Travel Tales: Euro Cruise

The book that was probably responsible for me making this journey was packed in one of my new panniers on my recently acquired bike. Jupiter's Travels by Ted Simon is, for those of you who haven't read it, the story of a four year, 63000 mile journey through 54 countries on a Triumph T100, of all things. Although my journey to Spain was on a slightly smaller scale I still felt a certain affinity with Mr Simon.

It had been planned during the seemingly endless, cold winter months. Richard, my cousin, was going to Spain in the summer on his 850 Commando and I would be going as well.

All I needed was a bike, but the June departure date was getting closer. An XT250 had looked good but when l returned with the cash a few days later its engine had self destructed. Just when it seemed that nothing would turn up within my limited price range, a CBX250 was found in a Honda dealers in Fife. It was a 1985 model with just over 4000 miles on the clock and a full service history. A genuine Honda rack was fitted as well as a cumbersome top box which was swiftly removed. Otherwise, it was standard.

To convert it into a tourer a tank bag and set of throwover panniers were added. A large sports bag on the rack completed the luggage. As for spares, I took a clutch cable, 3 spark plugs and a complete set of bulbs, but they stayed packed the whole journey. On the way down we were stopping off at Newcastle, then London, before sailing direct to Santander from Plymouth.

After work on Friday the first stage of the journey started. The weather was fine when we left but not long after Edinburgh a mist came down, covering the hills and us with a light but damp drizzle. The friends that we were staying with had a huge supper and a few light ales waiting for us when we arrived. Already, this was the longest journey I had ever made.

Just outside London the next day, the Commando started to sound distinctly unhealthy but we pressed on at reduced speed eventually finding the house we were looking for. After my first experience of London traffic I now understand why it is called Shit City, and a pox on the prick in the Range Rover who almost turned me into a statistic.

The run to Plymouth on Sunday was quite good, it didn't even rain until Dartmoor, but the Commando still seemed very unhealthy. Excessive vibration between 50 and 70mph with nasty noises and backfires at tickover and low speed are not normal behaviour despite what you may have heard. Luckily, there was a British bike shop (Terry Hobbs) in Plymouth. Unluckily, it was closed. As there was still some daylight left we went to the ferry terminal, where the bike was partially stripped down.

One attraction of the Norton is that when people see it they come over for a friendly chat, Something that never happened with the CBX (and I thought you met the nicest people on a Honda). In fact, considering that everyone who talked to us used to own one, it seems surprising that the British bike industry ever died. Anyway, the alternator had moved on its studs and the rotor had eaten away the stator. A common problem due to bad design. Richard also thought that the big-end shells might need replacing. For once we were glad that the ferry was late in sailing as it gave us time to telephone Terry Hobbs (a very nice man) and the parts were delivered straight to the ship.

The previous night had been spent sleeping on the ground beside the bikes until it started to rain at about one in the morning. The remaining hours until dawn were passed in the toilet trying to keep warm under the hot air dryers.

It's worth mentioning that Brittany Ferries have a monopoly on this route and the absence of any competition means that the fares are quite expensive. Also, bikes over five years old are banned! A typical knee jerk reaction to the past actions of a group of bikers. However, if you contact the company directly and explain that you are respectable they will let you on!

It was still raining the next morning as the traffic for the ferry queued up behind us. The first other bike to arrive was one of those ugly and expensive but practical Honda CN250s - half Gold Wing, half scooter mutant. It was ridden by an OAP from oop North. He told us that he had slept rough on the moors, under an umbrella with a wild cat for company, after being caught out in the rain. Looking more closely at his bike we saw a strange looking device on the back, which turned out to be a home-made fridge for keeping his favourite butter cool and fresh as he didn't like that foreign stuff.

More bikes arrived later including a brand new Harley Sportster, two Irish registered BMWs, a Scottish XJ900 and a KTM 250 with most rudimentary lights and number plate. Perhaps due to the ban, there were no older bikes. Several people admired the Commando but expressed the opinion that Richard must be mad taking it on such a trip without any breakdown cover or backup vehicle. We kept quiet about the engine trouble.

The KTM owner was returning to Majorca where he worked but he couldn’t get the bike started to ride on to the ferry. It was probably down to the wet conditions and dubious electrics but the fact that the engine flooded after a few kicks, anyway, couldn't have helped matters. To supplement the small and illegal plastic petrol tank he had a gallon can strapped to the back. His tool roll had been stolen and his luggage was a duffle bag. In comparison, we seemed to have packed everything but the kitchen sink. Half of Richard’s luggage must’ve been tools, but these were essential.

24 hours later we were in Spain. I couldn't believe the weather, if anything it was wetter in Spain than the UK! We had decided that the Commando would not make it the 500 miles to Valencia in the south, where we had friends with garage space. We then arranged to hire a van with the KTM's owner who could still not start his machine; he could catch a ferry to Majorca. The three bikes were crammed into a newish Avis Transit van unfortunately, the van had to be returned to Santander, which meant a three way trip.

On the way, we crashed the van, breaking the rear wheel. Repairing that the jack snapped! When we eventually reached Valencia we were exhausted. I have never been more grateful for a cold beer, a warm meal and a bed.

The next day it was back to Santander with the CBX in the back. The return journey on the Honda was much more fun. The twisty roads that had been such a pain with the van were brilliant on the narrow and light Honda single. With enthusiastic use, two up, the stand touches down and I think the exhausts too, judging by the scratches on them, but I couldn’t be absolutely sure.

We had plenty of opportunities to be thankful that the brakes were very powerful and as long as you are prepared to use all the six gears the bike is quite rapid, especially when you consider that it is only a 250cc single.

The weather improves as you get nearer the south until it's almost unbearably hot. Even at speed the air that hits you is hot and doesn't cool you down at all. It feels like riding into an oven. Spain is a large, open country with a fairly small population for its size. The distance between towns can be considerable.

Much of the countryside is desert like and stretches as far as the eye can see. The occasional large memorial at the roadside marks the spot where someone’s journey ended for good, although as these were usually on long straight stretches it does make you wonder how it could have happened. At least it makes you slow down to a reasonable speed for a while. In other places it is mountainous with birds of prey soaring high overhead.

The views into the valleys far below are fantastic, as are the roads which snake and twist through incredibly tight hairpin bends. Some of the ascents and descents take your breath away. These roads were probably responsible for one mishap that occurred. Despite having a piece of foam tied on the pillion seat to lift the throwovers clear of the exhausts, one side slipped down and the plastic bag inside melted on to some of my clothes.

As the Med gets nearer the signs of the tourist industry increase, but it makes a welcome change to see so many people after miles and miles of deserted countryside. Valencia itself is a busy, exciting place and the pace of life is very fast. There are lots of bikes about, mostly mopeds, small Vespas and sub 125cc racer clones which are all ridden at unbelievable speed by the local crazies. Their lack of horsepower is compensated for by a total disregard for personal safety.

The air is alive with the piercing, buzzing sound of two strokes. Silencers seem to be regarded by many as an optional extra and it's important to at least sound as if you are going very fast, even if you can't. Virtually no-one wears helmets in town unless it is raining when they keep your hair dry. The standard riding kit is tee shirt, shorts, sandals or training shoes and sunglasses. Apparently, the transplant services obtain most of their organs from the steady supply of two wheeled donors. Enough said!

After we had recovered from travelling 1500 miles in three days, our friends took us to the festival of San Juan in Valencia. The historical reason for this festival is not clear and latter day participants content themselves with getting drunk on the one litre cups of spirits that the bars sell. Cars and bikes of every description race around the town all night. Later on, everyone goes to the beach to jump over three waves and make a wish.

The next day we stripped down the Commando in the welcoming cool of the underground garage. Strangely enough, we couldn’t find any indication of what had caused the problem and after the new alternator had been fitted and the engine reassembled it seemed to run OK. Maybe we had tightened up something that had been loose without us noticing it but the cause was still a bit of a mystery. We were glad that we had bought a gallon of oil before leaving Britain because it is expensive in Spain, and we certainly needed it.

