Kawasaki Z1300

The Z1300 is a good hacking bike. Fact or fiction? I can hear the guffaws, but let me put the record straight. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to say one way or another. What I will do, though, is tell you of my experience with the beast and let you decide for yourself.

I picked the bike up brand new, my bank balance considerably depleted to the tune of over three grand. It looked like a large bike should — big, black and beautiful. Six chrome exhausts thrusting from the matt black, fuel injected lump of engine alloy. I think I drooled idiotically when I first saw it in the flesh — either that or the mechanic gave me a funny look because he thought I was a prat.

Anyway, it fired into life first time I touched the button, a civilised purr from the smooth and silky six cylinder, watercooled engine. With a gentle twist of the throttle — so light and responsive to the touch I rode it cautiously from the shop, head high and leathers tight, posing to the best of my abilities.

It was as l was riding away from the dealers that I hit my first snag. The time was about five in the afternoon, midweek, and the rush hour traffic around Newcastle was starting to clog the streets. a never ending mess of four wheeled expletives queuing to get home. I joined the traffic and, shock, horror, waited with them!

The bike was too wide to go down the central gap in traffic, too ponderous to weave in and out, too heavy to throw into the gaps that exist for only a split second. So. I sat and moved with the cars, other bikes of numerous denominations scampering past me Well, I didn't care, I was still getting used to the bike and I didn't feel like thrashing it with so much traffic on the road.

I arrived home later (much later) and showed it to the missus; raised eyebrows the only welcome. So, enthusiasm dampened, I started the long, boring haul of running it in — a thousand miles of unforgettable tedium. To spare you the pain, I will pass over it completely.

The day arrived when I could thrash it, 1001 miles on the clock. This was it, I thought. The time had arrived, I took it out on the A1(M), just short of Newcastle and pointed it down the long road. The engine felt good, smooth and clean. I opened it up in every gear, hitting the edge of the red line.

It didn't falter, the power effortlessly piling on. The steering held true and firm, not a twitch, even at over 130mph. The only thing I noticed was a slight wallow on tight corners when the rear end started to drift. I put that down to the shocks being wrongly adjusted. I stopped and twisted the top of them, adjusting the air damping even on full the bike still wallowed. Next, I cranked the spring up 3 notches, which appeared to cure it.

The bike roared around the corners, sticking to the line I set with ease. Gaining confidence, I started to do silly things, like dropping the clutch at over 6000rpm — the rear wheel snaking as the tyre fought for grip, finally snapping into place, my arms nearly wrenched out of their sockets as the bike hurtled off.

With the suspension set properly, the handling was transformed in another area. The bike, long wheelbase and all, was heavy, but it laid into corners with only a minimal amount of effort — and it wasn’t just a case of the whole plot about to fall over as will be explained by the next event...

I was riding back from London with the better half on the back when l misjudged a bend, the line tightening dramatically. Under normal circumstances it wouldn't have been so bad, but I was doing 130mph. the power delivery not affected by the weight of the pillion. The bike went lower and lower as I tried to ride it through, fearing to brake in case I lost it completely. The bike went lower, the ground creeping closer and closer when it happened the pegs touched. and I rode the entire bend at a 130mph, with a shower of sparks from the footrests.

As I came out of the bend there was still ample power left to roll on the throttle as the behemoth came up, bringing it vertical without the need to flex my fear filled muscles. The hardest bit was trying to convince the wife that you'd planned it that way all along — not easy when you're hobbling around a garage forecourt after being kicked between the legs; hell hath no fury...

The next incident that surprised me was again when I had the wife on the back. We all know how the handling changes with a pillion passenger, but the Z1300 is one of those bikes that is so big and powerful that it’s easy to forget. It still has the same low end grunt (many’s the time I’ve pulled away in third in heavy traffic because I couldn’t be bothered to go down through the gears) and virtually the same acceleration.

Except for the time I was stuck behind a bus in Newcastle when a gap opened up in the traffic. Doing a sedate 30mph, in what I assumed was fourth, 'cept l was in third... l dropped two cogs and then whacked open the throttle. Without a moment's hesitation, the bike surged forward in first, the front wheel lifting clean off the ground into the air by a good couple of feet. We sailed past the bike on one wheel, startling passengers who gawped at us whilst my sphincter muscles fainted, the two of us screaming our heads off. It wasn’t until we were past the bus that I could bring the front wheel down again. I always checked my gears after that.
 
There’s one thing I'm not really certain about, but I will mention it anyway. It might be a good point or not. The engine is water-cooled, the radiator thermostatically controlled with a huge fan. In cold weather revving the engine caused the fan to cut in, blowing hot air past your legs to warm you up The only problem was that it did the same thing in summer — the wife refused to wash my socks and my friends showed a marked reluctance to let me into their homes if the sun was shining. It did keep the engine cool at all times, though.

To be fair, I must mention some poor points; there are quite a few bad points. Being a shaftie, whenever I changed down gear quickly the back wheel would momentarily lock up. I went through rear tyres every 3000 miles, becoming the favourite customer of my local tyre dealer who could run his Jag on the back of the Z1300's consumption of tyres. The rear shocks rotted, the enamelled numbers on the dampers rusting away completely, although they still worked after a fashion.

And the services. Even the simplest cost over £150, those 6 cylinders. But the thing that got me the most were the brakes. They were good, I must say that, two discs at the front and a single out back, but as soon as it rained they just refused to work. Fortunately, the bike still went around corners OK.

At one point the black box failed. The injection system gave up and I had to coast to a halt on the motorway's hard shoulder (with the wife on the back...). A quick, ignorant fumble under the seat, where it was all kept in a neat cluster, revealed that merely the lead had come detached. Luckily, it never happened again.

The petrol consumption made me think I was running Concorde. 30mpg around town, 40mpg cruising at reasonable speeds. There was a little switch on the bars with cruise marked next to it, but in use it had no effect. The dealer said it only worked in America and a nasty letter to Kawasaki UK was not answered. What a load of crap.
 
By far the worst thing to happen was the rear disc cracking. It actually cracked! Can you believe it? The bike was less than a year old and it had a whopping great crack cleaving through it. I dread to think what would have happened if it had happened when l was on the bike. It took six weeks for the new part to come from Japan.
 
So there you have it. The pros and cons of being the proud owner of a big Jap six. I don't want to put anyone off, but l traded it in for a Kawasaki 1100; such sweet bliss.

David O’Neill

Loose Lines: Running Out of Luck [Issue 20]

I find it highly ironic that I fell off the bike when I was on the way to buy a new crash helmet. Thee Great Crash Helmet Saga started when the lining of my twelve year old full face Griffin began to come apart.
 
Riding around with great wads of material hanging out was seriously damaging my street cred, so l thought I’d rush down to the local store to pick up a new 'un. I knew exactly what I wanted. It had to be plain white to complement the white fairing on the bike, not because of image, clear, but because a slab of white rushing up behind car drivers tended to make them throw their cars out of the way thinking the plod were about to pounce.
 
There had been times when car drivers had slammed on their brakes coming out of side roads under the fear that they were about to crunch the law, and when I rolled past they were hunched over the wheel with dismayed, irritated grimaces on their faces as the mistake dawned on them. I made damn sure I cleared off pronto to avoid retribution...
 
In fact, such is the timeless appearance of the old Griffin, that I would have been more than happy to buy a new one in white had they still been in business, although taking a side tour down to Swansea every time I wanted a new visor was not my particular idea of fun.

I knew I had hit trouble when I arrived at the first store in Cardiff. The owner appeared to think it highly amusing that anyone would want to purchase a white crash helmet. For sure, there were plenty of lids with some white hidden in them, but it was usually mixed with garish shades of red, blue and green.

Out of civility, I tried a few lids on and quickly found the second problem. Some manufacturers evidently make just one shell, fitting different thicknesses of lining for different sizes. This is fine if you have an extra large head, but anything less ends up with the wearer looking like a refugee from an Apollo mission. What a bunch of morons! I wonder if each size is tested to get the kite mark or if they send off the one with the optimum lining thickness? As these were usually the most expensive type of heImets, this was all the more confusing.

I quickly left this shop before the owner collapsed onto the floor in hysterics after viewing these huge helmets on the Fowler head. Cardiff has always been lacking in serious motorcycle shops, but there were a few places worth visiting, but not, I soon found out, if you want to buy a plain white lid. Another problem with many crash hats is that the side lining clamps the cheeks with enough force to distort the face into a hamster grimace.

