Travel Tales: Scottish Scam

The plan was extremely simple. We wanted to ride the A830 from Fort William to Mallaig. Apparently it is one of God's lasting gifts to the velocipedic fraternity. As always though, there was a slight problem, the 350 miles between our town and that fabled strip of tarmacadam. No problem, we muttered as one. We'll ride up the night before then crack it in a morning and be home for a couple before closing time.

Of course, on the appointed day of departure it pissed down, didn’t it? “Well, I'm not going in the pissing rain,” I growled down the telephone. ”That's alright then, isn't it? Cos nobody else wants to go in this either,” was the terse reply. And that, as they say, was more or less that for the month of June. Every time I so much as looked at the bike, the bloody heavens opened. Frustration gnawed at us. Bikes were lovingly polished (well, at least jetwashed), pints were consumed, dreams were dreamt and still the weather refused to break.

July came, not in splendour but in yet more bouts of rain. What price your greenhouse effect now? More in hope than in certainty we decided that on the first Saturday in July we would go anyway and bugger the weather. A meaner crew of naughty bottomed mummies (Bad Arsed Muthas really, but we like to think that we've above all of this foul language) you would find anywhere. None of us under thirty. Each of us a little on the short size for our weight and all a couple of slates short of a roof.

Bob is about 6'4” and dwarfs his Super Tenere. Jason and Gerry have a pair of spiffy new TDMs. Jase's has just got back from being dynojetted, the first TDM in the UK to be so mistreated, and it sports a pair of shiny Yoshi cans. Good shit, as they say in this part of the country. Which leaves me, sitting on the EXUP FZR1000 and feeling rather apprehensive. I know that the EXUP is totally the wrong tackle for a journey such as this but I bought the thing to ride so I'm damn well going to go on it.

5.20pm. Watches are synchronised (because we saw them do it at the pictures), odometers set to zero (except I forgot to do mine) and bladders emptied. We start our engines and... stop them again so we can all have a good laugh at the sound emanating from Jase's TDM. It sounds just like an old Norton and is immediately christened the Commando. Jase is extremely embarrassed by the racket it makes but tries hard not to show it and spends the remainder of the journey attempting to convince himself and everyone else that the cacophony has some beauty attached to it. We, on the other hand, spend the remainder of the journey making sure that our earplugs are a snug fit.

The route goes a bit like this M62/M61/M6/stop for petrol/ A74/stop for food and a pee/ M74/M73/A80 stop for petrol and a pee/M80/A84/A85/stop get drunk at hotel and get some kip. This is really a very boring ride until you get on the A84 at Stirling and encounter the first twisty bits, some 220 miles after passing go.

The first stretch on the motorway passes uneventfully and we all get steadily more and more bored. Bob helps liven things up a bit by clowning around on the Super Ten. At first it's just simple stuff like standing on the pegs. This progresses to leaning off the wrong side of the bike on long curves through the Pennines. His piece de resistance, though, is standing on the seat on one leg with the other stuck out behind. He reminds me of a huge comic Tinkerbell, sailing along at about 80mph in the outside lane, terrifying innocent motorists.

It's just the sort of behaviour which gets our pastime a bad name, but, God, it’s funny. In the meantime, Jason wants to know how fast his Yoshi TDM will go so the speed is gradually upped until we are cruising along at a fair old clip. It’s all a bit mundane for the EXUP but soon the speedo is showing a 130mph. Surprisingly, Bob is still managing to keep up on the Super Ten but I notice that it is weaving about a bit - you couldn’t help but notice, really, he's using all three lanes of the M6.

It looks terrifying to me, sitting in rock steady calm on the EXUP but Bob doesn’t seem to mind, so I turn my attention to other matters, like my aching bum. Jase ups the speed still further and the other two are left behind while I still pace him on the EXUP. He looks across at me and grins. We play roll-ons for a while but the TDM is completely outclassed. In the end, we just decided to see how fast the TDM will go... my speedo is reading 143mph when the TDM goes into a frightening high speed wobble. I think it's going to go into a tank slapper and get well out of way. Jase obviously has the same feeling as he backs off to a more sensible speed. However, we were all as impressed as hell that the TDM is so quick.