After a few more days we felt it was time to head north to Galicia. This time the journey was more relaxed and we had plenty of time to enjoy the roads and the scenery. On one bend I ran out of road and for a few frightening seconds the CBX became a motocrosser, but luckily there was a gravel run off instead of the sheer drops that were on other corners. Needless to say, I slowed down after that. On these roads the Commando stormed off ahead, as Richard tried to get his knee down, but I usually caught up with him when he stopped to tighten up the nuts and bolts that had vibrated loose.

We made good progress and by nightfall were quite near Galicia but couldn't find a campsite so we just rode off the road up an overgrown track which led to a clearing, just like in The Howling. It was too dark to put the tent up and we were too tired. in any case a thin layer of canvas wouldn't stop your average werewolf, so we just slept on the ground until the cold got to us early in the morning.

By 7 o'clock we were on the road and in mountainous country. On every incline we zoomed past convoys of lumbering, diesel belching Spanish trucks. Despite the foul smell I didn't mind the clouds of exhaust fumes because they were quite warm and gave welcome relief from the numbing cold. Every now and then there would be an overturned lorry at the side of the road. This was usually the only time we saw the police and since they carry guns this suited me just fine, although we did get stopped once and told to put our lights on by a friendly policeman.

That afternoon we arrived at our friend's house in La Coruna after using the toll motorway for the first time It was well surfaced and not very busy but quite expensive. The weather in this part of the country is similar to the South West of England and the clean if cold Atlantic makes a refreshing change from the filthy, polluted Mediterranean. Ideal motorcycle country with good weather, light traffic and excellent roads.

A lot of locals have fairly hot poop, big bore machinery to match, Yamaha EXUP 1000s, 900 Ninjas and the like. Our ferry was sailing in a few days so we moved along the coast to a small fishing village called Laxe, but before leaving we visited a hypermarket where we bought as much of the brilliant local beer as we could carry. We also stocked up on wine and lots of chocolate, wishing we had more room on the bikes.

The last few days were really good, sunny and hot, but not excessively so, and we just took it easy. The beaches were really clean and quiet, not a lager lout in sight (apart from us, that is). We were entertained one day by watching two beautiful girls in tight shorts speeding about the village on a red ZX-10.

Our last night in Spain was spent in a campsite near Santander where we got very drunk on beer and a sweet, strong liqueu rcalled 43. In spite of a bit of a hangover, the next morning we managed to get up in time to catch the ferry. Parked beside us was the Team Norton van returning from an endurance race in Portugal after finishing second. Hurray! High winds and angry seas greeted us in Plymouth. The wind and rain stayed with us for the 500 mile ride home.

Throughout the 3500 mile journey the bike never let me down, the only minor problem being a loose gear lever which needed tightening every few hundred miles. lt averaged 85mpg without myself making any attempt at restrained riding. Thanks to the excellent seat and riding position, I was always comfortable.

Later, I found the chain was worn out at 8500 miles and I had to replace the starter motor and camshaft bearings a little later. The rear tyre and front pads last for around 10000 miles.

It’s a great bike that will do most things well, commuting, scratching and even touring, but just remember that it isn’t a dirt bike. As for the trip itself, it was very good, despite the mysterious mechanical trouble and the resultant extra travel which deprived us of the chance to reach Portugal. The people were friendly, food and drink was cheap. and plentiful, the weather was usually in our favour and, last, but not least, the roads and scenery were excellent. What more could you ask for?

Stewart Norton

Suzuki AS50

A Suzuki AS50 was the first brand new bike I ever bought. OK, you're saying, so why write about it in a used motorcycle guide? Well, have no fear, it quickly became secondhand - ten days to be precise. l had it more or less flat out (55-60mph) in a built up area (never a good one for the niceties of the law), rain lashing down, when two old crones stepped on to a zebra crossing.

I had been vaguely aware of two shimmering orange things shining through the murk. I hit the brakes and it just shot away from under me. The Suzuki seemed to go even quicker on its side than upright. Laying in the road, propped on my elbow, l noticed that the two crones, burdened with their shopping bags and who had been imitating two snails on a go-slow, were now transformed into two schoolgirl-like creatures with satchels who upped and skipped away.

You don't half feel a prat walking fifty yards down what had previously been an empty street but was now full of folk staring at you. Memory, like my eyes at the time, is a little blurred but there wasn't anything on the bike that hadn't been bent, broken or scraped. First thing seemed to be to phone my newly-wed and give advance warning of catastrophe since a kind of premonition warned me that this was something she should get used to fairly quickly.

The other thing to get her used to was my liking for working on motorcycles in clinical conditions. Access to running water, devices for cooling inner bearings and alternatively heating casings or baking on proprietary parts, acres of worktop for spreading the intricate parts of a five speed box - yes, you’ve guessed it, the kitchen! Mind you, I had plenty of time to work on that one. The bloke in the shop that sold me the AS50 was aghast when I handed him a huge list of parts.

I had apparently bought the first one in the country and they hadn't any spares. He had been quite unable to understand why I had wanted to buy it in the first place and had whisked me off on the back of a new six speed 250 to get me to see sense. When he saw the damage I had managed to inflict on a 50cc in ten days, he graciously acknowledged the correctness of my choice. The truth was the Suzuki was a perfect device for my needs at the time. Its performance and price was not all that dissimilar to the elderly James Cadet I had been using as a commuter and it was light enough to be lifted up and down the steps to our cottage. The only drawback was that it was a single seater.

However, my aforementioned inability to get over-concerned with the small print of the statute book meant a tube through the swinging arm and two push-on rubbers provided footrests when the occasion demanded. Admittedly, pushed so far up the tank and the wife sitting on the hump of the seat, our faces may not always have conveyed the smiling joys of motorcycling.

However, the real disadvantage of the footrests only came to light one day after my weekly lunch with my father. He and his butcher friends would habitually stroll back with me to where the Suzuki was parked. On this occasion, the homemade footrests were still in place. No problem, I would just have to bump start it. I ran a few strides, banged it with my hip, then swung aboard. Unfortunately, I was wearing one of those loose bottom oversuits and the kickstart went up my trouser leg. As I struggled to get my foot on the peg, I began to fall off backwards, pulling the throttle wide open as I did so.

The front wheel came up and I shot across the road straight into a stone wall on the other side. It happened so quickly that, as I looked up from laying on my back on the pavement with the bike on top of me, my father and his friends were still smiling and waving goodbye on the other side of the street. As a result, the Suzuki had one of its many rebuilds in the kitchen. My wife had established an incredible rapport with a spares firm in Newcastle who did COD, and once, achieved the incredible feat of getting a part to us the same day in the afternoon post. The whole system had become so well oiled that it was impossible to consider disposing of the Suzuki.

The AS50 was a fairly simple and very robust device. Despite slinging it down the road too many times, the press steel frame remained straight, and despite much abuse of the single cylinder two stroke engine, perhaps made necessary by the paucity of low speed power, it retained a level of reliability that was the envy of most British bike owners and some other owners of Jap two strokes. At that time, Suzuki and Yamaha were about equal in the technology of producing two strokes, Suzuki tending to go for durability above all else and Yamaha slightly more devoted to high speed kicks.

My wife soon started to learn to ride on the Suzuki. On one occasion, going up a steep hill, she tried to nip round quickly in front of the oncoming traffic. Unfortunately, she gave it too much throttle and the Suzuki reared up and dumped her in the road. I had been following a few cars behind and by the time I got to her a young scooterist had got her helmet off and was helping her to her feet. I was so relieved to see that she was okay, that I went up and gave her a long hug and a kiss. By the time I turned to thank the scooterist and explain the relationship he had got back on his machine and ridden off shaking his head. I've always worried since that l may have given him some sort of giant complex or, worse still, that he might get done for assault in the event of some other lady motorcyclist falling in front of him.

