 miles in all, mostly hard-core commuting, the weather too cold for pleasure riding; the fairing useless at protecting my body from the wind or rain. As spring came there was over 95000 miles on the clock, the motor still able to whirr into life on the starter with the same enthusiasm as when I bought the machine.
Another round of consumable replacement and dismantling of the back suspension occurred as soon as the weather improved. I had to get into the hammer and chisel routine to remove the linkages and swinging arm shaft. Years of crud covered the shock to the extent that l was surprised it still worked - well, it didn't actually work. The breaker came up with replacement bits for £75.
My motorcycling mates were all going on holiday, so I had no option but to tag along. This involved trying to keep the speedo above the ton for the maximum length of time. Oil consumption was running at about two litres every petrol stop (about 35mpg at those kinds of speed) which my friends found highly amusing. After a week of this madness I was nearly bald and had hands that turned a pint of beer to froth.
Something had to give. The GSX engine, with 98 thou up, warned me that it was going to die by putting out vicious vibes. I ignored them for as long as I could, then said goodbye to my mates, rode the 340 miles home in a day at a pace that wouldn't have had a C50 rider worried. The bike, to its eternal credit, didn‘t seize up solid until it was yards from my house when I'd given it a burst of revs in celebration. When I looked there was hardly any oil left in the sump, which had a crack running through it!
The breaker was willing to give me £250 for what was left of the wreck, or I could bung him 600 notes for a nearly new engine. By any sane account the GSX should've been scrapped, god knows it looked ratty enough to inspire no love. But somehow the creature had got into my heart and l consoled myself that there was not much else that I could buy for the money.
The fairing was by then so comprehensively wrecked, that after installing the motor, it proved impossible to put back on. The motor, being oil and air cooled, looks quite butch, so it took not much thought to work out that l should dump the plastic. Just removing the fairing brackets must've saved 20Ibs. After adapting some headlamp brackets, repainting the frame and fitting yet another dubious 4-1 exhaust, l was all set up for the summer.
The new motor went like stink, putting 140mph on the clock, the gearbox was amazingly slick and everything felt like silk after the old vibratory mill, which sulked in a corner of my garage. I later found little that was salvageable, suspected that it had gone around the clock more than once, the speedo not needing to be connected for racing.
The new turn of speed did show up some handling defects, the back tyre stepping out in bends under harsh acceleration and the bars twitching, just the once, in my hands when fervently backing off the throttle after finding myself suddenly going 25mph faster than i expected. Overall, though the bike felt transformed — considering that I replaced most of the parts, it wasn't that surprising!
The next six months were not trouble free. The fuel tank sprang a leak, soaked the engine in petrol and caused a minor panic in Central London when it caught alight. I lost my leather as I used it to damp out the flames, whilst a couple of peds went into screaming fits, figuring there was a terrorist incident going down. I saved the machine but had a lot of hassle from the plod, who came tearing out of nowhere; if there had not been so many people around they would probably have given me a vicious beating.
The other major problem was the drive chain calling it a day at about 75mph. Admittedly, l was down to removing a link every week, but the damn chains are eaten up in as little as 5000 miles. The chain threw itself off the sprockets, wrecking the chainguard and back of the engine casing. At least the back wheel had not locked up and thrown me off. By then I'd gotten wise enough to join the AA, who eventually took me home.
The engine I fixed with Plastic Metal, obviously a somewhat dubious repair that did not encourage me to do long distance trips but made sure I checked the oil level after every journey. I had never had to bother doing the valves on the old engine, but this one needed attention every 3000 miles; perhaps all the components hadn't worn into each other yet.
All things told, as the summer came to an end I was a bit pissed with the GSX, felt it didn't have much more to offer. Decided that after the winter I'd tart the rolling rat up and see what kind of price I could get, either as a straight sale privately or as a trade-in.