First stop at the Canny Scot just over the border on the A74. It's about as far as I can manage on the EXUP without a break. For the last fifty or sixty miles I've been gritting my teeth against the pain in my knees, wrists and bum. It does not auger well for the rest of the trip and I'm beginning to have real reservations about whether I can last the whole journey or not. However, after pie and chips, my spirits begin to rally. We all repair to the bogs and spend a few minutes furiously cleaning our visors as the flies seem to be especially plentiful and suicidal on this particular evening.

Jason and Bob are discussing the speed wobble on the TDM and decide to bugger about a bit with the rear suspension set up. They alternatively press down hard on the seat and let go. They then look at each other and mumble knowingly in a foreign language which mainly consists of acronyms interspersed with swear words. At the same time Jerry wants my toolkit because the brake light is sticking on his TDM and he doesn't know where its toolkit is located.

Whilst I was trying to put my toolkit back in the little hole where it belongs, the others fire up and clear off. "It's alright lads,” I shout, ”I’ll catch up with you then shall I? You just go ahead, I’ll be alright.” But by this time I’m speaking to empty air and exhaust fumes. I button up and start the bike, grabbing a big handful of throttle as I let out the clutch lever. The bike snakes sideways and gives me a real moment on the loose gravel of the car park but I manage to hang on. Out on to the slip road and I really hammer the FZR.

The bike picks up its skirt and flies. If you've ever really nailed a big bike you will know just how intoxicating it can be. As the rev counter hits the red in first I change up and nail it again and again and again. Through the red mist I am vaguely aware of my partners in crime reversing towards me at a hell of a lick but I ignore them and slam past like some enraged Exocet on speed. Sanity returns presently and I ease off to a more licence preserving pace.

And then we all got bored again. Even Bob's antics couldn’t cheer us up as we droned northward. My knees ached, my wrists were a sea of pain and my bum was completely numb. I began to hate the FZR. I cursed Yamaha. I put a hex on the children of the biking press who had led me to believe that the EXUP was the quintessential motorcycle of our age. The others looked so comfortable I began to hate them too. The A80 and another petrol stop. By this time I was getting towards the end of my endurance and so blagged a couple of paracetamol from Gerry in the hope that they might dull the pain a little. On we went. On the way out of the services area Jase grabbed a big handful, the TDM did one of the biggest wheelies I've ever seen. I really thought he was going to loop it. Still, it helped stave off the boredom a bit.

Stirling at last, and we leave the motorway. At the first sign of swervery my pain vanished magically and we had a fine old scratch for the remainder of the evening’s ride. Jason raced Supersport 400 until two seasons ago and he is damn quick. Bob, I suspect, is just a lunatic and they soon left Gerry and I behind as the route became more and more twisty. The road alongside Loch Lubnaig just north of Callander is mega. I loved the EXUP again. I didn’t want to be on anything else in the world. When it's cranked over and tracking through a corner it just feels as though it’s on rails. You can change line, accelerate, brake, have a cup of tea and a fag if you want and it doesn’t bother the bike one jot. It really is a very remarkable machine.

There is one blind left-hander on that road which I will remember for a long time. It goes over the brow of a hill then tightens up and flicks right. First time through it, as it was for me, it is a complete surprise. The EXUP just shrugged it off. On anything else, at that speed, I would have ended up firstly on the wrong side of the road and secondly in the hedge when I missed the right flick. What a bike.

Dusk was just coming down as we rode thankfully into Killin and our hotel. 320 miles in four hours twenty minutes including a forty minute break at the Canny Scot. Not bad going at all. We arrived at 9.40 by our synchronised watches and then had a big argument about how far it was because Bob's odometer was reading 20 miles less than the others. In the end we concluded that Bob's was low because the Super Ten's front wheel was off the ground a good deal of the time.

We decided to just have a couple of pints in the hotel because we were going to be off early the next morning. After six pints we decided to have a couple more because we were going to be off early the next morning... What a hangover! 8 o’clock and I felt like I wanted to die. We all got up and went to have a look at the river but the noise and the sunlight hurt so we went to have breakfast instead.

Engine start was about 9.00 and we set off in bright sunshine. The scenery was absolutely breathtaking all the way to Fort William. We stopped at Glencoe for the mandatory photo session and got a couple of good shots, as it later transpired. I had a hairy moment on a long right hander. Something had been spilled on the road, oil I think, or perhaps diesel. Anyway, the bike squirmed like a happy puppy and, for just a second, I thought I was off. 