We became financially stretched maintaining two properties, one being in the process of renovation, and for four years there was never any thought of replacing the bike. It had to do incredible mileage and take me daily to and from work, to the cottage and back at nights and weekends. In dire emergencies, it was expected to carry the odd concrete lintel, roll of lead or steel angle tied to the tank.

On one occasion, when in need of a break, I rode off to watch the Senior TT. It was the longest single run i ever did on the Suzuki. Not really to be recommended unless you're trying to develop a silly walk.

The bike began to decline after a rebore. I handed the barrel into a guy who I had used when I ran a racing Bantam and played about with a tuned 197cc Villiers motor. I knew I was in trouble when he handed it back and said, just how you like it. I had never thought of his remembering me. The piston would barely go into the barrel and l was expected to run it up time after time until it tightened and carefully work off the seizure marks with oiled emery cloth.

Needless to say, I didn't do this with a lot of enthusiasm and lthe Suzuki responded by throwing my sister and me up the road one night when I was running her home. I've never actually confessed this to my parents but as they are in their eighties I shouldn't think they still take the UMG. The bike finally ended up utterly tatty and worn out. It was given away to a young enthusiast who thought he could do something with it. I sincerely hope he did as it deserved a break.

Ian Miller

BMW K100RT

I always wanted a BMW, ever since the gorgeous R69S of the late sixties; I lusted after one of my own and even wrote to the factory and asked them if they could send me a crated bike to put together myself, but they never answered. Following the untimely demise of my much loved Honda CB750K1 in Germany (see UMG 20), l was left with the rigours of riding a CB900F2C.

Then it happened, out of the blue, on a bleak, cold November morning, wall to wall frost coupled with a nice covering of ice, came a phone call from a friend who only happens to run the local BMW agency, doesn't he? Would I like to try his personal machine which was up for sale? Minutes later I was outside the shop looking at the big, grey-green 1985 BMW K100RT. 9000 miles on the clock, full fairing, top box and £3500.

The owner told my wife and l to take it out for an hour or so to fully investigate it. We christened it Artie on the spot, clambered aboard and wobbled down the road. I was fully prepared for all the quirks I had heard of - clunky gearbox, poor rear suspension, awesome weight problem and so on. But as the lovely whispering motor purred underneath us, the torque inspired power made nonsense of the weight and no-one in his right mind squirts a shaftie out of corners, do they?

By the time we returned after the allotted hour, I was totally chuffed, I had a grin a mile wide and my better half agreed; we had to have it! Then came the let down, our hopes were dashed, another rascal had booked a test ride as well, and had first refusal. We were offered £1250 for the Honda in part exchange if that deal should fall through, which was OK as it had cost £950. We looked at others but they were either too expensive, too well travelled or too far away, so the Honda would have to stay, at least for a while.

Then two months later, a second chance, the bike was back at the dealers, two hundred more miles on the clock and £200 cheaper. It had apparently not fitted the owner's image. A deal was struck the next Sunday morning, he even opened especially for us. Back home, still on cloud nine we inspected Artie more closely. Slight corrosion on the wheels, fairing pockets full of cobwebs and dull paint, but two or three hours work with Pledge, Solvol and elbow grease got the gleam back. And it was ours!

During the next few weeks we tested the bike fully. After 18 years of Hondas, the watercooled, longitudinally arranged DOHC four was a revelation. Electronic fuel injection combined with electronic ignition, both controlled by a sneaky little computer under the saddle, give exhilarating acceleration. The roll-on from 60 to 100mph is especially interesting but it will pootle along at low speeds in fifth without any problems, thanks to an excess of low speed torque and snatch free shaft drive.

It is a rather heavy machine when throwing it around at low speeds, not surprising given the nearly 600lbs of mass, I suppose. Once 20mph or more is up most of the weight recedes and the bike had a well balanced feel. Given the luggage carrying capability and the full protection afforded by the fairing, it's something you soon learn to live with.

The bike is best suited to fast motorway work or wide A roads. The suspension is perhaps on the soft side if you spend most of your time imagining yourself as a racer, but the pay back is excellent long distance comfort. With that fairing up front you can sit there in perfect comfort with 100mph or more on the speedo for as long as the fuel lasts. Bumpy B roads are not so much fun, especially if you decide to change line or throttle off, but this six year old bike is still on its original suspension any similarly equipped Jap race replica would not fare very well. There's loads of kit available for upgrading the suspension, but it has not bothered me sufficiently to pay out the money.

Testers of the K100 have often complained of secondary vibes produced by the machine. My machine was not notably affected, perhaps it had been well run in (BMWs do take longer than other machines) or perhaps I have become so used to the secondary vibes produced by ageing across the frame Japanese fours that it no longer bothers me. It does feel better at 90mph than 70mph, doubtless a design ingredient inspired by the speed limit free autobahns of its home country.

The frame is a relatively simple tubular item that utilises the engine as a stressed member. It is a common item to the whole range and seems strong enough to avoid the horrors of speed wobbles. The wheels are cast alloy jobs which are fine until you manage to put a slight dent in one three days before you're due to take the bike on holiday and have to buy a new wheel for £240. Ouch. BMW parts are expensive but at this kind of mileage few should be required.

Another useful aspect of BMW design is the way the bike can be ridden safely in the wet. Some Japanese bikes are death traps, but the teutonic wonder managed to cut a swathe through the countryside even in the worst of British weather; the rider well protected behind the fairing, even his hands kept warm by the heated handlebars grips. This is one machine where you can arrive at the office in decent clothes.

Another aspect of the machine often complained of is the gearbox. If the action is not the smoothest in the world that is probably the result of the shaft drive Again, it all depends what you are used to - old Honda fours have pretty horrible gearboxes and the action of most Japanese bikes' gearboxes deteriorate as the chain wears out. If the action is not perfectly smooth, missed changes are rare. The gear indicator is useful as the motor is very quiet once above 50mph, only the strange whispering noise from the exhaust is present.

After Jap switchgear the Teutonic system takes some getting used to, especially the indicators and the horn, the latter's button awkwardly placed for quick operation - you're more likely to crash whilst searching around for the button then warn some idiot he’s in the way. At least the horn itself is a very loud two tone job. Added extras are silicone grease filled switches and a rear lamp warning light that glows if the bulb fails. Electronic speedo and tacho means no cables to replace whilst the digital clock and gear indicators are useful extras.

The overall feel of the machine is one of quality, even if it is down on ultimate speed and power, the machine almost convinces you by its evocation of function that it is better than anything else on the road. Genuine BMW panniers are expensive, so it's worth searching out a bike with them already fitted, but they are capacious, waterproof and make the most of the available space by fitting close to the chassis.

When detached, they neatly hide full face helmets when approaching B & B landladies who tend to suffer terminal shock when approached by leather clad vacationers. Locking fairing pockets hold oversuits, maps, etc, whilst the top box carries the inevitable hundred weight handbag (no, hers, you fool).

Although regularly given some welly when possible, the bike never gives less than 45mpg, and never uses a drop of oil between changes. I was just getting used to the euphoric state of BMW ownership when some prat decided to borrow daddy's car one wet, dark night then run straight into Artie to avoid an oncoming vehicle.

Had I found him then the result would not have been pleasant to watch. £2300's worth of damage, fairing, front forks, handlebars and silencer - and I still rode it home! J. S. Gedge of Hastings did the repairs and after a brief hassle with the prat’s insurance, within two months we were back on the road again.

The toolkit is comprehensive and stashed under the seat with the tubeless tyre repair kit, both standard equipment. Maintenance is minimal - a quick look at the oil level glass and coolant level -- the only thing to check are the valve clearances and these tend to stay within limits for very high mileages. It's a good, solid, dependable machine. Would we pay £7000 for a new one? No, but this one has character and will be lovingly looked after for many years to come Well, at least until a cheap Vincent or Brough comes along.