I soon gained the impression that the perfect customer was someone with a huge upper brain who had spent six months in a concentration camp and then had his cheek bones attacked by a mad plastic surgeon.

I was also less than amused to find that the sizes quoted by different manufacturers varied enormously. Even helmets identical in everything but colour had different fits, even though they were supposedly the same size. I tried on one small helmet that clamped my head so tightly I had a headache for the next ten minutes, even though I had tom it off within a matter of seconds. Whatever you do, don't buy a lid mail order.

The sun was shining, I was onl a minute from the A48(M) which left Newport but ten minutes away, a place where there were at least two serious motorcycle shops and surely a white lid or two. This is normally a 120mph race track, just so long as you keep glancing up at the bridges to make sure there aren’t any witnesses of the wrong sort, but had been thrown into chaos by an excess of repair work.

A diversion along the heavily policed A48 proper was enlivened by a race with a Ford Granada, a car of huge proportions and power that, par for the course, tried to stay ahead by overtaking two cars occupying the correct two lanes on our side of the road, by running across a double white line into oncoming traffic. I had pulled way back by then so as to avoid the debris, but he just got away with it, amid much blaring of horns.

In Newport I found a helmet that was more white than black, but had a cut that left my ear lobes exposed and the small size had enough excess lining to fit out a padded cell. Another helmet that fitted OK and was only ruined by a few flashes of red, which could probably be scratched off if I was feeling energetic, had but a two inch slit that l was supposed to see out of and, I was told by the bored salesman, a visor that flipped up if you went above 40mph. I also learnt that the market in big bikes, which had been doing so well earlier in the year had all but collapsed and, yes, they would give me a huge discount if I wanted to buy one, something unthinkable but three months ago.

Then, in a small shop, I saw three plain white helmets on a shelf. Unfortunately, two of them had wedges buit into their tops, which despite protestations from the salesman that they were the business, looked pretty dreadful from where I was slumping in disbelief. The third was only available in extra large as it was old stock. I almost accepted his offer of a free Balaclava.

The sun was still shining and the pundits were predicting a drought, and hose-pipes had been banned, and Bristol was only half an hour away. Cutting right through what I hoped was a short cut back onto the A48, I could only look longingly at the white full face worn by the plod biker - he even smiled, as we passed. The short cut took me in a huge semi-circle back onto the wrong road, and I only regained the A48 out of Newport after passing through Carleon and doing a circular tour of Gwent, but the roads were snaky and the weather brilliant, so didn’t really give a damn.

The bit of A48 between Newport and Chedpstow is a wonderfully fast road only spoilt by the odd police car seeking a refuge from the motorway madness. Unfortunately too many artics also use it as an alternative to M4 traffic jams, tend to overtake everything in sight and don’t give way to bikes even when it’s the artic that's on the wrong side of the road. Nevertheless, I made pretty good time, until I hit the slip road onto the Severn Bridge, which had cars moving at 30 to 40mph, and a side wind that needed at least 60mph on a motorcycle to avoid being blown all over the place.
 
Although this was nothing compared to the time I had to ride a CD175 at a 45 degree angle against what seemed like a Force 10, it was a very strange feeling indeed to just ride through the toll on the bridge without having to pay, as they finally worked out that a motorcyclist fiddling in his pocket for loose change, after half disrobing, takes up more time than the money’s worth. But free passage must irritate the hell out of fuming cagers.

All was well with the world until I hit the M5 into Bristol and turned off the motorway heading for the town centre. I whizzed around the outside of an attic waiting to get on a huge roundabout, with hardly any loss of momentum rushed the bike into a gap in the traffic, leant Over into the curve of the roundabout and gave it a bit of throttle on line or the second exit. The next thing I knew I was rolling along the tarmac with a vague awareness that my right knee was in pain.
 
I rolled over three times, started to go against the momentum, changed my mind and rolled over another four or five times, with my arms and legs well tucked in, until the velocity was almost down to zero and leapt up straight away, dazed but with enough awareness to know it didn't pay to lay about in the middle of a busy roundabout.

In fact, I’d made it into the gutter where the bike was about a foot behind me, facing the wrong direction and still ticking over. A car driver rushed over and expressed surprise that I was still alive, let alone able to stand up. There was a four inch tear in my trousers at the right knee where I could see that the skin had been removed - blood mixed with grit - and I could feel some pain in my left arm but nothing serious.
 
I turned off the ignition of the bike and looked back up the roundabout. What seemed a long way back there was a huge diesel or oil slick that I hadn’t noticed because I’d been too busy fitting the bike into the gaps in the traffic. What really surprised me was that there was absolutely no warning - I blame Jap Dunlops and 16" wheels.
 
The car driiver helped pick up the bike - the damage was confined to the right side, the brunt of the crash taken by the handlebar and the rear brake lever, but both still usable, even if the brake lever stop bracket had sheared off. The mirror was shattered and an indicator lens missing, although the indicators still worked. I still don't understand quite how I and the bike ended up in our relative positions. 

There was a huge chunk taken out of the inside of my right boot and my right knee must have hit the deck first. I was obviously flung clear of the bike as soon as it hit the tarmac and sent rolling off from the roundabout, but the bike ended up facing the wrong way with damage to only one side. By the time I'd jumped up the artic was well gone so how close I came to being run down I don't know. The knee was hurting too much to closely question the car driver...

I wobbled off into Bristol, not to buy a helmet - I wasn't that obsessed - but to find a hospital with a casualty ward. I eventually found Southmead hospital, parked the bike and then had a ten minute hobble, cursing modern planners for laying out hospitals horizontally instead of vertically. I then had to wait four hours to be seen, four hours of wondering if the cure was going to be more painful than the cause.

It wasn’t, and the injury wasn’t as bad as I'd imagined, just in a bloody awkward place to put on a bandage. I suppose I'd had a lucky escape - it could have been much worse - but as I haven’t fallen off for a long, long time it came as a rather rude shock in reality, and the fifty mile journey home was taken at a relaxed pace, not helped by having a bent bar that was in a clip-on position and a rear brake that meant I had to take my bandaged leg off the peg to operate it. And I still haven't bought a new lid. 

Bill Fowler

Triton Tribulations

It was love at first sight. But I should have known much better. It was not my first motorcycle, nor even my first British motorcycle. It was not even a private sale, although that fact was not revealed until l’d arrived at the back lane breakers. The garage stank of dog shit, an Alsatian strained on a length of thin string and the proprietor of the establishment had an old Roller parked outside.
 
But the bike looked so butch that I had to have it. It had a pre-unit Triumph T120 motor, one of the last before they went unit, with both a magneto and alternator. There didn’t seem to be any oil leaks and it growled meaningfully when he fired it up first kick. A quick run up the lane revealed that all was well.

I haggled the price down from £1250 to a grand. The gleam in the dealer’s eyes gave me a moment for thought, but what the hell, I figured, what else can you buy for a grand these days? The bike was all decked out in alloy and chrome and gleamed machoness in the fading sunlight.
 
I stretched my body out over the huge five gallon alloy tank, clip-ons down by the bottom yokes, footrests up on the pillion subframe and my bottom fimrly secured against the back of the single seat. Bit of throttle and I wobbled off with a huge grin on my face. It felt just right; just what I needed to celebrate my 40th birthday.

The 50 mile ride home was all good fun. Sure, the motor vibrated like crazy between 50 and 70mph, but that was merely the encouragement I needed to break the speed limit. Between 70 and 90mph the bike fair sung along like a good 'un, the stability of the slim featherbed frame pretty amazing after some Triumphs and many Jap bikes I’d owned. It was also so light that it could be flicked through bends with ease despite the 19" front wheel, shod with a decidedly antiquated TT100.

I arrived, home well pleased with my purchase until I took a closer look at the engine. Two of the rocker caps had disappeared, and the other two were finger tight. There was a huge oil leak from the cylinder head gasket, and a big puddle forming under the bike.

When the wife realised just how much money I’d taken out of the joint bank account to pay for some old relic that was leaking oil all over the hall carpet (well, where else would you put such a valuable classic?), there were some bad eyed looks for the rest of the evening, but I find it’s much better to get something without asking permission than to spend weeks trying to persuade women of the merits of an act. You have to let them know who’s in charge.