Autumn was a horror show. I fell off four times for no apparent reason. Two times it was just a bit of gravel rash, one time I twisted my ankle, the other burnt a hole in my thigh. The worst damage to the Suzuki was a bent pair of forks, which I had straightened. l started riding the bike like it was an accident looking for somewhere to happen, which was less than fun.
Come October I went wild, bought a new set of tyres for the first time. Metz's which gave a lovely secure feel even in the wet when the GSX was at its most treacherous. Didn't have any more accidents, but the engine kept cutting out in the more thunderous rainstorms. WD40 didn't make any difference. After nearly killing myself several times, I finally figured out that it was the kill switch shorting out.
Winter was no fun, again, even colder than before on the naked bike. One journey, my hands froze solid, lost all feel, messing up my clutch and throttle coordination. I either launched into massive wheelies or stalled the engine dead. Either way, it took years off my life. Two pairs of gloves helped but meant I couldn't operate any of the switches, even those not worn beyond their service limits.
Of course. the calipers seized up again and the tyres wore so rapidly that their secure feel was dissipated by the lack of tread remaining by the time February came around. l was so disenchanted with the Suzuki that l was tempted not to bother cleaning it up, but the sad state of my finances put paid to that apathy. Mid March, I was happy to see the last of the bike, selling it for £950 in a private sale, courtesy of MCN classifieds.
Don't be put off GSX600F's by this tirade. I bought mine in a bad state and most of the problems were down to that. The engine's undoubtedly tough, the handling's fine with newish suspension and the rapid consumable demise is par for the course in the 6000c superbike league. Fast it may be, but it is a little bland, lacking the edge of a CBR or FZR600 but for less than 2000 notes it's possible to buy a nice one.
I have to be honest, before we go any further, by stating that I am a great fan of the Honda CBR1000. I bought a nearly new one in late 1987, with just running in miles on the clock, having done about 80000 miles in six years. In fact, it's the first bike I've kept for more than eighteen months. Part of my dedication to the brute is that it's extraordinarily fast even by the standards of 90s bikes. I am not sure of the ultimate top speed, putting 150mph on the clock was quite enough to burn my brain. More importantly, it'll cruise at 125mph for hours on end as if it was its sole function in life. The excess in speed is not compromised by finicky slow speed work, the bike able to hum along at 35mph in top.
This is just as well, as the CBR has to serve as my sole means of transport all year round. It certainly feels heavy at sub 30mph speeds but over the first few months I adapted to this. The main restraint on fast town work is the width of the plastic bodywork, itself a function of its across the frame four cylinder engine. For town work I much prefer third gear to first or second, as the these gears highlight a surprising amount of driveline lash that was present when I bought the machine.
The gearbox is the worst bit of design in the bike. It was never what could be called smooth or precise, age doing nothing for its action. It has now degenerated to a level that an owner of an old CZ125 could appreciate. As with most things in life, a bit of practise makes perfect. It took me about two months to adapt to the CBR's gearbox and I have managed to keep up with the ravages of time and high mileage. I miss a change, usually to second or third, about once a week. I once spun the engine to 12000 revs when finding a false neutral, to no ill effects.
The clutch is original but has become heavy and grabby. There's no discernible slip even when rewed into the red in the lower gears, but the first engagement of a gear every day is accompanied by chronic drag. The clutch troubles have made finding neutral very difficult, which leads to the old Honda malaise at junctions when the bike creeps forwards in first gear with the clutch pulled in. Sometimes bad enough to stall the engine.
The DOHC unit has been generally reliable with the exception of another old Honda malady, the dreaded camchain and tensioner. It's nowhere near as bad as a CBX550 or CX500, the chain beginning to rattle slightly after about 25000 miles, which I take as a strong hint as replacement time. To ignore it would be a false economy, as a broken camchain could quite easily lead to a totalled top end. I've had three new camchains fitted at about a hundred notes a time.