T Pemberton

Kawasaki ZZR250

It was no good - the time for getting rid of the RG was ripe, because the longer I rode it the riper it became, ripening into a proper lemon. It obviously wasn't up to the 250 miles a week I had to commute and the cost in petrol, two stroke oil and spark plugs could have paid for a new bike on their own.

Then, one fateful sunny day, a friend mentioned that Kawasaki had just unveiled their latest offering, a baby ZZR250 and it just so happened that my local dealer had just received one. Well, what could I do, the union was obviously fated so I ignored my mother's advice (as usual) and a contract was drawn in blood - mine, with my soul on the dotted line.

As the clock struck the first minute of August 1st, I took delivery. Ah, the joys of a brand new motorcycle - being the envy of all your friends, the racing ego, the mad polishing, the paranoia about scratching it and 500 miles of motorcycling at 36mph. Yes, 36mph, the price of having a 250cc motorcycle combined with a 14000rpm ceiling.

There are two things that strike you as you first set eyes on Kawasaki’s new baby ZZR, one is the fact that the only people that can tell it apart from its older brother, the ZZR600, are the people that are lucky enough to own one and the second, in the case of the metallic two tone, red and candy pink version, is the colour.

The ZZR has the curious effect of acting like a magnet to the flat cap and 'I had a Rudge when l was your age' brigade. On several occasions I parked the bike only to find on my return a moist eyed old gent leaning over it, who goes on to recount how he courted his wife on an obscure British bike and wished he hadn’t sold it because now it would be worth as much as most houses.

The ZZR is composed of a beefy box section aluminium frame tastefully wrapped around a watercooled 250cc four stroke twin engine that's loosely based on the earlier GPX250, save that it develops slightly less power and weighs more. Add to this a 14000rpm red line, very little torque, a slightly dubious front end and massive back tyre, and dip in a vat of plastic bodywork, and just what do you get? Well, what first strikes you when you leap on is the tank - literally. The 250 feels more like a 600, reassuring on a long journey because there is plenty of bike to hide behind if the elements aren't smiling on you.

That's apart from your hands and feet, of course. Why is it that Kawasaki couldn't have added hand protection to a fairing that is otherwise all enveloping? As it is, the wind blast from the nose is directed over your hands rather than around them. Very silly. And water is still thrown from the front wheel over your feet. Nothing that an extra three inches of mudguard wouldn't fix, so why couldn't the factory? At least the sculptured riding position was comfortable and there was a tank protector to stop the zip of my jacket gouging large scratches in the paint.

Starting it up is not a very satisfying experience. Instead of the expected boom like thunder, what is emitted is more of an embarrassed flatulence, disappointing any kids that may have been lingering nearby to hear the great red beast cranked up. lnoffensive is a word that springs to mind. Well, at least it doesn’t wake the neighbours when you leave and return to the house at obscure hours of the day and night. 

The inviting red line is only 14000 revs and a twist of the throttle away, but getting there can be so boring. If you're looking for any vestige of acceleration then forget the portion of the rev counter that sits below eight grand, because you'll find no favours down there, the amount of torque available feels non-existent.

There are some advantages to this lack of power - good fuel consumption and tyre wear. Front tyres go 9000 miles, rears 7000 miles (that's good? - Ed) whilst chain and sprockets were pretty knackered before 10000 miles.

A fast spin reveals an eagerness to corner, no doubt aided by the large rear tyre that's the same size as the rear end of a GPZ600. There was a rubbery feel above 90mph that turned into a wobble if you were silly enough to back off the throttle entering a bumpy corner. Not quite a full tank slapper but enough to lead you off your chosen line. There was also a tendency to deck the centrestand whilst two up, with little provocation, and, believe me. I’m no hero. Luckily, application of a C-spanner to the rear shock solved both problems.

One cold winter trip from deepest Wales to the industrial heartland, the ZZR had to cope with muddy mountain roads, wet A roads and flat out rush hour motorway traffic. I was also tired, lost, carrying a full load of gear and had someone else’s fat chick on the back. The bike managed all that with no great hassle, although the gearbox needed to be caned quite a lot. It seemed willing enough to cruise along at 90mph all day long on the motorway.

There are also nice touches, like the retractable bungee hooks and a little pouch in the fairing which is just right for carrying a padlock to put through the front disc to discourage Johnny Dishonesty from helping himself to your pride and joy. And the thumb nail adjusters on the brake and clutch lever that are dead flash, but probably triple the cost of replacement levers.

A good tip is that if you are going to carry soft throwover panniers then cover the tail of the bike in masking tape, it'll prevent a lot of paint being nicked and washes off easily in hot, soapy water. All in all, the standard of finish is unusually good for a bike of this size and it's always rewarding to take cheap and easy measures to keep it that way.

So, all in all, for your initial £3200 (admittedly expensive, but you pay your money and takes your choice) you get a machine that's dynamically beautiful to behold, revs like crazy while not actually getting you anywhere fast but won't drain your pocket substantially when you have to visit the petrol station and is generally cheap to run. An immensely big pose with the added advantage of cheap insurance and tax.

But one tip from someone who's not too proud to admit he got caught out when working out whether you can afford to buy a brand new bike - service costs. If you are a high mileage, all weather biker, as I am, and bearing in mind that all the services have to be done by a dealer to keep the warranty, it may add up to a large dent in the finances.

Estimate your average mileage - then double it, because you probably won’t be able to stay off your new toy. When you add up the cost of services with the cost of consumables you'll probably find you can't afford to eat,

Zeman McCreadie

CZ 175

My mates and I had bought three MOT failure CZ175s and a crash damaged B reg CZ125 from the local breakers for 75 quid. Only two of the 175s were serviceable as one was seized. The 125 had a GT185 front end installed to replace the mangled forks it came with. I kept one of the 175s and had no problem with l the MOT. I did find the bike rather gutless at high revs so I did a few mods to bring it up to the MX175 spec. Well, actually, all I did was fit a K&N filter and a 55 pilot jet, a 100 main jet and lift the needle up a notch. The redundant airbox was used to carry the two stroke oil bottle and some tools. 

The bike soon entered a strange commuting life. Ride down to Poole railway station, stick it on the train to Southampton and then a 3 mile blast to the training centre l was attending. And back again for the journey home. At night, just in case some light fingered MZ or Cossack owner tried to advance themselves the bike was locked up with a padlock and motorcycle chain. The bike spent 1987 Christmas week on the station platform without getting nicked or assaulted.

The CZ performed quite well the whole time apart from when the reserve tap decided it wasn't going to work, luckily right outside a filling station, and the bolt fell out of the front of the tank causing it to leak under heavy braking.

It all depends on what type of machine you were riding before you put a leg over a CZ. If you come from a modern Jap it will seem very crude with an agricultural gearbox, spine sapping suspension, heavy controls and a distinct lack of brakes. If you come from some ancient Jap hack it will seem to have wonderfully taut handling and a reasonable amount of accelerative urge.

Engine reliability is generally OK, the most likely problems are electrical. Even when the electrical system is working at its optimum, the 6V headlamp is useless. Indicators are usually thrown away and things like brake lights fall apart rapidly.

The highlight of all the commuting journeys came just after Christmas when a then new TZR125 pulled up alongside at a set of traffic lights and the owner sneered at my trusty steed. The lights went to green, he moved forward a length and I shot past him to the other side. It was an unfair match, my 19hp and 15ft/lbs versus 12hp and 8ft/lbs. Just goes to show how looks can deceive!

When the last day of the training course came I decided to ride back to Poole via the M27. As the bike was now redundant and I had my RAC recovery card handy, I decided to see how fast the CZ would actually go. The moment I got on to the motorway the engine cut out. Prising the timing cover off revealed that the contact breaker had broken. Luckily, I had a spare set with me and after setting the timing I was on my way again.

The speedo belted around to the 70mph mark quite quickly for a 175. In between 75 and 80mph the handlebars started tingling unbearably. Once past 80mph the sensation ceased. By now I was in the fast lane creating a huge smoke trail and getting surprised looks from everyone I passed, especially the CB250N in the middle lane!