It’s pretty much the same with Triumphs. I had some spare rocker caps, tightened down the head nuts way beyond recommended torque settings and polished up the alloy some more, whilst the wife complained bitterly that it didn't even have a pillion seat. For the next few days conversations usually began, 'you‘d think for a thousand pounds that...’ I prayed that it would keep going long enough for her to get over it.

Out on the back roads it was still a real delight. I could crack open the throttle in fourth at 70mph and the bike would take off like a rocket ship; I guessed there were high lift cams and high compression pistons doing their business down there. The bike was fitted with a SLS front brake, which definitely wasn’t 1980’s standard, more like 1940’s. I’m not a great fan of disc brakes, but I'd take one any day in place of the standard Norton fare.

I managed to pick up a TLS job that fitted straight in and worked about three times as well. It would still fade if used from ton plus speeds a couple of times, but at more reasonable speeds was very good. The back SLS brake was exemplary, never locked the back wheel up thanks to lots of feedback.

There was also plenty of feedback from the chassis. This made it feel very secure even in the atrocious weather that started to afflict the UK (one month like the ‘76 summer, the next like winter). There was never a hint of weave or a wobble, although 3" of suspension travel with very stiff springs did mean it was very punishing over bumpy going, which these days includes most city streets and even once smooth motorways.

Over the ton, vibes became pretty nasty. Even the needles of the chrono speedo and tacho started wavering madly. The speedo eventually hit 130mph, when it felt like I was atop a pile driver. Effectively, the 650 twin, for all of its high state of tune, had a top speed of 95mph. Restricted by the vibes, it did manage to return around 65mpg - a lot better than many 250s.

Oil consumption was not negligible - I had to spend more time catering to the oil tank than the huge fuel tank. Surprised that the primary drive chaincase was oil tight (about the only oil tight item on the engine), I took off the inspection cap. Oh dear, the chain looked more than a little dry. Off with the drain plug, a few drops of oil confirmed that it was devoid of lube. Sure enough, when I poured some in it came out through the gaskets almost as fast.

Working on the principle that a fully enclosed primary chain, not subject to the ravages of varying chain tension of the final drive, should last a long time if sprayed with chain oil from time to time, I drained it off and hoped that modem technology would suffice.
 
It seemed to work for the next 3000 miles until the whole engine started vibrating badly. It felt more like some other Triumphs I’d owned. The wife had confiscated my cheque book, so it was with a bit of fear and trepidation that I took the eight stud head off. Oh my god, the head’s cracked, from stud hole to combustion chamber. I whipped the barrels off to find the small ends loose, grasped the conrods firmly to find that the big ends were still OK.

I then noticed that one piston ring was burned into its groove and that its barrel was scored. The wife leered knowingly while I tried to recall what bits were up in the attic. Luckily, I had a spare set of barrels and pistons, so only had to track down a head and small ends. The head took a whole day of phoning breakers to find, I had to pay a hundred notes for a bare head even then. Bastards, time was when I could’ve bought a couple of bikes for that.
 
The engine reassembled and run in, it ran for 5000 with hardly a murmur of discontent. Then the primary chain snapped. When I took the cover off, the clutch was loose on its bearing and the alternator looked a little charred, something I hadn't noticed as the magneto was self sufficient and I hadn't used it much. To fix it cost a couple of hundred quid, and about three days to get the surfaces of the chaincases flat.

Then we did 3000 miles before the gearbox seized up in third gear. Even the extreme torque produced by a Triumph twin was not up to the 50 mile ride home as I ended up burning out my newly installed clutch. By the time the RAC got me home I was not a happy man. I paid fifty notes for a used box that didn't work, a hundred notes for one that had three out of four gears and ended up paying £300 to have the original rebuilt, as the last time I played with a gearbox it had taken me six attempts to get it half right. Who said British bikes were cheap to repair?
 
Having replaced almost the entire engine in around 10000 miles is not the highest recommendation, I suppose, but I was addicted to the liquid torque and ever so slick handling. There were rides of such subtlety and exhilaration that the wife would have a good case for oting them in a divorce action.
 
Then, horror of horrors, the frame started cracking up. Metal fatigue after 30 years, I suppose, isn’t so surprising. The frame had started to crack up where the tubes met the headstock. The frame was the whole point of buying the bike. I managed to buy another frame, but not cheaply; after all, the frame was a classic. £250 poorer and a lot of spanner work in the ’lounge’ had me back on the road and the wife sulking, but I told her if she had some kids instead of taking the pill every day for the 20 years of our marriage I probably would have forgotten all about bikes. For some reason this didn't go down too well.

Back on the road it did nearly 6000 miles with only routine maintenance. Yep, the only bit I hadn't replaced had gone. Shot main bearings are not much fun, but when the whole crank is knackered it’s even less joy. Sod this for a lark, I thought. Another morning on the phone located a near new Triumph 750 engine for £500, which I thought quite cheap compared to some of the prices I’d paid. By the time l had got rid of all the pre-unit engine bits I was back in profit. Unfortunately, the position of the shorter unit engine in the frame meant there wasn’t the same mass on the front wheel and the steering went a little vague. It’s either that or an extraordinarily long rear chain that would probably need replacing every weekend

The new motor didn't have the low speed torque or the high speed punch of the 650 twin.  It also didn't have extremes of smoothness and vibration, it just vibrated everywhere in the rev range; the faster it went the worse it became. I did 6000 miles on it but was not impressed. In less than a year I’d replaced almost a whole machine, and ended up with a bike that I did not really like. When I tried to explain this to the wife she was not very amused.
 
I put the bike up as the epitome of classic iron - all the looks of a sixties classic - and it did still look very beautiful - with the reliability of a relatively recent Triumph engine, honest guv. The price I wanted was three grand! The wife was plotting with the doctor to have me certified.

Half a dozen or so of the Barbour clad brigade came, shook their heads after a ride, and left with pitying smiles on their face. Then he came, the fabled yuppie in a big shiny BMW. Rolex on arm, smile on face, he told me he’d just passed his test on a Honda CB100 and wanted a proper bike. He showed me his leather jacket, just bought down the Kings Road for four hundred notes (I had half a dozen in the spare bedroom, he could’ve had the lot for fifty sovs).
 
In for a penny, I told him the bike was sold for three grand, but no money had changed hands, if he wanted to make a better offer... He had a bit of trouble kicking her into life, but I assured him that it'll be easier with practice. A quick ride, he came back shaking a little but bunged me £3250. Even the wife managed a smile. 

John Cain

Yamaha SR500

Have you ever noticed that most times you lend a bike it gets stacked? l lent my Kawasaki GPz305 to a mate and in due course he returned covered from head to toe in mud... yep, Kawa severely bent. This put me in rather a dodgy position as I was a despatch rider.

I managed to scrape together £350 for another bike, started the hunt through the MCN ads, fancying an XT500 but there were none around for the money I had available. Then I saw it, an SR500 flat tracker, £400.
 
So, l caught various buses and ended up in Stoke Newington. It was a bike shop, but the guy made it quite clear that it wasn't the shop selling it. One look at the bike told me why. It had started off as a Yamaha SR500 but had been stripped of everything not absolutely necessary.
 
A huge chromed headlamp out front, wide dirt bike bars, a custom GRP seat that incorporated a tail light and tiny number plate, no back guard, home-made rear-sets, a bodged, bent, short gear lever turned around and newish tyres which, with a long MOT, stopped me walking off in disgust. £350 and it was mine.

My wife was not impressed with the seat, her thoughts are not printable in a family magazine. It was a painful and tight fit, best suited to the sexually perverted. The riding position and thin seat meant that even short rides were painful and it was not long before a Honda 100 seat and some Meccano were employed — it looked terrible but was much more comfortable.

The bike was ready for some serious abuse, but on the way to work I was stopped by a bike cop and given a free MOT check. It just about passed but he wasn't impressed by the number plate. Later, the same day, l was stopped again. In one week I was stopped five times — one plod told me why, the bike was too unusual.

l dealt with this problem by losing the tax disc. They wouldn't stop searching until they found a fault with the bike, so it was much quicker to let them find no tax disc and give me a lecture than wait for them to completely check the bike out. Which sometimes was just as well.