There have been no on the road failures of the motor. The only time I was inconvenienced was when one spark plug went west. I feared something serious, the clock had 54000 miles on it and I was in the middle of the German countryside. The Honda was still quite rapid as a 750cc triple, but the way the fourth cylinder could cut in suddenly proved less than amusing.
The one downside of the full plastic enclosure is that changing a set of spark plugs takes hours. Not so long ago, anyone who designed a bike with such a feature would've been a laughing stock. Nowadays, spark plug technology is so advanced that you can usually get away with tens of thousands of miles. l was more relieved than annoyed that the solution was so simple.
Servicing was similarly tedious, but needed so infrequently that it could be forgiven such horrors. The plastic didn't even fit back on easily, quite effortless to break off the prongs (Superglue repairs them effectively). The valves settled down quite nicely, not needing attention for around 15000 miles. The carbs would last for 5000 miles before going off so far as to increase the vibes. This was the mileage at which I changed the oil filter, but being an old Jap bike hand I did the oil changes every 1000 miles. The rest was either electronic or automatic.
Basically, owning the CBR turned out to be relatively free of worry or trauma. It was, and still is, the kind of bike you could leap on to and do 5000 miles around the continent without becoming a paranoid wreck. My previous mount. a CBX550, always had me on edge whenever I tried for large mileages, its mechanical problems always threatening to turn a tour into a disaster.
I've lost count of the number of times I've leapt on to the Honda, without even checking the oil level let alone changing it, and gone off on a whim to see some part of Europe I would not have otherwise dreamt of visiting. All it would take was a couple of paragraphs in one of the Sundays on some obscure city to make me blast off on a long weekend of speeding and self-indulgence. Not once, did the Honda fail to deliver the goods in a spectacular manner.
I usually went on these excursions on my own, but often joined up with some other rider en route. After a high speed race to introduce ourselves, we would swap tales. Our combined knowledge would often lead to a change in destination or a joining up of forces. On many occasions I ended up staying with complete strangers and being given an insider's guide to the town. All through a common interest in motorcycles.
The one area where the CBR was at a loss as a serious tourer was its consumption of consumables. Tyres rarely lasted for more than 5000 miles a set, fuel hovered around the 35mpg mark (threatening to hit 30mpg under serious abuse) and the rear chain, if of a cheap variety, could be reduced to a pathetic rubber band in less than 4000 miles. High quality 0ring chains would last over 10000 miles but I often couldn't afford that kind of monetary indulgence.
Overall, though, the lack of serious engine problems more than offset the high cost of running the beast. Surprisingly the CBR is still on the original exhaust (if rusty), calipers (if renovated occasionally) and paint (if polished up once a month). Even most of the frame paint and engine alloy is still intact.
I will admit to sneaking in a few mods to the suspension. A back street mechanic, who's also a friend, rebuilt the rear shock with a stiffer spring and modified damper and also added HD springs to the front forks. When I first had the bike handling was more than acceptable, but by 26000 miles there was a lot of jumping about in corners. The mods tightened up the bike to a better than new standard. There have been no failures in the chassis bearings, which compared to some UMG accounts is very good going.
The Honda tracks well around smooth corners even at high speeds. Bumps will upset its poise when banked over, although straight line stability over rough going can be quite remarkable for such a hefty machine, the Honda sitting on the road as if on rails.
Wet weather riding can be a bit traumatic if too much power is let loose. A tall gear and very restrained right wrist are called for to avoid wild, lurid slides. Falling off under such circumstances could not be easier, but I have surprised myself by not dropping the Honda - a feat which further endears the bike to me. I was initially rather worried about the cost of replacing the plastic after a crash but now I've become almost blase.
Even with 80000 miles done, none of the engine's performance appears to have dropped off and there is no smoke out at the exhaust. The starter has become very rattly but still turns the mill into lite after a few seconds, although from cold it has always been very lean running, needing a good ten minutes to get up to the correct operating temperature. With the crude clutch it's dead easy to stall a motor first thing in the morning.