Fort William appeared at last and the beginning of our journey. Loch Linnie was mirror calm, one of the most visually stunning sights I think that I have ever seen. The expedition was beginning to take on a dreamlike quality which I think we all felt. The air was dead still and the temperature was climbing into the eighties as we filled up our tanks and prepared for the off on the final leg of our adventure.

They didn’t lie. The A830 is an absolute cracker. It weaves, dips and climbs, like a drunken sailor, through a barren and rocky landscape. You make a big mistake here and it will probably be your last. I'm following Gerry and he's taking it relatively easy because the TDM absolutely hates to change line mid corner. Lots of these corners tighten up.

This is serious stuff. We roll into one blind right-hander on the brakes only to find that it opens out and we could have done it at twice the speed. Gerry shakes his head as if to say, "I'm getting old, | should have been quicker through that one.” At last, the well paved grippy tarmac gives way to a single track road with passing places.

This is an A road? Well, actually, yes it is. We drone slowly behind a queue of cars and roast gently in our leathers and helmets. Bob pulls over and stops. We all remove our helmets for a breather and Jason and I light our cigarettes. “How much is the fucking helmet fucking fine then,” demands Bob, of no-one in particular. "Beats the shit out of me,” I wittily reply, quick as a flash. ”I think it's fucking 25 dabs,” chimes in Jason. "But you don’t get any points on your licence for it,” says Gerry.

”Right then,” says Bob, “mine’s going on the pillion until we get back on to the good stuff.” And, so saying, he proceeds to strap his Arai to his bag. We all follow suit and are presently rumbling along in the fresh air. This is the first time I've ever ridden without a helmet and in the summer heat it feels marvellous. Bob is wearing an outrageous pair of sunglasses which hide most of his face behind a gold reflective expanse.

He seems to be able to look ridiculous on almost any occasion. We keep the speed down now, aware of how vulnerable we are and without actually discussing it, set a speed limit of about 35mph. We're all giggling like naughty children. Stupid really. Gerry has his camera hanging around his neck and buzzes around us taking photos on the move, a sort of mobile Lord Lichfield.

The road opens out again for the last few miles into Mallaig, but we just trundle on at 35mph and don’t bother to put our helmets back on again. “Won't there be coppers in Mallaig,” | shout across to Bob. “Who cares,” he replies, ”I'm enjoying this far too much to stop now.” So we arrive helmetless and pull up on the harbour wall. The sea is a bit of a disappointment as close inspection shows it to be full of jellyfish. Hundreds of the bloody things. Ugh! So we start up and meander round to the shops to get a drink.

A few more photos just to prove we'd been there and then we leave, still helmetless, back towards Fort William and lunch. The truly amazing thing is that no-one has even looked twice at us riding bare headed. I remark that this is because it's a well known fact that once you get on to a motorcycle you, and the bike, become totally invisible to the general public. This is why we get bounced so often by car drivers. Just to prove me wrong, a Ford Fiesta drones past with the driver pointing furiously at his head. Did he think that we didn’t know?

We leave our helmets off all the way back to the end of the single track stretch and then stop to replace them. However, before we do that, Gerry wants a shot of Bob doing his famous stand on the saddle routine with his daft sunglasses on and no helmet. Bob is happy to oblige and goes back off up the road. A minute or two later he comes careering into view around a right-hand sweeper with the most beautific look on his face as he poses for the camera. We collapse helplessly on to the grass verge as he roars past.

After that, it’s a head down, no nonsense scratch back into Fort William. Jason is leading with me second. Bob is right up my chuff on the Super Ten and Gerry is hanging back waiting to pick up the pieces when Bob T-bones me. The problem is that Super Tens don’t have much in he way of brakes or power. So, whereas I am trailing the brakes into the bends and then squirting the EXUP out on the throttle, Bob has no choice but to throw the Super Ten in, hoping that it comes out the other side. Otherwise he could ever keep up. 

Every time we go nto a right-hander, as the bike rolls in I look upwards and see a bloody great Tenere front wheel spinning inches from my head. Unnerving, to say the least. As soon as the road opens out a bit I clear off and leave him to it.

We had a wonderful lunch at a small seafood restaurant on the side of the loch in Fort William. The only thing missing was a nice white wine but since we had a long way to go we drank mineral water instead. While we were inside the rain started, just in time to herald our trek home. We continued all the way to Glasgow where we finally took off our wet weather gear as the sun began to shine again. After that, it was outrageous behaviour all the way home.