The rear-sets were positioned to give plenty of ground clearance, the light mass meant it was easy to chuck through the traffic, the only disappointment, the gutless motor. There was plenty of torque and it went okay up to 60mph, but after that it just couldn't cope with motorways — it was more boring than watching cricket.

Fortunately, the speedo never worked the whole time I owned the bike, so I never found out how slow it really was. The brakes were well able to cope with the lack of mass and snail-like performance. Vibration was not a problem except that things used to come unscrewed. While travelling up the M40, the chrome silencer jumped ship. I did an emergency stop and was just in time to see it flying through the air after hitting a car, landing in front of a lorry, becoming history as a silencer — it was squashed flatter than a pancake. 

I had to carry on to deliver an urgent package, but I was soon suffering from serious earache. As I approached Oxford I saw a jam sandwich ahead, so I stuck my boot over the end of the downpipe and was able to sneak past without attracting undue attention. I stopped outside a house with a garden full of British bikes, hoping to buy a silencer off the owner. He came out and said it reminded him of his Thruxton. He told me they used to silence the Velos by using a very long silencer, where the noise pulses cancelled each other out.
 
He pulled out five foot of copper tube, wire, hoseclip and hammer. The tube went over the downpipe like it was meant for the job and he firmly attached it with the wire and hoseclip. It was just as loud but had a sort of mellow bark with echoes of racing days and Castrol R. The tube jutted out about two feet beyond the end of the bike, which meant I couldn't hear much of the noise any more. It did wonders the ability of the engine to spin higher up the rev band.

When I got back to London I went straight to Maitland Racing, who specialize in tuning bits for big Jap singles. I gave them £40 and they gave me a silencer. It helped the engine produce more power, almost as good as the long copper pipe, but much quieter, although it looked big and ugly. 

A few months went by and the winter struck. I almost went on strike as it became very cold and icy, at times my hands were frozen numb and my nose dripping like a tap. On one occasion I ended up down a country track delivering an envelope to a house with skulls in the front garden. I was just turning around to get the hell out of there when the front door opened, and a small man relieved me of the envelope — he didn't look completely mad so I summoned up the courage to ask about the skulls. They were papier mache, left over from the panto. Talk about feeling like a dickhead.

I think it was the same week the new silencer fell off. This time I was quicker and grabbed it after it had only been run over once. I borrowed a hacksaw and hammer off some BT guys, sawed off the squashed end and bashed the silencer back onto the downpipe, then adjusted the bracket to fit.
 
When I kicked it into life — with an audience of workmen anxious l didn't make off with their tools, there was a horrible clicking noise because the kickstart jammed against the silencer. l bent down to free it and the bike jumped into gear, leaping off the sidestand and throwing and trapping me on the pavement.
 
I was pissing myself with laughter. When I looked up I saw a policeman peering down at me, and I had a really bad attack of the giggles, which was made worse by trying to explain what had happened. Eventually, he said ”I see, sir,” gave me a very doubtful look and departed.

Not long after that it caught fire. A slight electrical problem that looked worse than it actually was. Some chafed wires under the petrol tank, smoke coming out from the tank which had me worried for a while.

I started to have lots of electrical problems when it became damp. Sometimes it would just cut out, no amount of kicking or bump starting would make the damn thing go. On one occasion I just abandoned it... the next day it started first kick. No amount of WD40, new plugs or suppressor caps had any effect.

When it cut out in Wandsworth, I pushed it into a back street garage where the chap handed me a screwdriver and told me to undo the right-hand switch cluster. The bike started up first kick — the kill switch wire had been shorting out on the bars, all it needed was a piece of insulating tape.
 
I had owned the SR for ten months, a period that usually reduced most bikes to worthless scrap under my despatching regime. The SR was still functioning despite having a head start, as it was already a bit of a heap when I bought it. Of course, it was often bodged, but the worst it encountered was having a bit of chicken rammed in the oil tank when I left it outside the Kentucky Fried Chicken shop.
 
I took it home and did a good oil change, but maybe something was left in the engine as shortly afterwards I heard a distinct clonk from the motor. I took the sump filter out and a large chunk of mesh fell out. Since it was still working, I resolved to keep running the bike until it died on me.
 
I did have to throw some money at it, though, on account of rather a large amount of play in the swinging arm. I bought some brand new bearings — £40! They don't last long because of a lack of grease nipples. I took it to a bike shop to have them fitted and also asked them to fit a good used set of shocks to replace the originals that were a sagging, leaking mess.

A few days later, the wife and l collected it on a pitch black winter's night. Going down a steep hill I failed to see a sign warning of a hump. We hit the ramp, which felt more like a small wall, at about 60mph. Nicely airborne, when we landed the shocks bottomed out in style, and the rear brake strut hooked itself over the exhaust bracket, thus applying full brake power.

We stayed upright and came to a stop alongside the pavement, where I pretended to the wife that l was doing a planned emergency stop to carry out an adjustment to the exhaust bracket. 1 don't think she was fooled for a minute. The next day I went back to the shop and demanded another set of shocks as the ones he’d sold me were a sagging, leaking mess...

Shortly after that, the insurance coughed up some money for the crashed GPz305 and I sold the Yam for £140 to a despatcher at work. Two days later the new owner was leaving messages for me to phone him - the Yam had passed peacefully away following a terminal gearbox blow up, and would I like to come to collect the wreck and give him his money back. I declined this offer and we eventually compromised, I gave him £40 towards another engine obtained from a breakers.

The SR was a strange bike. The light mass and simplicity would have been a good combination, had the engine been able to produce a bit more power. But then you can’t have everything, can you? If it had been any good it would have been more expensive and I would not have bought it!

Max Liberson

The Rat Race

In these days of new bikes costing many thousands of pounds and taking forever to pay off, then losing their value dramatically as well as their appeal, I believe the rat bike has an interesting role, and this is surely reflected in the increasing numbers seen on the road. A rat bike comes in any size, has little or no chrome or bright alloy to clean, paintwork has long since lost its shine, there are no expensive fittings, and only basic instrumentation and switchgear. It will be roadworthy even if it doesn’t look it.

In the past, I’d owned new motorcycles but was always worried about them being stolen or damaged, even the first paint chip was a major disaster. After six months I was sick of it and started wondering why I’d paid out so much money in the first place. The rat bike can be changed as often as needed at little cost most of the materials can be bought from Halfords.

I would like to tell you the story of my rat bike which is a very economical, reliable and practical Honda 400cc Superdream. The starting point is to find a cheap motorcycle with lots of cosmetic decay but a sound engine and chassis. My Superdream was in fair condition, with a full MOT and had original paintwork with pitted alloy on the engine. I initially bought the bike to supplement my CD200, and my first ride was to the Kent Custom Show where I became aware of the increasing numbers of rat bikes in amongst the proper customs. I decided to rat my bike.

I thought a good way to start was to throw the round headlamp away and fit a RS250 rectangular item I had lying around in the garage; it didn’t half change the look of the front of the bike. The clocks and warning lights were modified to leave just the speedo (without plastic surround) supported by two pieces of wire twisted around the handlebars, whilst the bare ignition switch was placed nearby. I poked numerous holes in the side panels and tail piece and inserted metal studs. ~ Then the tank and side panels were plastered with satin black spray paint. The engine (and a £70 Motad 2-1) were sprayed with heat resistant black paint.

I had transformed my Superdream from red and alloy to totally black. The handlebars, shocks, front forks and mudguards were also painted black. I purchased a pair of genuine World War II ammo boxes for £2.50 each and whilst in the Army & Navy store noticed some camouflage netting... Back home, I fitted a carrier after painting it, er, black, and welded on a few brackets to which the ammo boxes were bolted. The camoflague netting was wrapped around the tank and sidepanels, transforming the appearance at very little cost. I also added some chicken wire over the headlamp just to add to the effect. Thus, I now own a typical rat bike at very little additional cost to the original two hundred notes I paid for the bike.

It is no less usable than stock, but is unique and very good fun. I get quite a few funny looks and people keep asking me what it is and what it once was, which is pretty good going for what was once one of the UK’s top selling bikes.

One of the beauties of rat bikes is that you don't have to worry about them being stolen or damaged or even cleaning the things. By the time a thief has got over his shock he’s probably decided it’s not worth nicking or is dangerous to ride. Dents actually add to its character I’m sure some rat owners actually inflict bodily harm to their machines just to add to the effect. And cleaning merely consists of touching up with the first can of black paint that comes to hand.