There are now more sophisticated bikes than my CBR1000, but they don't offer enough extra by way of performance (I have more than enough, anyway) or handling to entice me into parting with a large wedge. Even if the Honda's engine gives out soon, which it shows no sign of doing, I can still pick up a newish motor for a lot less than I'd have to pay for a newer motorcycle of similar or better performance.
"Look, mate, I don't know anything about the heap, I just want it out of my garage, like yesterday." There were worse ways of being introduced to a used motorcycle, at least it promised cheapness. The bike turned out to be a Yam XS250, covered in rust and refusing to start. He was vague about how much he wanted, so I offered fifty quid, eventually settling on £70.
It was a long push home, but a little less hassle after I'd removed the front caliper and drive chain, both of which were later to be found beyond help; no great surprise there. The rest of the chassis looked in just as rotten a state, but to my surprise responded well to my cleaning efforts.
The engine turned out to have no spark at the plugs. Something was very definitely getting through to the HT leads judging by the shock they gave me. It reminded me of my mate's highly illegal stun gun, which put out a 6000 volt shock. He amused himself by attacking stray dogs, they usually ended up on their backs, twitching wildly, kicking their paws in the air. The shock from the Yamaha was not quite that bad, but it persuaded me that a new pair of HT leads, spark plug caps and plugs were necessary.
Once these were fitted, after about fifty kicks. the motor finally stuttered into life on one cylinder. A bit of frantic effort with the choke and throttle turned the engine into a twin, albeit a rather reluctant one. The smoke out of the rusted exhaust finally cleared and the engine settled down to a 1250rpm tickover. Next tricks, track down a used caliper and buy a cheapo chain.
The first outing was startling for the sogginess of the ride and the paucity of power below 6000rpm. Wringing the engine's neck finally extracted some go but it felt more like a restricted 125 than a 28hp OHC vertical twin. I thought, what the heck, at least it was still running without any nasty noises.
Beggars could not be choosers. The first weekend I was ready for a gentle amble from London to Birmingham and back. Minor roads all the way, naturally. The Yam had other ideas, refusing to start for half an hour until I took the plugs out and warmed them in the oven. Once clear of the great city, we settled down a reasonable 70mph along some deserted A-roads (it being only six o'clock in the morning).
The first trauma was running on to reserve only to find that it didn't work. Much shaking of the bike back and forth put just enough in the main tank to get me two miles down the road to a deserted petrol station. The owner rolled up ninety minutes later and hoped I hadn't been waiting for too long!
About fifty miles later, the second problem turned up, the bike cutting out on the right-hand cylinder. Riding a 25mph, 125cc single didn't exactly fill me full of the joys of life. Combined with the wrecked suspension, it made for some wild wobbles through the bends when the second cylinder chimed in. I poked around at the HT leads to no avail, but after ten miles of anarchy it started to run properly again.
The handling was predictable in that every time the front wheel hit a bump it would cause the Yam to bounce all over the road. I had already noted a little play in the swinging arm bearings, so was not surprised to find the back end joining in, especially in the bends. There was nothing especially frightening about all this, it was just a matter of keeping hold of the bars and piloting the heap through the worst of the shakes.
Birmingham eventually came into view at about midday. My body was in a pretty wretched state, I had to stagger around the city centre for about an hour before I fully recovered. The Yarn refused to start when I returned and there was no-one I could ask to borrow an oven. It took about two hours of wandering around to find a bike shop that stocked a new pair of plugs. I wasted another hour when I found I'd forgotten to pack the spark plug socket.
With new plugs fitted the motor fired up first kick and l collapsed with relief over the bars. It was nearly five o'clock by then and l would have to ride home part of the way in the dark. The first bit of the journey, around 70 miles, was a breeze, with the engine running with remarkable eagerness at the top of its rev range. With a bit of a following wind, it was able to put 90mph on the clock with no sign of any strain.