I got up to 87mph before l went prone on the tank, which didn’t do much for increasing the speed. The bike didn't blow up, fall apart or anything. it actually kept up an indicated 80mph right to the end of the M27, but dropped to a humble 45mph when confronted with the steep hill one mile on to the dual carriageway.

l rode it around for a week after that until one day the chain snapped, shot up the fully enclosed chaincase and went through the dynamo bulkhead, stopping the engine dead while travelling at 40mph. The gearbox was wrecked but as CZ175 engines are so easy to come by in this area, l just junked the whole motor and fitted another one in rather than do a rebuild.

I sold it a few weeks later to a biker who was working in a holiday camp who wanted a cheap set of wheels. Six months later I was down the breakers when I spotted my old 175. The MOT had expired and with inflation, l had to cough up £25 more than I paid for it first time around. For the next two years it lived at the back of the house awaiting my attention. It was sold to a friend’s son to use as a field bike and now sports big knobblies and enough acceleration to burn off a '89 RM80 across the fields.

Summing up, the CZ175 makes a good second bike for work and winter riding just the same as the MZ250. They are better and less hassle than the CZ250 twins which I have also ridden. Fuel consumption is around 65mpg compared with 60mpg and 85mph from the 250 Sport and 85mpg and 75mph for the 250 deluxe twin. The only real thing against them is their looks. The frame, suspension and engine are all better than you would at first suspect. 

Sentinel

Clothin'

One of the easiest places to find bike gear when buying a bike for the first time is off the vendor. The owner may well be giving up bikes for the delights of a Metro, and will chuck in his bike clothing as part of the deal. If it fits you, well and good, if not you can sell or swap it later.

Relatives or friends who have given up motorcycling are another useful source. A recent check in the nether regions of my garage revealed no fewer than three sets of Belstaffs collected over the years, for a grand cost of sweet FA.

The postcards in shop windows reveal all sorts of strange offers - never realised there were so many French teachers about... a decent pair of boots can be had for between £10 and £30, depending on the seller. A lot better than £60 plus for a new pair.

Some time ago I managed to pick up a set of one-piece leathers for £20. Alas, a slight problem of liquidity meant they had to be sold not long afterwards. A decision I was to thoroughly regret when I took up despatching for a couple of years.

The local free-sheet often carries ads for all sorts of useful stuff, and most have a Bargain Basement or Under A Tenner section, as well as the more obvious sections. A nearly new set of waterproofs and the like can be picked up for about a third of the new price.

One of Britain's growth industries seems to be Thrift Shops - Oxfam, Cancer Research, etc. All sorts of bits and bobs get in this kind of place, at nice reasonable prices. Derriboots for a couple of quid, throwovers a fiver and so on. Anything good tends to go quickly so be prepared to visit them frequently. And, of course, it’s all in a good cause.

If you want to go a bit upmarket. an ex-catalogue shop often has nearly new leather boots, for instance, at half new price or less. Well worth searching out. Most of the stuff in this sort of place will have only been worn once or twice, and is usually a name brand.

Car boot sales, of which there seem to be millions every Sunday, are a useful source of tools as well as clothing. Check your local paper or freesheet for when and where. Some dealers like Motorcycle City, have occasional sales of old stock at very cheap prices, watch MCN for details.

Of course, once you have acquired some decent clobber you'll want it to keep you dry, at least for the time being. Being a traditionalist (or pervert) I tend to stick to leather or waxed cotton, both of which repay an occasional dose of tender loving care and elbow grease. 

Reproofing waxed cotton is a simple affair; also messy and smelly. If you feel it is beyond you, alternatives exist. Send the stuff to one of the firms that advertise reproofing in various mags, or your local dry cleaners. With the recent Barbour craze (who would have credited wax cotton becoming a fashion?), many of these places offer reproofing - they probably just send them away and charge you extra.

Doing it yourself simply consists of buying a can of proofing compound (I must admit l haven't tried the aerosol, they cost three times as much) then following the instructions on the the can. There are ways of making the process simpler and more entertaining.

I hang the garment on the washing line and clean it with a hose. When dry, the real fun starts. The wax you are meant to apply with a brush is often rock hard. In summer just leave the can somewhere outside, assuming it's sunny. Let’s face it, no-one but an idiot would reproof his stuff in winter. If you do, leaving the wax to liquify in the airing cupboard or oven can have some interesting results... eviction, evisceration or clothes and food stinking of the stuff for the forseeable future, just to mention a few. Putting the can in a bowl of hot water for a while seems to do the trick.

Then take a stiff brush and paint it all over. Pay particular attention to areas you might have noticed driving rain seeping through. Normally, this will be the knees and crutch of trousers and the arms of jackets, in fact, anywhere that gets creased with subsequent weakening of the proofing.

When the garment has dried, you will note white waxy deposits where too much has been applied. Leaving it somewhere warm will allow this-to soak in... my preferred method of getting rid of it is to go to the last pub that refused to serve you a beer when wearing leathers, then sit back against the plush seating in the nice warm pub and let the seats do the work.

Leather is rather different. Every few months a wonder product that promises to preserve, beautify and waterproof dead cow skin comes out. What they don't mention is that many of these rot the stitching - there is no use haying a nice shiny jacket if it does a good imitation of a sieve through every joint.

For boots I still use old fashioned dubbin. Worked in warm with a spoon (the back of, fool) and left overnight. A few treatments like that and it will be as close to waterproof as leather can get. Not pretty and shiny, but for me practicality comes before looks.

If you wear boots a lot, some hard rubber or composite heel pads will keep the heel from wearing down. It is very annoying to have to junk a perfectly good pair of boots just because they can’t be resoled. Whilst on the subject of boots, there are all sorts of thermal liners that reflect the heat of one’s fetid feet which are very wonderful in cold weather. Well worth it for under a fiver. Most chain stores will have them.

Until recently, I swore by a product called Hydrolan for all other items of leather clothing, and sometimes boots as well. This both cleans and protects the leather and can be applied with a sponge. However, recently I have noticed that the stitching on my jacket is going, but I put this down to having worn it nearly every day for the last 15 years. The jacket did spend a year mouldering away in a damp cellar once, the application of two coats of Hydrolan got it looking okay again, but it took months to stop smelling. A product I have heard great things of is Nikwax, which is supposed not to rot stitching and be waterproof.

If you can’t get these goodies from the local bike shop, specialist leather, climbing or shooting shops will usually have all sorts of things for preserving and restoring leather. Even the most abused can be made to look better and last longer. As for repairs, after doing GBH to my fingertips, I refuse even to attempt to stitch my leathers. Forget the big cleaners and repairers, who charge an arm and a leg. Most towns seem to have a small repair shop or a little old lady who will do it for a fraction of the cost, and normally a better job, too. Ask around.

Bruce Enzer

Startin' Out

Elation, frustration, satisfaction and ultimately depression are just some of the emotions motorcycles have brought out in me.

Elation as l sped down the open road, wind in my hair and not a care in the world. Never mind that it was only 50mph on an ancient B120 with bent forks and a rusted out frame. I was just 14 and those Cornish Forestry Commission tracks were trails through the forests of North America to me. Originally scavenged only to rob its ignition coil for my far raunchier DT125, the little Suzuki covered about 700 miles in 18 months of riding around my father's farm and local tracks. Apart from petrol, I spent nothing on it and it let me down only once on a dark, wet winter's evening when I attempted to ford a storm swollen river and flooded the motor.

Frustration was the result of having owned a bike for three years and spent countless hours working on it, yet only getting about half a dozen hours of riding from the thing. That bike, an early DT125, was bought for £40 as a non runner and it stayed that way for a long time. Most weekends, when I should have been doing my homework, were spent tinkering with the very decrepit machine, polishing what remained of the chrome or just straddling the awesome beast, imagining what it would be like to ride.