That’s not to say that I don’t look after my machine. It recently passed its MOT first time with no problems. I do regular oil changes, tappet and tensioner checks. I’ve had to fit one new cam chain so far, but it’s nearly ten years old, so I can’t complain over that. I add things to it as I think of them and when I become tired of it, I'll change it completely.

That is the beauty of rat bikes, you never run short of ideas for things to do to them. I really enjoy riding around on the rat and hope to see even more on the road.

Barry Maltas

Yamaha DT175

It was March 5th, 1982. The place was the Globe Pub, Bedfordshire I'd heard rumours that the pub was frequented by bikers. This was the sole reason for being alone in a strange pub miles from home on a damp, cold night.

As it happened, the rumours were just that... rumours. The place must’ve been the fore-runner to the classic yuppie bar of today. Having arrived, I decided to have a shandy before the 20 mile ride home, when I heard another bike turn up outside. A friendly looking chap entered the bar in full leathers. A couple of sips went by and I could wait no longer. 'Er... what was that you just arrived on?” The ice was broken.

I can’t, for the life of me, recall that biker's name. I wish I could, though, so I could thank him for the fun I’ve had on the bike he sold me that night in that yuppie paradise. The bike in question was a P reg, 10000 mile DTI75. By the light of the pub sign it looked pretty fit.

The vendor told me no tax but 12 months MOT, all for £110. We rode to my house to dump the Yamaha and then, after noting frame and engine number (very important if buying off a stranger in a pub), to his place on my ailing Honda CB500/ 4 (blowing head gasket).
 
One or two things quickly became apparent in daylight the next day, and some were to remain hidden until my IQ reached a level a little above that of the average house plant or the fault went for me like a rabid Dobermann for the throat.
 
The fork seals didn’t, but that was no problem because when they ran out of oil they stopped leaking - genius, pure genius ('til you hit a bumpy bend too fast -— Ed). The paint on the frame had flaked off and been reapplied by a finger painting playgroup — probably an Improvement over the original stuff but still a mess. The bottom of the exhaust pipe was devoid of both paint and metal — very thin, indeed, it seemed like a fancy shaped iron oxide durex. Oh, and the left handlebar grip moved ever so slifiatly when you pulled hard enough.

The following weekend was spent exploring the bike's capabilities at the nearby industrial estate. lt was dark, so no-one but my mates would see me riding up and down the steps outside the offices. Great fun! Down the steep stairs was fun. Up the steep stairs was k... k... krunch! Oh dear, let's try that again. Down... OK; up... k... k... krunch.
 
Was that the gearbox? Oops, no teeth on the rear sprocket. Steel belt drive on a Yamaha. It didn’t matter because earlier in the day 1 had found the bike over-geared for trailing. Fitting DT125 sprockets reduced top speed from 75 to 60mph, but made the bike brilliant over the trails. The lower gearing also had its effect on the bike’s road manners. Riding around town on a bike with 15hp and gearing to suit 9hp is great fun.
 
Wheelies are the order of the day. On one occasion l was following (chasing) a mate through town, and he made a right turn at a T junction without stopping. I almost came to a halt due to a car, made my turn, then gassed it hard in second... it was the nearest I’ve ever come to really flipping a bike on a public road. I mean, this thing was evil, worse by miles than a Kawasaki H1B I was later to own.
 
The experience left me with a feeling in my legs similar to what you would expect if you picked a fight with someone twelve inches taller and wider than yourself. I never forgot myself after that.
 
Although the bike was running fine from the day I acquired it, I decided to immediately (four weeks later... ) give it a good service — oil change, spark plugs, etc and attend to all those little things like the loose handlebar grip on the left. The air filter had been so dirty that it had, evidently, become blocked. Someone had cured this by cutting holes in the filter. Off came the carb to check if it had been rejetted.
 
It had, two sizes up according to the Haynes manual. An S&B filter was half the price of the real thing, and the air box was impossible to remove unless you either removed the swinging arm or got creative with a Stanley knife. it took so long I didn't have time to secure the handlebar grip.

l’d only done around 1000 miles on the little devil when the exhaust broke above the bend. A mate of mine spent an hour of his time and an hour of his boss’s welding it back together. Every time he fixed one hole another appeared. Whilst refitting the exhaust I toyed with the idea of fixing the grip. On the other hand, why waste valuable drinking time?

The bike was quite a handler. Through the 20 million roundabouts in my area it surprised a number of friends, who were undoubtedly impressed with my skill and dexterity but not aware of how much was really down to the bike. It loved bends. The tyres performed miracles in the dry, even though on crazy nights three or four of us could be found going round, over and through roundabouts and trying to scrape the pegs without mishap.
 
The brakes weren’t so hot. The DT had the slowest top speed of any bike I'd owned it until then. The lower speeds fooled me into thinking the brakes were OK. One day I had the jump on a friend mounted on a Kawasaki 400 triple entering a bend - l braked late and hard, and had to suffer him ride up the inside as he was able to hit his brakes much later. I knew for a fact that his brakes were useless as they had nearly given me heart failure on the day when he let me have a go.That put things into perspective, and demoted the brakes from brilliant to adequate.

I never used the bike on the rough in the wet. There were two reasons — I disliked having a two inch covering of mud from head to toe, and the bike had a similar dislike, neither of us liked falling into puddles or anything remotely connected to mud. And besides, it always, without fail, clogged the front mudguard.
 
Used in the dry it was quite good fun. The gearing and smallness of the bike meant interesting tricks were possible, like 180 degree turns off the sides of trees. It also prompted new ways of falling off a bike that I had hitherto only imagined. When dropped, rider and bike usually both got up smiling. The one real vulnerable spot on the DT was the rear light that stuck up in the air and was oft destroyed when wheelies were attempted.
 
The rest of the parts rarely got broken. just the usual assortment of bent levers, footrests and gear change and rear brake lever. The alloy hand levers could be straightened by smearing with ordinary soap and heating until the soap goes black. Whenever I had to fix the levers I always thought about fixing the hand grip.
 
One day, after a morning of rain and an excess of adrenalin, a few friends and myself arrived, at night, at a town centre car park to do naughty things like wheelies, donuts, etc. I was getting the hang of wheelies after four months and 6000 miles. I was developing a trick whereby I stood on the pegs whilst mono-wheeling. The bike came up smoothly and the act began. I travelled for all of about one metre when suddenly my trick turned into a rodeo act. The bike came up and the grip came off. If mono-wheeling, standing on the pegs with one hand suddenly let loose on the world looked good, it didn’t feel like much fun when I fell off.

The bike was on its side, and I landed heavily on the end of the bars, bending them beyond repair and winding myself. Everyone thought it was very entertaining and asked if I would repeat it so they could take photographs. I took a bow and informed them that they could all fuck off. A pair of second-hand DI'175MX bars went on with plenty of glue under the grip. I wasn't going to be caught out again.

Another month passed and the DT started to give up the unequal struggle for existence under the rule of my right hand. The abuse heaped on the clutch, via the ridiculous gearing and my desire to be the first world drag race champion aboard a DT175, took its toll. It started to slip, but initially could be adjusted at the cable. Finally, this wasn't enough and I tried to adjust the clutch via the engine adjuster. It had been mashed. A strip-down was required, to remedy the situation, but the gaskets would cost more than the bike was worth so I opted for the automatic gearbox solution.
 
About this time another fault appeared. l hadn’t given the bike any real stick on the rough. Some of my mates had acquired some later motocross styled bikes which meant I had to hammer the DT down various tracks to keep up at speeds in excess of 20mph. Every 100 metres or so my engine would die as if it had run out of fuel. The problem turned out to be the non-standard air filter that failed to provide any support for the carb. l stopped the carb wobbling by adding a metal bracket.

Six months after buying the DT I had a stranger approach whilst I was parking. £120 richer and a rat bike bereft was the result of that conversation. I later learnt that the brother of the new owner was the head of a motorcycle theft ring I'd wondered why he'd paid so much! l've always regretted getting shot of the DT. It was a tiddler of a bike with a heart of a lion. The seat height was a good three inches lower that the newer model, which helped inspire a lot of confidence off road. The weight was virtually non-existent. Antf above all, it was a simple bike, with things like flywheel generator ignition. It's one of those bikes that makes me wish that they still made them like that these days, but l don't usually admit that in case people start thinking I'm becoming a BOF.
 