When I switched the lights on, one cylinder started cutting out again. As darkness tell I was not amused to find that the lights were pathetic, hardly fit for warning other drivers of my presence. I was down to a 25mph crawl for most of the journey. Eye strain soon set in, making me imagine there were dead dogs in the road and nearly running off the tarmac when blinded by oncoming vehicles. By the time I reached my abode, the rear bulb had blown — the first I knew of it!
The next day I found that the bulb hadn‘t actually gone, one of its wires had fractured in half and l was lucky it had not shorted out on anything. This led me to the conclusion that rotten wiring was affecting the ignition circuit. An afternoon was spent putting in some new wires, but it also revealed a battery full of white corrosion, so more money was blown on replacing that. I was beginning to think it was impossible to win.
I was encouraged by the way the engine roared into life first kick. On the test run everything was fine, so it was time to use the bike instead of public transport for getting to work.
The next morning I ambled down to the XS - yes, you guessed, refused to start until I did the spark plugs in the oven trick. Luckily, I made up time on the run into work so didn't turn up late. Dinner time I bought a new set of plugs in case they were needed in the evening. Plugs with a life of less than a 100 miles was going to work out expensive.
Typically, the damn thing started first kick. It ran out of fuel again, but I was near to a petrol station this time. Economy worked out at around 65mpg, which, as l was thrashing the machine most of the time, was OK by me. That night I took the petrol tap apart and cleaned out the crud in the mesh on the reserve half of the tap. It was still dangerous, though, reserve not good for more than five miles, but it was better than nothing.
For a couple of weeks the engine settled down, starting from cold reliably and not cutting out on the road. After a really vicious rainstorm all the hassles came back. Three days later not even new plugs could persuade the engine into life. I simplified the ignition wiring and put in a pair of car coils, not willing to pay the ridiculous prices demanded by the Yamaha importer. It was still a reluctant starter from cold but ran reliably enough once warm.
My problems didn't end there. The suspension had become even more worn, the wobbles threatening to throw me off each time I tried to run the bike through a bend. New swinging arm bearings helped but it was the forks that were in a really bad state. The stanchions were pitted beyond help, the fork seals long since dead and the springs so soggy that all the travel disappeared as soon as I sat on the bike.
An RD front end with a similar wheel was on offer at the breakers for a hundred notes. After I'd explained that this was more than l'd paid for the XS, he let me have it for sixty quid and threw in a pair of shocks off an XS400. I had some fun and games fitting them but it was worth it.
I can't say that the XS felt like a thoroughbred but most of the wobbles had disappeared and it actually felt safe to lean more than a few degrees off the vertical. If anything, it was a bit too stiff, giving my spine a real going over when the road turned very rough? I could live with that in exchange for the improved handling.
The next few months went by without any spectacular incidents, although I was not too overjoyed to find that the new battery had boiled itself into a premature death.
Then I had an accident. I had perhaps become overconfident, as the RD's disc was brilliantly effective, compared to what I was used to. I had developed a spectacular cut and thrust technique in town traffic that drastically reduced my commuting times whilst giving indignant car drivers heart palpitations. One of these cagers did an unexpected right turn that not even the most powerful front brake in the world would have avoided.
The result was that the XS's front wheel was embedded in the side of the car and l was thrown off the bike with such force that I cleared the offending cage to land on top of some other poor fool's roof. Judging by the size of the dent my helmet left this absorbed most of the shock. I was a bit dazed but still coherent enough to refuse to go to hospital for a check-up, much to the annoyance of the ambulance crew and police.
The car driver reckoned it was obviously my fault for riding down the middle of the road at an obscene speed. I protested my innocence, naturally. but have to admit I was doing 50 to 60mph! The XS had wrecked its front end but was otherwise OK, so after all the details were taken I let the AA take the wreck home. There I put on the old front end and decided to sell the bugger before it did me a permanent injury.