Cruising at well over the ton, nothing passed us for the first hour after Glasgow. Then another EXUP tagged on to the tail end and our modest convoy became five. A little later a bloke in a red BMW 535i turned up and wanted to play as well. So there we were hammering down the M6, Jason and the BMW playing at seeing who was the fastest for a while but it turned out to be pretty much a draw. Then there was one glorious incident near Lancaster - there were two girls in a new Merc sports car with the roof down.

The driver must have seen us approaching in the mirror and told her mate because she turned around in the passenger seat, craning her neck to see us as we closed with them. As we screamed past I waved and was rewarded with a truly beautiful smile and wave in return.

By this time I was in a lot of discomfort, but we didn't stop again until the services on the M62 at Manchester. Then it was head down for the last 20 miles and home. | arrived back at 9.15 on Sunday evening. We had done 847 miles in just under 28 hours. The big revelation of the trip was how good an all rounder is the new TDM. It definitely does not deserve the tedium monicker which some of the press have given it. As a go anywhere, do anything bike it is probably without equal. However, knowing what a fashion conscious lot we Brits are I still don’t think that it will sell in any numbers, which is a real shame.

Surprisingly, whenever we filled up throughout the whole trip, we found that all four bikes were using almost exactly the same amount of fuel. The Tenere was the thirstiest but only by a few pence, followed by the EXUP with the two TDMs using the least. Even though one of them had been dynojetted they both used exactly the same amount of fuel. However, the tuned bike was noticeably more powerful, which would seem to verify all of the claims which the vendors make for this kind of modification.

As for me, the trip was not as bad as | thought it was going to be. There is no doubt that I was knackered at the end of it, but here were no lasting aches and was fine by the following morning. We're off again in August and I still think I will stick with he EXUP because it is just so much fun in the twisties. Of course, the real truth is that I'm so much bloody slower than the others that I’ll get left behind on anything less powerful.

Jeff Stokoe

Suzuki GT750

"It’s a lovely bike, mate. I’ve had it for ten years and never had a days trouble out of it!” This impressive testimony from its previous owner sealed the deal. He had spent half an hour convincing me that this 1975 Suzuki GT750 was one of the new classics and well worth £1750 of anyone’s money. I rode home in a happy and contented mood. The bike felt as good as it looked. A couple of runs up to an indicated 125mph convinced me that | had a good one.

The next day there was a large puddle of oil under the engine and it refused to start. | looked under the motor and almost had a heart attack. There was a huge crack running across the lower crankcase! Bits of what looked like Araldite could be seen around the gaping hole. Of course, when I phoned the owner he denied all knowledge of this fault, saying it must have been there before he bought the bike, before slamming the phone down on me.

Engine out, split the crankcases. Oh shit, the main bearings were loose, the primary drive had cracked gear teeth and the gearbox looked like it had been run dry for the last 100 miles. The shining chassis slowly turned to rust whilst the machine was left to decay in the garden for three months. Eventually, an engine was procured from a crashed Dresda chassis. The owner told me it was well tuned and probably wouldn’t work with the cumbersome 3 into 4 original exhaust that my machine sported.

In went the engine, after half an hour it started up with the usual cloud of blue smoke. There was a terrible engine rattle. Main bearings were shot. One exchange crankshaft later and I had a working machine, albeit one that had cost a total of £2600 to get on the road. I was to learn that you can buy very nice ones for £500 to £750 if you know what you are doing.

The motor seemed constipated below 5000rpm and then took off like a tornado jet to about 8000rpm when the whole machine shook with fierce vibes. I checked the engine mounting bolts and managed to snap the front one off when tightening it up. | bought some studding and cut it to suit. The vibes were still there but between 70 and 95mph it was surprisingly smooth. The triple cylinder wail was still present though very muted by screaming stroker standards.

There were newish Koni shocks out back, so no problems there and the front forks were surprisingly taut for an ancient Japanese — perhaps the owner hadn’t 'been lying when he claimed to have refurbished them with stiffer springs. What was causing a certain amount of flex was bodged up swinging arm bearings. On disassembly these consisted of Tinadite - a mixture of a dismembered beer can and Araldite, contrived to get me out of town before the lack of stability became very obvious.