What I lacked in mechanical knowledge I tried to make up for with youthful enthusiasm. A hundred times I thought had found the answer and heaved the monster to the top of the farm yard to try and bump start it, since it had no kickstart. Every putt or bang, the occasional few moments of erratic running, would spur me on to further efforts. Hours later, dripping with sweat, I would push it back into the workshop and concede defeat for another week. 

Satisfaction came when I eventually discovered the burnt out ignition coil and replaced it with one from a Honda C50 liberated from a disused mineshaft, and again when I successfully modified the kickstart shaft in the school engineering shop so that a bicycle crank could be used as a lever. Never mind that the knackered engine could barely push the bike to 60mph, I had brought this wreck back to life all by myself.

Since the time she watched me use a stone wall as a banked curve when the Yam's brakes failed, my mother has never been too keen on motorcycles and she was less than impressed when, a few days after my 16th birthday, I proudly presented my new steed, £80s worth of TS50ER.

Bought from a boy at school a couple of years older than me, I had made a 30 mile train journey, then walked a further ten miles to look at this rusty heap. Rattly, rough and with 28000 miles on the clock, it was utterly gutless, but with its looks and riding position I could at least pretend it was a real motorcycle. With a hundred hard earned notes in my pocket and yearning for independence and freedom, there was no way I was going home empty handed. The prospect of riding home through Plymouth city centre in the evening rush hour, though I had never legally ridden on the road before, did nothing to deter me. 

In just under a year I covered about 4000 miles on this bike and replaced both sets of brake shoes, the front tyre and the battery. Top speed on the flat was only 35mph so it was thrashed continually and returned only 80mpg, but at least I was mobile. Schoolmates mocked, its feeble performance and tatty appearance, laughed at me in my waterproof leggings and open face helmet, but I know that this was merely to conceal their envy of my mobility and independence. I frequently rode it purely for fun, up to 100 miles at a time, but I didn't enjoy my occasional crashes that much - I can't recommend the wet weather qualities of Cheng Shin trials tyres! 

l vividly recall one incident on a damp, grey morning. Late for my train, I tried to take a tight 90 degree corner on full throttle and, whilst banked over, lost it as the rear tyre hit a patch of that silky smooth tar so beloved of the Cornwall Highways Dept. As I lay in the road, writhing around, a woman casually walked past, totally ignoring me. What is it about motorcyclists, I wondered, that the general public finds so repellent?

Considering the hard life the bike had led (9 owners in 7 years, all young and inexperienced), reliability was pretty good - only three breakdowns in a year. The first time was my fault, I didn't tighten the main jet properly after cleaning the carb. Miles from home and with the light fading fast, the motor began to misfire, cough and die. Feeling pretty desperate, I pushed the bike to the nearest farm, whose owner and l incorrectly diagnosed a duff plug.

The kindly old boy then produced a pencil and showed me how to put graphite on the electrodes to temporarily beef up the spark. "That’ll get ‘ee 'ome, boy," said he encouragingly. Unfortunately that was not to be and I ended up pushing the bike a long way up steep hills in the dark to a friend's house, where I left it overnight. Just as well it wasn’t raining.

The second breakdown really was an ignition failure, understandable since it occurred during a thunderstorm, whilst the third was caused by the disintegration of the front sprocket while ascending a 1 in 5 slope, resulting in the bike's ultimate demise. My meagre finances were stretched beyond breaking point and my two wheeled collection was sent ignominiously to the breaker's yard.

A card on the 6th form common room notice board caught my eye: Motorcycle for sale, MZ250, new tyres, needs some attention. Must go, owner moving house, £20. The owner turned out to be none other than my friendly bearded history teacher, the one who wore BSA leathers whilst riding an XS650. It just needs a new gearchange return spring, he told me, I'm moving house this afternoon but I'll leave it in the back street, he said as I swapped £20 for the keys and a Haynes manual.

An agreement was reached with my friendly local potato merchant - I helped unload a few tons of spuds at a Plymouth chippie and we brought the MZ back on his truck. It took a while to find the place and back the truck up the steep, narrow, cobbled alley but there it was, looking as only an MZ can - ugly. As we heaved it into the back, the rear wheel showed a reluctance to turn, but it was not until I arrived home that I realised the motor was seized solid.

Not one to give up easily, I took the motor out of the frame, lifted the head and put some serious effort into moving that piston - no chance. Blow lamps, sledge hammers and ingenious arrangements involving fencing stakes and tractors all failed to move that piston even the slightest bit. I consoled myself with the thought that it was too hideous to ride anyway. My mother told me never to trust a man with a beard. 

l thought I never wanted to see another bike as long as I lived and when a neighbour told me he was dumping a CZ175 that was cluttering up his workshop, a bike that earned him a driving conviction at the age of 15, I told him to go ahead. A few days later, however, I succumbed to the temptation and picked up what was left of the bike, plus the remains of a very similar CZ175. Just for fun, I put together something vaguely resembling a motorcycle from the two, flushed the carb, set the timing and strapped a car battery to where the seat should have been. A quick bump start down the road and - bam, bam, bam!

The sound from the open header pipes resounded loudly through the valley as l flashed up and down the lane. Figuring that any cop would be feeling generous - he'd have to be on Christmas morning, I took it for a glorious bare headed blast down Cornish roads, through some villages and home again, throttle on the stop and the needle on 70mph for as long as l dared with a splitting front tyre, bald rear Skidmaster and no oil in the forks. More than one early morning church goer got a shock to their eardrums that Christmas, though it sounded better than any organ music to me. And you wonder why bikers have a bad reputation?

l discovered bikes about the same time as many of my friends found out about women and I guess my love-hate relationships with those lumps of rotting metal were not so very different from their early experiences with girls. Doubtless, Freudian scholars would say that motorcycling is a substitute for sex.

Relating these experiences brings back a flood of memories. Though it didn't always seem that way at the time, they were happy days and I suppose bikes did much to shape my character in those formative years (the UMG also has something to answer for). Not only did I learn something about bikes and machinery generally, but also about people and life as a whole and, through spending long periods alone, about myself; experiences I wouldn't have missed for anything.

Dan Ledger

Loose Lines [Issue 32]

l have ridden a great many motorcycles, but few impress me much beyond that which is part of the motorcycle experience and can be gained almost as well from a BSA Beagle as a ZZR1100. Thinking of replacing my current machine, a fairly modern middleweight with an adequate power output and reasonable lack of mass, I am caught between the delights of an outrageous power to weight ratio and the need, as a past engineer, for a modicum of practicality.

It may come as no surprise that to acquire either of these, god forbid that one machine was on offer with all these qualities, it is necessary to modify an existing piece of hardware rather than rushing out and buying what a bunch of dissolute marketing morons tell me I should purchase.

My favourite scenario, at the moment, is to buy a nearly new GSXR750, one with the upside down forks. Yes, a nasty race replica with triple discs and monoshock suspension but one that can quickly be converted to a more useful Spec.

The dreadful fairing could be pulled off and sold to some spotty adolescent who had fallen off in an excess of youthful spirits and lack of riding technique. The painful clip-ons, mounted ridiculously close to the wheel spindle, replaced with proper handlebars, that would offer less of a stretch over the large tank, after making, up some suitable clamps. The footrests relocated further forward and a tad lower to suit, hopefully eliminating some of the excess bracketry Suzuki deemed necessary to affix the current pegs. And a headlamp attached to the forks would complete the transformation.

Having removed all the plastic crap. I would be left with a bike that weighs less than 400lbs, produces an outrageous amount of horsepower, handles well and looks incredibly butch. It would, of course, still be a tyre churning, chain crunching, fuel burning pain in the wallet but it would be a hell of a lot of fun and my mileage is not so high these days that such excessive consumption would be that prohibitive.

Actually being able to ride around town without injuring my back would be a major benefit, the improved power to weight ratio would doubtless allow an engine sprocket several teeth larger than stock, aiding chain life. Hopefully, it would have all the versatility of one of the boring 550s with the stomach churning accelerative abilities of a rocketship. It would also be different enough to stand out from the plastic hordes.