If you're looking for a fun bike, and someone offers you a half decent one, snap it up even if they're over 13 years old these days. If you hear of one for sale, but aren't moved to action, then let me know. I might just be interested.

Philip O'Hara

Kawasaki Z400J

My mother laughed — and not just a broad smile or a quick chuckle either. She roared, her shoulders heaved and her eyes watered. Bloody hell, no wonder I grew up lacking confidence. ”It doesn’t look that small,” said my father, in his hesitantly sympathetic way.

Sod the pair of ’em. Ten years earlier I would have been sorely pissed off at this typical parental reaction, but I seem to have reached the age when I really don’t care much... well, not so they’d notice.
 
And what was it the old lady found so uncontrollably hysterical? No, cesspit, it was nothing to do with my wedding tackle, it was a bike — a W reg Kawasaki Z400. Of all the two wheeled exports shipped out of the land of Nippon I wouldn’t have said the little Zed four had any more inherent comic potential than the next, would you?
 
Nope, the reason I was close to matricide was because mummy dear was used to seeing me on considerably more potent machinery, including a hugely wonderful CB900 Honda — a perverse period of intense hedonistic high speeds, interspersed with bouts of mechanical problems, not to say fucking breakdowns; the end coming with a broken camchain, six busted valves and a repair bill so extensive my imagination had as much trouble comprehending it as my bank manager.

There were other reasons for the down-market plunge, though. First, I was about to move to London (Unlucky, dude - 2017 Ed.). And not just anywhere in London, but a flat on a council estate at the bad, bad end of Peckham. On my very first weekend in residence I was mugged on the stairs just outside the back door. Christ alone knows what the bad boys would’ve inflicted on the Cee Bee Niner, were it parked outside, with its flash paint job and endurance fairing. But a crappy little Z400J? A different proposition, I reckoned.
 
Reckoning right, for once, that was exactly what it turned out to be. But it wasn’t all bad, it just felt that way to begin with. Once I’d got the Z400 four home and I’d recovered from the emotional upset of having the piss taken, I attempted to smarten the bike up a little.
 
If there had been a division in the SS devoted to battered motorcycles this poor little sod would’ve been taken into care years ago. Tenderly, I gave it a warm, soapy scrub down, later I eased it into a new seat cover and presented it with a nice shiny bar-end mirror. After much work it almost looked quite butch, I almost forgot it was half a litre less than I was accustomed to.
 
A week later, I took the bike on its first longish journey from my parents home in Suffolk to Oxford. Used to the torque of the Honda I hardly ever had to change gear, I had to re-learn the art of rapid gear-changing — the little Kawa had a sixth gear and, by Christ, it needed about six more. 

Cutting through spasmodic traffic meant constantly changing gear — I often I had to go do to third to find some decent acceleration, and by the time I got up to sixth I needed change back down again. So crazy was the gear shifting that it desperately needed a gear position indicator.

At least the relatively light Z400 was easier to chuck around than the heavy old CB900, although, as the Kawasaki was basically a scaled down 550 — sharing a similar DOHC air cooled 4-cylinder engine - it was not exactly in the same lightweight class as either the 400lb CB400F or GSX400F; it did share their lack of low down grunt, though.

A hundred miles of this and I had the hang of it all again, man and machine had found a kind of harmony. In Oxford, the late August sunshine was pleasantly warm but the waves of heat pouring off the engine were something else. If there was a fairing, like on the Honda, I would’ve been done to a turn. 

Getting back on the A45 1 tried to use the bike a little more sanely. Look, I warned myself, this isn’t the CB900 and you're no longer the boy racer you fancied yourself to be — right?

Oddly enough, this change in attitude made me feel a lot more positive about the Z400. Having to consider gears and engine speed (and road gradients and head winds...) gave me the impression that I was more in touch with what I was doing - existential authenticity? It seemed like I was almost beginning to like the bloody bike, although I had even less money than choice. But I was off to Shit City to seek my fortune, what could be more exciting? 

Any number of things, actually - none of which I could afford. Once ensconced in London I must say that the Zed Four was just the job. By then I was accustomed to the feel of chug machine. The seat was broad and comfy, riding position OK, and it would cfrug along uncomplainingly with a slip of a girl perched on the pillion. It even provoked one girl, used to the Honda, to comment that it didn’t feel particularly slow.
 
Shit City traffic jams were taken in their stride, the bike could be filtered through the gaps with hardly a thought, and the disc brakes were more than powerful enough to lock the plot up when taking desperate measures to avoid frustrated tin boxes.
 
Estate louts had pushed the bike over in the car park a couple of times but apart from leaking a tankful of petrol overnight, the only damage had been one rear indicator written off. A replacement was procured from a Greenwich breaker for the not exactly ball-busting price of four quid, ta. Compare to the cost of falling off a mate’s new GPz550, when I came off the Z400 later, I survived with a bent crash bar and some scratched paint. Smug or what?
 
There were still bad times, though. Traffic light GPs were demoranising , with crazed DRs on things like CX500s, VT500s and GT550s who would burn me off. Remedy — stop trying. Once I began putting it into practice I began sleeping better at nights.

Now, if I’d been on a mount like the big Honda would things have been different? Need you ask? Not only was I coming to terms with the diminutive size of my current equipment, I was also coming to terms with myself. The CB had been a bit of an extrovert, no mistake, big and rorty and every time I swung a leg over it I’d felt that I had to live up to the machine’s image. Now I’ve left all that behind.

Mind you, this was aided and abetted, officer, sir, by another surprising revelation. While die-hard bikers saw the Z400 for what it was (and I quote: "Understressed, underpowered and overweight” — I’ll see you outside, bastard), non-bikers had no bloody idea. Physically , I suppose, the complete machine was quite large in proportion to its engine size, but all the thickos had to do was read the side panels where its shameful lack of cubic capacity was rashly proclaimed for all the world to see. Despite this, the blind buggers still got it wrong — or maybe, now I come to think of it, 1 was better a projecting an image than I realised.

”You, won’t go over a hundred and thirty, will you?” I was once asked by a woman who drove a very fast car, and should have known better. And countless times people commented on the bike’s imposing size — to the public at large (and let’s face it, most of ’em shouldn’t be) my biking image was unimpaired by moving selflessly down from 900 to 400cc. Funny old world.

Now, of course, all of the foregoing ought to have led me to some really profound, mind expanding conclusion, but then, when has life ever been fair? In all honesty, what I can say is that swapping from the ever so wonderful but occasionally trying CB900 to the thrifty and dependable but rather bland Z400J wasn’t quite the major emotional trauma some might have predicted.

That I found a certain amount of pleasure, and thought provoking stimulus, from the smaller machine came as a real surprise but obviously not an unwelcome one. 

Greg Kerry

Travel Tales: Pleasures of Germany

"Come and visit us," he wrote from Mainz in West Germany, "lovely scenery, smooth roads, give your bike a good work out down the side of the Rhine (has it got floats fitted — Ed) and have a cheap holiday with us. See you soon, mate."

Thus wrote our German friend, formerly from Munster who had quickly converted to motorcycles after experiencing the hills between Dover and Hastings, covering over 50000 miles on a Honda CB200. Our own steed was a '71 Honda CB750K1, whose alloy still shone thanks to hours of polishing and, yes, it still retained the quick stretch chain, clutch noise and grim front disc brake. We loved every nut on it.

We included my newly acquired spouse, who though only recently converted to the two wheeled drug, was a great enthusiast already but had never travelled abroad. I had gone far enough on the Honda to realise that the benefits of a Morgan windscreen beat an aching neck and shoulders any day, whilst throw-over panniers were infinitely preferable to a suitcase perched, precariously on the rear carrier. And I was looking forward to speeding along those German autobahns.
 
So, one quick service, one green card, two cheapo boat tickets (courtesy of those nice MCN people) andy a two line letter of confirmation to my German, and away we go, forgoing the expense of AA Euro Assist - which we were to curse later on!

4.00am! God, what an unearthly hour but the adrenalin is flowing, the carefully prepared route blew off the top of the tank, despite its protective cling film almost as soon as we hit the road - another good idea up the spout. Luckily, we didn‘t have far to ride to the boat, and made it in good time. Once onto the boat, strict instructions were issued to the Belgian sea hand not to tie the coil of oily rope around the windscreen.