Once fixed, handling was revealed as adequate up to the ton. It weaved on fast motorways but never dangerously and always predictably, unlike its bedfellow, the old Kawa 750 triple which would go berserk at the merest hint of backing off the throttle. Much to my dismay, it could not keep up with my mate’s GS500 in anything resembling a curve, its slow handling nature made me feel like I was trying to control some huge artic.

Everywhere I looked signs of Araldite bodging were obvious. Stripped threads? No problem, permanently glue the screws in. There were even traces of the damn stuff in the rear drum brake casting. After two weeks on the road I decided I was riding a potential death trap and had no choice but to strip it down to the frame. A month later I had fixed all of the multitude of minor problems and felt safe to go for a long ride without fearing that the machine would dump me on the road.

The bike was useful for sensible cruising, a bit heavy and wide for fast town work and too hefty for B road madness. It made a kind of sense as a moderate tourer, except that it would only do 35mpg and 200mpp. | didn’t really like the power characteristics of the tuned motor, I would have preferred more low down stomp as in the standard set up. It was possible to pile on the revs and drop the clutch if you wanted to impress with wild wheelies. The grating noise from the clutch and the almost uncontrollable feel of the machine once on the back wheel soon dissuaded me from such pleasurable pursuits.

I had some enjoyable outings on the machine. 200 to 300 miles a day was no great problem, more than that was rather uncomfortable as the seat went very hard. I replaced the cowhorns with flat bars and fitted some rearsets - this made the bike much more practical on the motorway, previously I had felt like I had found an obscure and very painful way of muscle building.

My friends all thought I was mad to pay so much money to ride around on such an ancient stroker and took great delight in burning me off with their 250 race reptiles. I did 22000 miles in two and a half years, the engine proving surprisingly reliable in that time, although the five speed gearbox lost most of its slickness and vibes started coming in at 6000rpm.

Consumables were good and bad. Tyres lasted well, over 10000 miles (on Roadrunners) at each end but the chain was a different matter, lasting less than half that mileage and requiring an incredible amount of adjusting and oiling. The twin front discs offered incredible stopping power some times, other times fading to nothing. Similarly, pad life varied from 5000 to 14000 miles. Replacing one of the calipers that had been repaired, once again, with Araldite, helped a bit, as did a few lengths of Goodridge hose and bleeding the system with new fluid. However, there were still occasions when the machine went suicidal and the braking disappeared. Engine braking was minimal, slewing to a stop on the rear drum was the final desperate manoeuvre left.

I came off the bike three times. All caused by mad motorists doing stupid things. I only hit a car once, when the auto turned into my path as I was overtaking. Luckily, the angle of attack was such to heavily dent his wing and merely scratch the GT. Yes, it did put me in a good mood after I got over the shakes. The other two times, I managed to swerve around the encroaching vehicle, finding the Kettle didn't like gravel or mud. Neither did I for that matter. It was the kind of machine that could be kicked straight with a bit of muscle, although engine bars were mandatory to avoid writing off the alternator or crank.

I took the bike up to Scotland from London, the only problem when the fuel line came off and dumped fresh petrol all over the hot engine. On one occasion the watercooled motor did burn off nearly all its coolant. I was put wise to this by the power falling off drastically as the engine overheated. Still, it didn't seem to do any damage internally. The other incident that springs to mind was when the petrol tank came off as I was riding along. The spigots had rusted away! Bungee cords got me home that time.

I did try a set of expansion chambers but they moved the power band up to 6000rpm and all grunt disappeared lower down. It went wild at six grand and probably would have revved past 10000rpm had not the vibration become so fierce at 9000rpm that my forward vision became dangerously blurred. It was almost impossible to ride in town, made the most dreadful racket that not even ear plugs could dim, and returned an astonishing 22mpg. Putting the old system back on took two days of sheer frustration!

Over the term of my ownership, the finish started to degenerate. I  went through huge quantities of Solvol and wore my fingers to the bone trying to keep the bike looking reasonable. Even so, by the time I sold it, the bike looked well worn out and I only got £500. I had started advertising it at £1500 and gradually had to keep lowering the price, the first response coming at £725! To sell an old Jap for big money you have to be very lucky, few people want to buy them as classics.