Why on earth Suzuki or Yamaha don’t do something similar to their race replicas I can not think. Both the GSXR and FZR look infinitely better once the plastic is stripped off and they have had a few bits and pieces tidied up to suit. if the Japs want to get back on the UJM bandwagon what they need to do is make sensible mods to their race reps and not churn out bikes that are heavier and more ponderous. Shame on Honda with their new 750 UJM and Kawasaki with their Zephyrs, there's no excuse for producing these type of machines with a mere surface nod to practicality. They should have been much lighter, equipped with single carbs et al. Maybe one day they will get it right, but I doubt it.

The other option is to go for the Yamaha RXZ school of thought, where less means more. The name of the game being to knock up something that weighs around 250lbs and knocks out 30hp, the result being just as much fun and a lot less expense. My favourite candidate for this kind of trickery is not some smelly two stroke, but the Yamaha XT350. l have little time for trail bikes but the Yamaha possesses a gem of a DOHC single cylinder engine that is both tough and efficient (despite a gear driven balance shaft), and a strong but light tubular frame.

The styling is a total mess and all the cycle parts would have to be dumped. I quite fancy a huge alloy tank to further enhance the economy. The forks and shock would have to be modified to cut down on the excessive amount of suspension travel, in turn producing a lower machine.

The temptation would be high to throw the whole front end away and install something off an old Brit with a nice TLS drum and taut suspension doing the business. Admittedly, there is no way that the monoshock could be easily dumped short of replacing the frame, and, indeed, the alternative scenario would be merely to buy an engine and electrics, installing the motor in a suitable chassis such as a Morini 350 or BSA B25 Starfire.

However, the Yam monoshock is not particularly prone to an early demise, and an initial strip down to pack it full of high quality grease should ensure reasonable life. The art would be to produce a sort of four stroke MZ with much better economy, but still retain enough raunchiness to make life interesting. 100mph and 100mpg would not, I suspect, be too far off the mark. At least with the XT based machine everything would be very simple, modifications easy enough to make and servicing a cinch.

Anyone looking for Brit bike simplicity (a rather careless phrase given the engineering horrors of some these machines) and versatility could do a lot worse than cast a bleary eye over the current trail bike marketplace where Suzuki, Honda and Yamaha are all knocking out some useful air-cooled four strokes.

Again, why on earth none of these people can be bothered to produce a road going 350 based around the same engine and frame I don't know. They could even keep the long travel suspension given the dreadful state of the roads... all they’d need is a new tank/seat unit if they were really desperate to save development costs. And, no, we ain’t talking GN or SR here, that's the same kind of blandness as the UJM.

In the end I’ll probably decide that it's too much hassle to go either of these routes, knock out a bit more power with an aftermarket exhaust for my current mount, lose a few pounds off the mass and content myself with trying to fit an RS fairing (and, no, that doesn’t mean it's a BMW) so that I can ride around with warm hands in the winter.

Bill Fowler

Yamaha RD250LC

I eventually found my Yam RD250LC in Blackpool. It had been stored for two years and had a bit of a dent in the right-hand exhaust, which is pretty typical of the breed - if it hasn't got a dent it's been fixed. I think I've yet to see one more than a few years old that hasn't been dropped. This particular bike was an ’80 RD250LC, completely standard with 11000 miles on the clock. The dent in the exhaust unnerved me, but the guy was willing to haggle, so a price of £475 was agreed upon. 

Before putting in for the MOT I decided to have a closer look at the bike to make sure it was OK. The first upset was the swinging arm bearings. These looked as if they hadn't seen a grease gun since leaving the factory, result - cream-crackered. An interesting point to note here is that wear on the swinging arm bearings on early LCs was excessive as they were made from nylon. The later steel ones are much better and can be fitted to earlier models. The other problem was the front tyre, an original Yokohama that was swapped for a TT100 to match the rear.

After this little episode a trip down to the local MOT station resulted in a pass. For a 250 the LC pulled really well throughout the rev range. This was much more of a flexible motor than the peaky road rocket l'd expected. Cruising at 50-60mph around the 5-6000rpm mark was comfortable with a totally contented burbling sound from the motor, and town riding was a doddle. This certainly wasn't what the bike was bought for, but it does go to show the LC's versatility.

First good stretch of straight road (the M6) I opened it up. Acceleration was crisp up to 90mph, but to get the last 10mph it was chin on the tank stuff. 96-97mph caused the front end to go light and a slight weave cum shake seemed to be setting in. But there was no turning back, 98-99mph then the ton slowly crept up.

The next few weeks were spent scratching around my little piece of England (Wigan) and learning to pull the occasional wheelies. The bike was 100% reliable, starting first or second kick and only required tensioning of the chain and a new set of plugs now and again. The only gripes I had, in these wonderful weeks of owning the bike, were poor front brake and spindly forks, which had a tendency to flex under braking and cause the bike to weave slightly at speed.

One cold night, some months after purchase. I was returning home from college and decided to take a detour through a nearby village, just for the fun of riding the few extra miles. On coming to a slight downhill stretch I noticed three cars in front crawling along at about 20mph. I’ll be past these with a quick twist Of the throttle, thought I. So, booting down a gear and winding on the power, I commenced to shoot past the row of cars. Unfortunately, I'd timed my overtaking manoeuvre exactly with the silly cow in the leading car, who developed a sudden urge to make a right turn into her driveway without signalling.

Needless to say, avoidance was impossible and the first sign she got of my presence was the sight of a young man sailing gracefully through the air and over the bonnet of her car. If Billy Smart had been there, I'd have been picked for the trapeze act. but that’s just my luck, if I fell into a barrel of tits I'd come up sucking my thumb.

A legal wrangle ensued which lasted for a full five months and at the end of that I received only £150 compensation. This little episode put me right off fast road riding. It’s just too unpredictable or rather people are too unpredictable. Lesson number one, always expect the unexpectedl

From that moment, in the summer of '87, my attention switched from the road to the track. I tarted up the crashed LC and sold it to raise the money to buy a production racer. One was found for £300. This LC had a dent in each exhaust and a paint job that hid various scratches and dents from too numerous crashes. It had a full Stan Stevens engine tune, Michelin Hi-Sport tyres (£130 a pair for 300 miles of use). Goodridge brake hose which just about cured the weak front braking, a very useful steering damper, heavier fork oil and fork spacers to tighten up the front end.

All that would have been needed was a fork brace to cure the slight amount of flexing left under heavy braking and the normally weak and flimsy LC forks would have been transformed into really useful stuff, but aftermarket fork braces aren't allowed in proddie racing. The point I’m trying to make is that the bike I bought was in far better mechanical condition, better handling and braking, and generally superior to my road bike which I’d bought a year before for more money. A proddie racer could be a cheap way of getting a fast roadster.

I’ve since sold this LC and am now looking for a 350LC or YPVS. As far as I'm concerned the LC was and is a good bike in all respects, with a few cheap mods can be made into a great bike (I was actually out cornering an RGV at our local tight and twisty track). The sixties will be remembered as the time of the big Norton and Triumph twins, the seventies of the big Kawasakis. Jotas and Dukes, but the eighties belong to the LC. Hooray!

Rob Bartlett

"About £250 is all he wants for the RD250LC, only thing is it's been down the road. Headlamp, clocks, that sort of thing." Back to a July night in 1983. TWX58W was just over two years old and seemed a bargain even with the battle damage. Gravel rash on the tank, headlamp rim, shell, clock bracket, dents in the silencers, etc. £235 later, crash helmet with the entire aperture filled with a huge grin atop a man's body, putting petrol into the tank ready for the ride home.

Another quick dip into the bank account and with the aid of the magic spanners saw the headlamp and clocks in their new home and the thing insured. Well, almost. The chrome headlamp rim had no hook to hold it in place at the top. Never mind, a bit of the old masking tape will hold it in place instead (still there after seven years).