I was lucky. insurance rates had just shot up to ridiculous levels for the big stuff. making 250s suddenly popular. I put the XS up for 350 sovs and was deluged with desperate phone calls. Had no problems off-loading the Yam, despite the way it shook its head and wandered all over the road. I didn't feel the least bit sad to be shot of the heap.
[The bike pictured in the original article still exists at the time of posting!] Fire and the fury came to mind as I topped the ton tor the first time on the RD250E; indeed, for the first time in my life. The frenzy of vibes through the rear-sets added to the feeling of fighting the elements, as did my body wrapped around the tank and head in the clocks. A pain ran through my neck as l craned upwards to see where I was going, although the howling gale took the usual pressure off my wrists, resultant from the clip-ons.
The RD was basically stock, save for some minor carb mods to suit the expansion chambers. This emphasised the way power suddenly flowed in at 6000rpm, although the reed valve motor still produced a reasonable amount of torque for trawling through town in a tallish gear, something necessary to avoid the attentions of the police who did not appear amused by the snarl of the spannies beyond six grand.
The chassis was also mostly stock. The big change was to the riding position which helped put more mass over the front end, curing most of the insane mono-wheeling that afflicts the stock RD. I'm not against wheelies, as such, but can live without the front wheel leaving the tarmac when accelerating out of bends.
Handling at the ton was surprisingly stable, although it was a smooth, straight bit of motorway. The bike could be thrown way off line on rough country roads, more, I think, down to its low weight than any chassis defect, although the front end always threatened to go light under serious abuse. There was a slight weave from the back tyre, despite the flash alloy swinging arm I'd fitted but it did not worry me.
102mph on the clock was the most I could extract from the wailing stroker twin. Not bad going for a bike that had led a most varied life. The previous owner, a friend, had bought it in a pretty decrepit state for £125. The engine was out of another bike, although what was left of the old one was still around for spares. The chassis was refurbished during the 18 months he owned the RD, before selling it to me for 650 quid, in fine fettle but a totally indeterminate number of miles under its wheels.
I'd had the bike for five weeks before I'd become sufficiently sure of its characteristics to do an early morning high speed run. I was easily won over by the ease with which the RD could be flicked through curves and sped through town, speed always necessary to make sense of the cafe racer riding position.
I was therefore a bit miffed to have my joy at cracking the ton ruined by the realisation, as I backed off to more legal speeds, that the gearbox was stuck in top! The forty mile ride back in such a tall gear ruined my peace of mind for the rest of the weekend and, more importantly, also burnt out the RD‘s clutch plates. Waves of heat were coming off the engine by the time I pulled up at the previous owner's house — he knowing a lot more about RDs than myself.
He's a good chap, had the crankcases split in a time so short I would still have been trying to get the petrol tube off the carbs. He had done it so often it was second nature to him. I never did quite understand the cause of the problem but it was resolved by using some bits out of the old engine, as was the clutch. In a blur of hands the mill was reassembled and put back in the frame. The whole operation had taken less than 2 hours!
The gearbox and clutch were working again, so I was able to ride home in a less despondent mood. A month went by with a lot of joy. a few near misses when I became overconfident and a set of Pirelli tyres going down to the carcass. They had never really impressed me even when legal, when bald they allowed the chassis into some most disturbing behaviour, that once had me pulling over to throw up my breakfast.
My friend reckoned a set of Avon Roadrunners would be better, and they were. The Yamaha felt much less twitchy and less susceptible to white lines and the like. My confidence in the bend swinging abilities of the little RD grew by leaps and bounds, surprising myself by giving some real hard cases on bigger machines a run for their money. The RD250 can be a real giant killer!
The bike began running very strangely. It felt like the carbs were way out of balance or as if there was a spark plug dying. The two cylinders appeared to be suddenly working against rather than with each other. A real struggle ensued trying to crack a mere 80mph, the engine vibrating like the main bearings were on the way out.