There is a reasonable motorcycle in there somewhere, but ignore the classic tag - smaller bikes go faster, are more economical and less trouble. I certainly had some good times on mine, but it was not very good value for money. I won't be buying another unless one comes up for 100 to 200 notes.

David Willis

Loose Lines [Issue 38, Sept/Oct '92]

I keep seeing an incredible amount of British machinery on the road, although not one of the new Triumphs (quite a few in the local showroom). These old Brits are mostly Bonnies and A65s in radically different states of health and ridden by a disparate bunch of characters. From an immaculate late sixties Bonnie ridden by an OAP to a youth who looked as bad as his rat A65. Unfortunately, mounted as I invariably am on Jap crap they look upon my enquiries of why they are riding British stuff with something approaching total disdain, so | can't offer much enlightenment as to what is exactly going down.

I have not seen so many British bikes about since my youth when you could buy the things new, men were men and knew what a kickstart was for... and indeed I had probably the worst six months of my motorcycle life trying to run a recalcitrant Triton 650, which put me off the breed for the rest of my life. I know that a well put together Triumph twin is worth owning but it’s not something I can justify at the entry level prices demanded, even if classic prices have fallen rapidly over the past couple of years.

There's also a surprising mass of mid seventies Japanese middleweights, like CB550s, XS650s and GS550s, in remarkably good shape rather than the usual rats run on a shoestring - these are the kind of people who buy the cast off, worn out tyres and chains and have turned the use of Araldite into a new religion (wonderful stuff that it is). Again, there is a mixture of motivations behind the survival of these decent Japs, some have been stored away for a decade or more; others have been renovated from the wheel rims up. They are not very fast nor particularly economical but they are otherwise cheap to keep on the road, no more complex than a B25 and rather more reliable.

The other pleasant surprise is the number of kids who are suddenly taking to commuter style 100s and 125s (although as 14 year old school children are known as students I should perhaps use a more sterling term for 17 year olds). Judging by some of their antics the compulsory basic training isn’t much cop - they are as unpredictable as a Volvo driven by a deaf and blind woman (no offence, girls, but some grand dame gave me heart palpitations a few hours ago when she turned left after indicating right - only my willingness to take to the pavement saved the day) but they will doubtless learn the hard way or end up dead.

The statistics say less and less new learner machines are being sold, but as with the British stuff I've never seen so many about. Although sales of new motorcycles are down, there is anecdotal evidence to suggest that the older bikes are changing hands more often, even desperate old hacks gaining a new lease of life courtesy of engines from breakers.

This resurgence of motorcycling (though not of the UMG sales figures - sob!) is probably down to the effects of the depression. British bike owners finding in their garages a very cheap way to get around, old Japanese middleweights being put back into use rather than scrapped and the youths forced on to bikes because they can’t afford anything else and daddy can’t cough up for a nice safe car for them.

| see ever diminishing numbers of race replicas on the road, which is sad in a way as they are hugely enjoyable to ride fast, and in ten years time they will probably be a lost breed. Once their engines fail few people will have the resources or expertise to do a rebuild. They could be the first generation of the truly disposable motorcycles (Jap bikes have been described thus since the sixties but were then better engineered and no more complex than British bikes) although judging by the numbers that find their way into breakers at least one, if not two, engine transplants will be possible before they are dead meat.

Car sales were well down last year but I find it surprising that they managed to sell even one car - there seem to about five times as many cars as the roads can take (and I tend not to ride when the rush hours are in full flow) - | think a combination of stringent MOT tests (emission tests will get all the old wrecks off the roads) and £500 a year road tax for cars bigger than a Mini, and £1000 for cars bigger than an Escort, would sort things out. Real discouragement to the GTi brigade would be a compulsory five year training period in an electric car limited to 50mph with an appearance no more attractive than an invalid carriage. Some hope!

Not that motorcycles can be considered Green, although many in the industry desperately clutching at straws would have us think so. If we all commuted to work along the shortest routes aboard C90s, and the like, doubtless claims could me made for minimal pollution and wonderful economy, but when the sun’s shining my five minute jaunt to the local shop tends to get extended by a couple of hours, a circular tour of my favourite roads at indecent speed results in a totally unnecessary journey and fuel economy that would have the average Metro owner writing to his MP in enraged complaint.