The tank had gravel rash but no dents as such, the front mudguard was cracked and the exhaust downpipes had their once kinky black satin finish turned kinky iron oxide instead, but remember, this bike was bought as a go to work and nip around to the chippy hack.

OK, so the finish isn't too grand but whassit go like? First impressions were that l was seventeen again, only then it was my mates who had RDs, etc, whilst I had a boring and slow CB250G5. This bike was just the opposite, I've ridden quite a few two strokes and the first thing you notice on the LC is the lack of clattering resonance. This is the watercooling.

Engineering buffs will know that this gives the ability to machine the barrels and pistons to closer tolerances by virtue of the more even heat distribution, and helps to deaden the sound. This is why the thing doesn't clatter when cold, plus you get a bonus in performance. The reed valve induction and expansion box style exhausts combine to endow the engine with decent performance for its size.

Out on the road, like any performance two stroke, the LC is very bland up to about five thousand revs with only sedate acceleration. Somewhere between five and and six grand there's a rather annoying hole in the power curve. Holding the throttle at these revs produces a stuttering. sawing motion. I learnt to go down a gear rather than ride through it.

From about six grand onwards she’s a little humdinger with the sort of performance that sees off rear tyres and chains in no time. By 9000rpm she begins to run out of steam. Gear changing at 8500rpm drops the engine neatly into the power band to give vivid acceleration. Don't try any wild heroics two up, though - in traffic light GPs the engine screams, the clutch begins to bite and the front wheel heads straight for the milky way.

Fuel consumption, in general use, was about 45mpg and racing the nob in the Opel Manta turned in 35mpg. Another bit of consumption was broken speedo cables, not a disaster, though, as in fifth gear 10mph equals 1000rpm so it's easy to work out how fast you're going. Not long back the speedo drive also broke. Only one tacho cable ever broke but I stripped the plastic thread at the engine end putting the new one on. Top speed was just under 110mph solo, which is reduced to just over the ton two up.

Nowadays the old girl is getting a bit tired and doesn't quite manage those velocities. Handling, when everything's in good order, is reasonably nimble. However, the usual worn tyres, leaking forks, etc produces much white lining and a less than secure feel.

In the whole time I have owned my LC l have only had regular bitches about a few things. First, the way chains and tyres go west (my fault, but I can't help it). Secondly, the front brake seizes up if not used for a few months, the bleed nipple is made of putty and the standard brake hose and seals need replacing. Lastly, the thing is an utter pig in the rain. My complaint is not of the wild power delivery spinning the rear tyre, the back end lashing out and the handlebars wrenching themselves from your grip. No, it's the bloody electrics. Just show it a picture of a downpour and the Yamaha becomes a stuttering, misfiring, stalling nightmare. All good stuff when you're pulling out of that junction with a forty ton artic bearing down upon you at 60mph on a rain sodden road. No amount of effort has brought about a complete cure, not even riding in shorts and shades to kid the bike into thinking the sun's still out.

Other small gripes include poorly designed clamps on the downpipes that let the pipes blow, even with two gaskets don't let them kid you into thinking that British bikes are the only ones that things fall off. l have lost one complete indicator, one lens and two exhaust baffles. Oh, and the quality of finish is terrible. The front tyre lasted 15000 miles, rear tyres are finished after 5-6000 miles. Chains should be replaced at the same time but I’m a bugger for removing links to save wallet damage. In 15000 miles we used one set of disc pads and am part way through another. The rear brake shoes are still original but getting a bit past it by now.

Nothing untoward happened until the winter of '85. Then I suffered my first tumble. Yup, even the best tyres in the world can't grip on black ice. A truck driver and a nice young lady picked me up. I guess I’m what you’d call a masochistic show off. I always fall off when everyone’s looking. Damage was the usual stuff, bars, winker lenses, clutch lever.

Through the start of '89 another, imminently more serious, problem started to rear its ugly head. The battery seemed to be repeatedly running flat. Being the original one, it wasn't foolish to think maybe it had cried enough. A replacement was duly purchased, installed and everything went hunky dory - then that one went flat too. Then, strange things began to happen. When the lights were on they went dimmer as the revs increased. It was the middle of winter, it was cold and miserable - and so was I.

It could be very frightening on the M62, when wagons were spewing up gallons of dirty water and no-one could see the Yam through the gloom, with cars trying to occupy the same space as the bike and I. One night's charge would last one to two days, almost as good as my life expectancy. Something had to be done.

Oddly, the engine never missed a beat as I gamely did my best to tackle this stupefying problem. I did what I could, all the block connectors were cleaned, the rectifier was checked, a secondhand wiring loom was bought, and all the fuse clips were removed, cleaned and fitted with new fuses, as the existing lot were pretty dire. Last of all, the alternator output -- aha, only output on two lines. A burnt out wire next to the connector was the culprit. Thank god for multimeters.

Unfortunately, the LC was showing its age with other fits of pique. One day on the way home. the temperature gauge began to shoot skywards. My brother’s house was a quick detour away, so I dropped in and found the radiator dry, topped it up with water and sped home. I noticed that what was usually a few spots of oil from the gearbox output shaft seal, had turned into a sickly green pool.

I changed the oil. Everything was okay, then one day l was a little late for work... my reward for thrashing the bike was for the radiator to empty its contents into the gearbox again. It was either £9 for a new water pump seal kit, put the case in the oven at a 1000 degrees for four hours or pay a tenner for a used case with good innards. No contest. A new gearbox shaft oil seal was bunged in for good measure.

A few weeks later I had my own personal apocalypse. Almost late for work, I was gunning down the M1 into Leeds. I saw a car's bonnet nose out into my lane as I sped serenely along. Further down the road. I saw him flashing his lights at me. I obligingly pulled over to let him pass. Bloody yuppie in his Granada showing off, I thought.

Turns out it wasn’t, though, it was a nice PC testing out his new video camera. We sat in the front seat of the car to watch a replay of life in the fast lane. He wasn't Spielberg but I looked pretty good doing a steady 89mph. The police owned the copyrights and they wouldn't pay me a percentage. One year later I'm still waiting for the charges to turn up - as the offence was committed in a 50mph zone the fine would have been huge and my life not worth living when the wife found out.

The following Monday, disaster struck again. The motorway was wet and I was following a slug's trail of diesel oil, wisely staying in the next lane. The sun came out and I couldn't see the oil any more. I decided to use the first of two possible exits, leaving the motorway by a sharp left-hander followed by a sweeping right.

The two vans were parked in the undergrowth next to the chevron marker, right on the point of the left-hander. Odd, I thought, the council must be out early. Next thing I knew I was sliding up the road to join them. I had braked to around 40mph for the tight bend, but the road was awash with diesel; no-one would have stood a chance. The audience watched with grim resignation as l ground to a scraping halt under their feet.

The bike fell quite heavily as the front wheel slid away. The old girl was still rideable but only just. The bars were bent again, the end broken from the brake lever, the forks twisted, the clock surround scarred. a front and rear winker lens smashed, and the main stand bent into the scraped nearside silencer. I struggled into work. Everything fixed eventually but when parked up pools of oil kept appearing under the machine. One of the casings had punctured in the fall.

A strange engine rattling gave even more cause for concern. I thought that the small end might be on the way out but it turned out to be a broken barrel stud. Stripping the affected cylinder showed that it could be an engine out job. The gaskets hadn’t leaked, I took a chance and rebuilt the top end and ran the motor without one stud. Also, the ingress of water had done some damage to the gearbox, higher gears are noisy at high revs.

Even after all the abuse heaped upon her, she still ran and continued to do so right until the insurance and MOT ran out. She sits in the garage as you read this, waiting for an injection of cash and tender loving care to get her back on the road.

The tank is a mess of rabid paint and rust, the pitted forks have wrecked the seals, most of the paint has fallen off the frame, she is grimy and looks unloved. But just a couple of kicks will bring her back into life, with a choking pall of blue smoke and my helmet still fills with a huge grin at the thought of riding her.

Willy Eckerslike