Fearfully, I consulted my friend. It was either something very serious and expensive or the carb slides were worn out. He let me borrow a set of refurbished carbs which made the Yamaha go like a bat out of hell. After some bargaining fifty notes changed hands and l was back in business.
Another three months went by, much more in pleasure than in pain, when I noticed that oil was being consumed at an even more voracious rate than normal. If I wanted to do a 300 mile run I had to strap a five litre can to the back of the seat. There had always been a bit of a smokescreen but now it was becoming a bit absurd. A couple of minutes idling at a junction meant the immediate vicinity looked like a dense fog was closing in.
My mate diagnosed main bearing seals on the way out. A not uncommon problem on hard ridden RD250s. So common, in fact, that he earned a reasonable income reconditioning cranks, so I was lucky to fix the problem for only 60 notes. However, the rebuilt engine never displayed the zest of the old one and l was aware of a lot more intrusive vibration.
I rode the bike for six months, but in a relatively mild and sane fashion, mostly for getting to work and the odd weekend thrash with my mates. Did almost 9000 miles with nothing more than spark plugs, oil and drive chain (pathetically short-lived) replaced.
Somehow, I'd outgrown the delights of the stroker. Riding became more tedious than pleasure filled. Having a friend turned into a vegetable when his RD350 engine locked up solid did not help any. The chassis was showing signs of needing serious money spent with a bit of looseness in the bearings and the Roadrunners about to turn very illegal. When some vague acquaintance decided he was desperate to get in with the RD crowd I did little to dissuade him from handing over £750.
Overall, it had not been a bad experience. Strokers can delight with the way they lay down the power, but they also irritate with their quick wear components and lack of civilisation. Worth experiencing but not repeating.
The badly mangled front end of the 1978 Suzuki GS1000 suggested that the frame was a write off as well. It was obviously a good bargaining point. The speedo read only 11,760 miles and the engine would still fire up and tick over as normal. We settled on four hundred notes with free delivery to my home thrown in.
There was a long list of parts to replace. but I had few qualms about fitting non-standard stuff. The GS was not a bike for which its suspension was famed. When a complete GSX1100 Katana front end turned up in MCN l was on the phone in an instant. It went on with only a minimal amount of hassle.
After removing the petrol tank for filling and respraying, l was relieved to find that none of the frame tubes were bent or kinked. This showed that the tubular trellis is a hefty piece of work if not a particularly pretty one in its welding. The exhaust down-pipes were crushed flat by the front wheel and were. anyway. very rusty, so a 4-1 from the breaker was whacked on - only after breaking off two of the bolts holding on the exhaust clamps. They were sawn off flush with the head, drilled and tapped to take smaller bolts.
It took about two weeks and £250 to put the Suzuki back on the road. It already had a set of Konis out back. so I was not too surprised to find that on my initial outing the ride was very firm and heavy. This was 1988 when 16" wheels were all the rage and GS1000s and the like were beginning to show their age. The tyres were Avons in reasonable shape. but they liked to follow every road marking and gave the Suzuki a rather vague feel.
The first couple of days were spent getting used to the machine, just hustling back and forth to work, through some pretty chaotic traffic where the GS was not at its best. 0n the positive side, the gearbox and clutch could not have been easier to use and minimal throttle produced quite vivid acceleration. It was just all the muscle needed to swerve around cars and operate the rather wooden brakes that was all too debilitating.
Come the weekend. it was off for a dose of high speed motorway riding with a bunch of similarly mounted mates. Top speed turned out to be a reasonable 140mph on the clock, which kept the GPZ1100s in sight. A dose of the weaves and wobbles above 110mph threatened to chuck me off a few times, but I held my breath and nerve to good effect.
The Kawasakis could waltz around the GS in the fast bends, where my mount came close to throwing me off the road on several occasions when the suspension could not cope with the abrupt changes of direction and the 550lbs of metal. God knows how bad it was with the OE suspension!