The only thing green in that kind of journey are the car drivers who get burnt off. I know many owners of fast and furious machinery who get up an hour or two early to take the long route into work (a bit difficult for me as I only have to walk down the stairs from bedroom to office) in a riot of conspicuous consumption. After paying four, five or six grand for a race reptile it’s the only decent thing to do!

The insidious nature of motorcycling affects everyone who aspires to something greater than a scooterette (scooterat would be a more appropriate term); I don’t even have to ask the juvenile delinquents on the 125s if they are actually going anywhere in particular on a sunny evening because I know damn well that the destination doesn’t really matter, it's getting there with the widest possible grin and a clean pair of underpants that really counts.

The really clever thing to do, if you're into selling lots of motorcycles, is to produce an entry level machine that on the face of it is the perfect commuter. Youths could reassure parents that it was a perfectly safe way of getting around and married men could tell wives to think of all the money they would save which would buy new carpets, kitchens, etc. Beneath its Plain Jane looks, incorporating effective weather protection, the machine would have reasonable suspension, decent geometry and an engine that could double its 12hp power by something as simple as a change of throttle cable.

It would only take a few days to have an effect, car drivers would be won over easily by its ability to filter through the mass of stalled cars and youths thrilled by its power (I can remember being thrilled doing 30mph on an NSU Quickly, though not by doing the same speed on a friend’s ancient scooter in his back yard and being rudely stopped by a tree). The key to such a subversive campaign is very simple....and I may as well tell you as it's unlikely in the extreme that I will ever be in a position to pull it off - our commuter in 12hp guise will have an amazingly economical engine at a steady 30mph.

Never mind that this is hardly relevant to road usage, advertising is all about lying - the ability to print 200mpg in banner headlines would have such a shock effect on anyone who read it that an overnight conversion would surely occur. Probably not, as to get the price right whoever produced it would need to sell over 100000 bikes a year (a paltry figure compared to the outrageous numbers of cars sold even in a bad year, but rather more than the entire motorcycle sales, so far has the game fallen) just in the UK. The risk is huge, for you or I, but for some obscenely profitable multi national just loose change and surely better than just sitting back, letting the numbers on the road decline and decline until motorcycling becomes no more popular than hang gliding.

Personally, I couldn’t give a shit. I am quite happy to have the only motorcycle in my street; the way things are going mass produced Japanese motorcycles are going to become so rare that they’ll have all the cachet of a hand built special. I very rarely see anyone on the same model and colour of machine that I own, although its sales are regularly in the top ten. Unfortunately, if the number of motorcyclists goes too low there are political and technological implications that bode very ill for anyone who wants to ride free on ever faster and more outrageous machinery.

Bill Fowler

Yamaha SR125

Breakers are weird chaps at the best of times. My local merchant acts like he doesn't need any business and threatens to set his dogs on me when I wander in to pick my way through his wrecks. Looking for a 125 in need of attention I have taken to stopping off in his back lane garage every evening on the way home. The only time he has something decent in stock he demands silly money and when I point out that I can pick up a machine that hasn’t been crashed for less money, he becomes very abusive, questioning the nature of my parentage and threatening to let the hounds off their leads.

After about a month of this I had evidently worn him down, he let me take a Yam SR125 off his hands for 300 notes. The front forks were mangled, the wheel cracked and the switches shattered, but the damage had not gone any deeper. I flicked through the back pages of MCN, phoning up likely contenders until I found an LC125 front end in good shape - SR ones were impossible, breakers telling me no chance or more usually, piss off, sonny. I screamed abuse at them from the safety of the other end of the phone. Of course, the forks didn't fit straight on, even after being bashed with my heavy duty hammer. My father’s friend, a Vincent enthusiast (as opposed to collector) was persuaded to use his engineering skills (he had what amounted to a small engineering works in his garage, apparently necessary to keep the British beast on the road) to effect a reconciliation. The only cost of this was enduring a few evenings worth of reminiscences along the lines of when I was a lad and beer was thruppence a pint... devious use of a Walkman, heavy metal music and the occasional interested nod of my head got me through that one.

The SR was far from my first bike, various vile C90s and MZ 125s having formed my youthful impressions of motorcycling. Relative to these horrors the Yam went exceptionally well, although the chop riding position with my knees up around my earlobes required a new kind of attitude - well, I am 6’4". Top speed was an indicated 75mph and stability felt fine to me, although I suppose the back wheel did weave a little bit.