A quick redraw of the map, then settle down for a mini snooze before watching the sun rise over Ostend. I knew the way to Aachen, no trouble, via Venlo and Eindhoven, but I found, on my excellent Michelin map, a little cross country road from Aachen, past the famous Nurburgring circuit, all the way to Koblentz, that would just leave a leisurely doddle down the Rhine to Maintz, with a quick B&B at Zimmerfrei somewhere south of Aachen.
 
This would give us some rest, water the wife and give the elderly Honda time to recover. Get out of dreary old Ostend on the E5, go as fast as possible through yukky Belgium, dip into Holland - better roads, friendlier gas station staff, then into yer actual Germany. Lovely pine forests, picnic areas and chummy bikers who flash headlights rather than risk a dose of tarmac rash from letting go of the bars.

Unlike parts of England where they’d let a motorcyclist die of exposure before letting him into a B&B, in Germany there was no such problem. We stopped at a small town called Monschau and took advantage of the first vacancy sign we saw. Twelve notes for the two of us with a good breakfast thrown in. The Hausfrau and her husband showed no apparent surprise at two hungry bikers showing up out of the blue; we were to discover why later on.

Off again at eight o’clock. The scenery really grabbed us, lovely poppy fields, silvery rivers, wide and smooth, empty roads, cruising along contentedly at 55 - 60mph. I looked down and saw the rev counter covered in oil. Assumed an oil seal had blown in the rocker box cover when, in fact, in the last service I’d pinched one of the oil lines behind the oil tank which had sent the pressure sky high. 

I carried on, trying to ignore the oil, helped by the downhill section that was full of hairy hairpin bends that needed something like an LC to do them justice, not a fully dressed Honda. 1 managed to lug the Honda around at an ably moderate speed, the disc brake giving me a few nervous moments. We later found out that the accident rate here was very high. It was a great thrill passing the famous Nurburgring circuit, which explained the large number of rooms for rent in the area. What are known as cloverleaf motorway junctions look fine on the map, but I soon found them pretty terrifying, it was bad enough driving on the wrong side of the road without cars whizzing about every which way.
 
After a couple of stops for the navigator to check directions, we hit the "Rhineway." Ah, this is what touring’s all about, I thought. Huge, ponderous Rhine barges float majestically past as we sped along, oversuits abandoned to the hot sun, daydreams flitted on spectre of ancient castles overhanging the lazy River Rhine.

We stopped at a likely looking hostelry for our first taste of German beer and their equivalent of a butty. The taste soon turned sour, after we picked ourselves up off the floor, when we handed over the equivalent of fourteen notes. I now knew why there were so many fat buggers driving around in Mercs. With a two week work free stretch in front of you, you tend to think, what the hell, but with those kind of prices you need to see the menu first.
 
We eventually arrived in Mainz, only to find that your intrepid voyager had left the address at home! The day, and an awful amount of bad language, was saved by my wife who‘d remembered to carry his phone number on a separate piece of paper. After a frantic search for coins for the phone we were amazed to find out that our friend lived directly opposite the phone box!
 
The usual ecstatic reunion followed, with the ritualistic handing over of a litre bottle of Bristol Cream, a custom, along with drinking 20 cups of tea a day, which he’d exported to Germany. 

There followed a period of plenty, plenty of drinking places visited, tours around the town and surroundings taken. It was certainly different to good old England and a pleasant time was had by all.
 
All good things come to an end. We started back, intending to retrace our original route. The hairpins were no easier going up than going down. Still lovely and warm, overnight rain had left damp patches on the road that gave me a few moments of terror as the tyres slid and squirmed.
 
Away from the hairpins, onto the main Aachen motorway and then disaster. We went through a green light above the motorway, then came a white flash and I was looking at the surface of the road at eye level. A moment later I worked out why we had crashed. Some stupid sod in a car had hit us. I jumped to my feet, first thoughts of our bodies. My knee hurt like hell where it’d hit the deck and a shoulder was stiffening up, but apart from some marks on my wife’s helmet she was okay.
 
Look at the bike. Oh my god, look at the bike. Oil was pouring from a topless oil tank, front forks bent with the mudguard crushed into the wheel. At least the offending car had stopped and sported a much-modified front wing, and a nearly sheared off wheel. The driver's English was nearly as good as my German. It was not long before the green turbo Porsche of the motorway plods turned up.
 
Explanations followed. To our amazement we were given the choice of either a £4 fine for going through the green light, or an overnight stay at the police station. We protested our innocence, but to no avail, then paid. We were then told a breakdown wagon had been called to take us to the nearest Honda dealer, at our expense. We sat in the back of the police car, having a much needed fag while a road washing machine cleaned up the oil and petrol.

What seemed ages later, a huge lorry rolled up, so large that you'd have got two Sherman tanks on the trailer. Don‘t do things by half, these Germans. The driver attached a six inch diameter link chain to the bike, started the winch and, with much grinding and screeching, the old Honda was dragged up the trailer, which took off most 0 the cylinder fins!
 
I’ll give him his due, he had the finesse of King Kong and the generosity of Fagin. £40 for the trip to the Honda shop in Aachen, where they didn’t want to know, then onto the only other one which was slightly more sympathetic. The owner of the shop and his mechanics went into a kind of teutonic rugger scrum around the remains and then pronounced their verdict - Kaput!
 
I tried to pass it off lightly, "Look," I said, "just flog me a pair of forks and brake hose and I’m away." But he pointed to the steering stem which had snapped. So that was that, after haggling over a price for the remains (he started at £12 and finished at £150), we could at least get home. But what really galled me was the sight in the comer of the workshop of a mint ’69 K1, which was his and definitely not for sale, so the crafty bugger now has a nice supply of spares at the ready.

The train from Aachen to Ostend, phoned a friend to pick us up from Dover and ferried home well pissed off. A painful journey home followed, on an air-bed in the back of a van, and an even more painful stripping off of the leathers at bedtime.
 
A replacement bike was sought and found - a 1983 Honda CB900F2C. Despite many letters to the German’s insurers, no cash was forthcoming. Two strange things did occur, however, as a result of all this hassle. My new bike had all the things the K1 never had - discs all round, modern looks and a reasonable turn of speed and, would you believe it, I can’t wait to do the whole journey again.

Terence Pemberton

Morini 350 Strada

Preparation of my new Moto Morini 350 Strada was less than perfect. The rear chain adjusted to imitate an iron bar and a dragging clutch. A quick look at the dealers workshop revealed why he hadn’t minded me doing the 600 mile service without invalidating the warranty.
 
Once home I took the clutch apart — the plates were carefully trued and high spots removed by the use of a piece of plate glass, blue marking and a dead smooth file, then all runout corrected by turning the engine over with the clutch held open whilst adjusting the spring pressures. The result was a perfect clutch.

Preparations for preserving my first new bike were then put in hand. Silencer internals coated with old engine oil, then baked on by running the engine. Underside of the chromed steel guards coated with underseal, the same done to the sidecovers and underside of the tank. All electrical connectors coated with Waxoyl. The dubious handlebar switches were opened and filled with Vaseline. Valve clearances were easy to adjust, the camshafts driven by a toothed belt, sparks by maintenance free electronic ignition.
 
Starting was soon mastered, set the choke on one carb, switch on (which also turned the fuel tap on thanks to an electronic relay) and give the kickstart a few prods. I did manage to train my left leg in this operation, but it was easy enough to stand by the side of the bike and use the proper leg.
 
Consumption of the four star was very moderate, even a motorway thrash couldn’t get it below 60mpg. Apart from the high efficiency of the Heron head motor, I think much of this fuel economy was down to the mere 320lbs the bike had to drag around the country; I could go on to say that other manufacturers should reduce weight in order to improve performance, rather than add more valves, cylinders, camshafts, radiators, discs, etc., etc. Years ago it was called adding lightness, but I can see you are yawning, so I’ll stop that old drivel.

On the road, performance was much like my old KSS Velocette, lovely ripping revs and steering that thought its own way through the bends. Six gears seemed one too many to me, so I often changed two at a time, the engine being flexible with no discernible power band. By the way, there was a cush-drive in the rear hub which enabled a snatch free lope through traffic without slipping the clutch.
 
Dog-leg brake and clutch levers weren’t about in those days, but the ball ended items fitted caused me no trouble and, of course, there were no hydraulics to clutter up the handlebar.
 