The engine was a real charmer. With loads of low speed guts it could also churn up the back tyre if 10000 revs were dialled in and the clutch dropped. The stomach lurching dose of acceleration never failed to bring a wide grin to my face. even if the whole chassis twitched away merrily until some semblance of sanity was reached with the change up to third gear.
Cruising speed turned out to be any rate of knots that I could keep my grip on the bars. The riding position, with the Kat's flatter bars, was not ideal for high speed work, pains in shoulders, arms and neck seeing to that. in town it was OK for about thirty minutes until my wrists stared to complain about excess pressure. The footrests were stock, when I eventually fitted some rear-sets to match the bars, the bike became more comfortable.
Fuel worked out at 38mpg. but other consumables were more reasonable. Tyres did more than 10,000 miles. as did the chain and pads. Oil consumption under mild use was negligible but during a long, hard thrash worked out at about a pint every 125 miles, although there was no smoke out of the exhaust. Oil changes were done every 1250 miles.
The rest of the engine has proved almost invincible in 51000 miles of serious abuse. There are quite a lot of rattles at low revs, which is quite typical of the GS models, but they disappear when the motor is rewed. The clutch needed new plates at 47600 miles - what would have been a simple job made difficult by engine cover screws breaking off even when attacked with an impact-driver. After I carefully drilled out the remnants the threads were still usable.
The GS series is infamous for its electrical pyrotechnics but my GS didn't have any problems until about 58000 miles when the wiring started to rot. I assumed that it was either the rectifier or alternator that was causing the fuses to blow, spending hours checking them over. in fact, some of the insulation had turned rigid, fallen off, causing adjacent wires to short out. I ended up rewiring the whole bike wire by wire not wanting to fork out for a loom, with the added benefit that the front headlamp was discernibly brighter.
The chassis was almost as tough as the engine, although by the time i sold the bike, last year, the suspension was on its last legs, making the GS less than safe above 85mph. Caliper rot was the only major expense incurred, but even then they would go for about 15000 miles before needing attention, which compared to my mate's CBX750 was brilliant, as he had to replace the whole front brake at less mileage.
Before the suspension went off I had mostly mastered the handling quirks of the GS. A matter of muscle over mind for the most part and showing the bike who was master. I currently roar around the streets on a 750 Zephyr, a rather confusing bike as it's ever so bland after the GS, but looks much more butch than the Suzi, which could, in appearance, be called classic, if you're being kind, or insipid if you're telling the truth.
Memories of great rides with my friends on similar high speed relics from the late seventies stay most strongly in my mind. There's nothing quite like the sound of a gaggle of fours on cam with open pipes. The sheer force of our prescence used to make the cagers shift out of our way in a most rewarding manner.
Less enjoyable were the times I fell off. A pack of us were involved in a pile-up, the lead bike hitting the back end of a swerving car. He was thrown off, the path of his motorcycle, as it slid along the road, taking out the next two riders who promptly came off, taking out the next bikers, who did the same trick until we were all sprawled along the road, nursing a dose of gravel rash whilst we rushed to pick up our fallen machines.
Luckily, damage was not serious to either bikes or riders. The cager had done a runner, probably just as well as we would have tied him between two of the bikes and torn him asunder! The other times I came off, the GS proved equally able to defend itself against the depreciations of its immature rider and the hardness of the road.
I wouldn't advise a novice 125 rider to buy one, too heavy and awkward. Nor would I touch something with more than 80000 miles on the clock, having observed a friend‘s GS do a self-destruct act at 84000 miles, mostly down to the roller main bearings breaking up! They used to be popular race bikes so there are some dubious engines about, although mild tuning or big-bore kits do not significantly weaken the motor.
I sold mine with enough mileage left in the engine to ensure that the owner didn't come back ready to beat me into pulp. l felt I'd had the best the GS had to offer, that if I still wanted to ride hard I‘d be in for some very serious expense. I'd certainly be happy to buy another one if it were of a low mileage, but good GS1000s are much more the exception than the rule