That brings me to the brakes, which were first class. My Strada had a TLS front brake that could squeal the tyre on a dry road - what more could you ask? Well, it also worked well in the wet, unlike many disc brakes available in the mid seventies. The Sport model had a double sided TLS job that must’ve been fearsome. Both bikes had a simple SLS rear brake which worked without threatening to lock up the rear wheel.
 
The riding position was a pain due to the forward mounted footrests, enthusiasts went in for after market rearsets, even more necessary on the Sport as that bike had clip-ons. On the motorway, against a head wind, it was necessary to play a tune on the gears, and forward progress was noticeably affected by the addition of a pillion.

With a rider only on twisty roads the bike really shone, with usable performance up to the ton and the ability to make Jap bikes look stupid in the bends. To do a bit of touring I fitted a pair of those nice slim Craven panniers that actually kept the water out, but soon learnt that standing on the footrests at speed to ease the bum ache provoked an instant steering wobble. However, it stopped just as suddenly when I sat down.
 
Although only used in fine weather and kept under a cover, in two years and 8000 miles the Strada deteriorated quickly, the chrome peeling from exhausts and wheels, and the paint bubbling on the tank and frame. So, I polished it up and sold it. 

John Richards

Benelli Mongrel

"Well, to be honest... it wasn’t really a Benelli."

'What?"

"What I mean is... it was a Benelli but it didn’t have Benelli on the tank"

"What?"

"It had Moto Guzzi written on the tank."

"So it was made by Moto Guzzi?"

"No, the really surprising thing is, it wasn’t ma e by them either. In fact it was made by...'

"No, don’t tell me, let me guess. Ducati made it."

"Oh no, not Ducati, in fact it was made by..."

"Morini?"

"Oh no, not them, look, you’ll never..."

“Laverda, 'it was Laverda, they used to make some two strokes." 

"It was made at Meriden." "Meriden! They made Triumphs, they never made Moto Guzzis." 

"Oh yes they did. On Saturdays." Believe it or not, all this is true.


Only a joint effort between Italy and Britain could have produced such a surreal situation. In 1976 it was announced that Meriden would be devoting Saturdays production to the assembly of Italian 125cc two stroke singles. Given the crisis at Meriden, this was not as bizarre as it would appear. Indeed, around the same time I seem to remember Norton having some sort of tie up with Yamaha.

My patriotism knew no bounds, if I could have afforded it I would have bought half a dozen. As I saw it I wasn’t just buying a bike I was helping to support the British motorcycle industry. It was also my first motorcycle and the salesman had a big grin on his face for days afterwards.

I wobbled off down the road, the fact that I’d recently completed a training course was not very apparent. The bike shop was right in the centre of Newcastle and it was the first time I’d ridden in traffic; it felt like death. Once out of the city I settled down a little and even began to hum to myself. Then the chain snapped.

Today, if my chain snaps I fix it, or I get the AA to tow me home. Back in 1976 I was alone, on that road with that motorcycle and I couldn't have fixed the chain to save my life. I left the bike in some old dear’s garden and caught the bus home.

When I rang the dealer my reception was decidedly lukewarm. They picked the bike up and promised to fix it. It was quite an education - week after week went by and when a solicitors letter was sent they replied that I’d been abusing the machine: “We feel that Mr Chalk will always have trouble with things mechanical." All I could do was give the solicitor more money or wait. Well, I waited and waited and then finally went to pick up the bike. As I sat on the bike and grabbed the ’bars they moved downwards...

A fortnight later, the bike refused to start, the flywheel magneto had junked itself - it took the dealer a mere three months to fix that. After that it went for quite a while, but little things went wrong like the speedo drive in the wheel, a shoddy bit of engineering consisting of a bent bit of metal that’s still standard fare on Guzzis.

I had, therefore, no way of telling what sort‘of speed I was doing, save when pulled by a brace of traffic cops who informed me that I had been doing 80mph. Personally I doubt if I was going that fast, but who am I to disagree with Her Majesty's Constabulary?
 
The hinges under the seat broke off, so the only thing which connected this item to the rest of the machine was the rider’s weight. This didn’t pose all that much of a problem, until I took my brother for a brief ride. His weight made the seat pivot backwards, although usually only mildly amusing, this ultimately resulted in the bike shooting of without us, we being left sitting on the seat in the middle of the road. You can have a lot of fun with a motorcycle, even when you aren‘t on it, and are merely watching it vanish riderless into the distance. 

For a while nothing seemed to break and I almost had reliable transport, though I was rather glad I only worked half a mile up the road. The machine remained dogged by dodgy transmission, the chain jumping off the sprockets for no apparent reason until I found that three of the four studs holding on the back sprocket were missing. I imagine it had been like this since the day I bought it. With this problem finally solved, I felt brave enough to join some mates on the open road. They were in a car and I was following. 

Night began to fall, and on the unlit roads felt in danger of losing them. Still, I could make out their tail lights in the fading light. The roads began to look unfamiliar, and the direct lighting from the poxy flywheel magneto did nothing to help me read any road signs. Maybe they were lost, I kept increasing my speed, accelerating into the gloom. I dropped behind the car, about a foot and a half behind, so that my headlight would show me something. It showed me I was following the wrong vehicle.

I pulled up at the first road sign I came to, put the bike on its stand and tried to discover where I was. "Toft Hill 3 miles." Oh, that’s OK, I even know where I am. I went back to the bike and started her up, the little two stroke motor sounded out over black and empty fields. l slammed the gear pedal down and eased out the clutch. Nothing. I increased the revs, still no movement. I moved the gear podal up and down, but still no action. I could feel panic eating Into me. Oh God, not again, not here in the middle of nowhere, don’t tell me the chain has snapped again?
 
No, the chain's still in place, it must be something worse like a knackered gearbox. I tried one last lime and noticed a strange whirring noise. Looking down, I saw the back wheel spinning furiously, clear off the ground y a good three inches. This time I roll the bike off the centerstand before I did anything else. No problem, I continued my journey feeling more than a little foolish.

Summer arrived, and I began to think about doing some serious mileage. My cousin had recently bought his first bike, an MZ250 and we decided to go touring in Scotland.

My first accident was in Edinburgh. Somewhere amongst a forest of junctions and traffic lights, I somehow became mesmerized by the continuous stopping and starting. I edged closer and closer to the back of the MZ. The next set of lights changed to amber, but I had decided we 5 should proceed. Unfortunately the MZ decided to stay where it was. My bike was blessed with an excellent set of brakes, including an hydraulic front disc, but no matter how hard I pulled the next second was inevitable. It may have been the result of some mild concussion, but I do believe that my bike sprang back several feet whilst the MZ rocked gently on its springs.
 
I hauled my bike upright and attempted to ride off. I found that only by twisting the bars to full lock could I travel in anything approaching a straight line, and realised that the forks were unwilling to go in the same direction as the rest of me. I eventually became quite adept at this mode of travel, and could even go around roundabouts with the bike pointing for the turn off. I think my sense of reality has suffered ever since.
 
I stopped at the first dealer I could find and was shocked to find him really helpful, untwisting my forks and refusing to accept any payment. My second lesson in reality — you'll only ever find a good dealer by accident, and he will probably be nowhere near home.
 
The second time I ran into something it was a car, this time not my fault, small pleasure when you’re laying in the middle of the road failing to remember your name. The damage was superficial, but it was enough for me and we decided to head home from Scotland. By then the model had been dropped by everyone concerned and it was very difficult to get spars. A few weeks later it refused to start, the magneto had gone again. The six months warranty was over and parts impossible to find. It ended up with a cover thrown over it - I hoped someone would come and steal it.
 
Eventually, I resprayed it with several arts of acrylic black paint. Strangely enough, this did nothing to cure the ignition fault and reduced still further the chances that anyone might steal it. I could not fix it, and I knew nobody who could. I eventually gave it away, I would imagine they couldn’t fix it either and it ended up on the council tip.
 
I suppose that this is a fairly sad and expensive end to my story, but I suspect that it's fairly typical. Lots of young riders end up as I ended up then. Still, it didn’t put me off and I’m still riding bikes. I even have lots of good memories of that little Italian two stroke. I feel the saddest aspect of the whole affair was that given a little bit more money and effort, the whole thing could have ended differently. It could have worked.
 
Graham Chalk