An epic long weekend in which I did over a 1000 miles with a 16 year old girl on the back convinced me of the machine’s sturdiness and that there were few better ways of achieving a rapid rapport with one's loved one. Mind you, after 400 miles in a day of sitting on the SR my muscles had moved beyond mere cramp and only the ministrations of the woman saved me from screaming agony.

Maintenance was regular but simple, the Vincent owner helped on occasion and proved a dab hand with a fag paper. He rode the bike around the block and pronounced it not that bad for a rice burner (I was never allowed even on the hallowed saddle of the Vinnie). Oil changes were done every 1000 miles, although after about 400 miles the gearchange action started to degenerate but I could not afford to change the lubricant more frequently.

In six months I did 22000 miles, a mixture of fun and commuting, the kind of mileage the Vinnie didn’t do in six years and after which it would require a full rebuild. With 34000 miles on the clock the Yamaha just shrugged it off as if it was nothing. When I bragged to the Vinnie owner about its apparent indestructible nature he went off in a huff muttering something about what the Japanese did to prisoners in the war.

At that time I was seduced by a Honda CBX550 which also ran faultlessly for three months and then wrecked its engine. The SR was pulled out from the back of the garage and started up second kick. I missed the exhilarating performance of the CBX (cue for excessive cc owners to smirk) but soon adjusted myself to the relaxed pace of the SR. The little workhorse purred along for another 17000 miles. It was so reliable that I thought it must surely soon self destruct but it kept on going regardless.

I then decided to do Europe on the machine. Everyone told me I was a fool, that it was too old and had too many miles on the clock, but I did not care. It rolled through France, Italy, Spain and Portugal, gradually losing power until with 62000 miles on the clock it seized up, ten miles outside Lisbon.

The police offered me the choice of a night in the cells (for vagrancy) or handing over what was left of the SR to them. I flew home, depressed and distressed amid a plane load of lager louts who regaled anyone who would listen with tales of breaking up bars and raping recalcitrant women. By the time we hit Gatwick I was proud of the fact that | was 75% lrish rather than white trash English. I celebrated my return to the Kingdom my signing my life away on the hp... for an SR125, naturally.

John Hayes

More Instructin'

“You’re not a real biker until you've fell off,” said the meanest son of a bitch standing over me. These curious words of wisdom did little to ease the pain in my left buttock, which had taken the full impact from 30mph. My pride and joy, a CB250K3, had come to rest some 20 yards away. The usual damage of tank, silencer and indicators screaming for more of my hard earned cash.

The huge creature had arrived on the scene before I had come to my senses. He seemed to take some perverse pleasure in seeing me trying to pick myself off the tarmac. Perhaps he was of the opinion that he has witnessed the birth of a real biker. He slammed down the gear lever of his machine and screamed off to the nearest pub to tell a tale of another learner being christened.

That was over 15 years ago but the scar still exists. Looking back I cringe at the things I got away with. The near misses. It wasn't until I realised that some people who ride motorcycles don’t fall off that I thought that perhaps I was doing something wrong. Just because you can get from A to B without any mishaps doesn’t mean you can ride a motorcycle properly.

It was time to get some help. At that time the only training scheme in the area was the now defunct RAC/ACU course. I had by this time passed my test, two laps around the test centre clockwise, then anti-clockwise and one emergency stop affair, but was still an awful rider. Just to make things interesting I decided to become an instructor...

The course I attended all three instructors were plod who knew the theory backwards (as embodied in the bible of motorcycle control, Roadcraft) as they rode the theory eight hours a day; they knew every trick in the book, and a few besides. Picture the scene - a summer’s evening in a mid Cheshire market town in the car park of the local high school stands a line of twelve machines. Two BMWs, three Kwackers, four Honda 750s, a Gold Wing, a 750 Guzzi and last, but not least, right at the very end, yours truly’s MZ TS250.

Inside the school the owners discuss the aims of the lesson ahead. This is week three and the stage has been reached where the instructors are going to stooge, that is they are to take on the character of a learner. Bear in mind, that your imagination is being asked to be stretched. A large gentleman in what looks amazingly like police issue clothing, riding a big, expensive machine is asking you to believe he is about to become a 17 year old lad riding a TZR125, which he has had for three months. The lad admits to you that he is on the course because his parents have threatened to take the bike off him if he doesn’t learn to ride it properly - i.e. not to bounce it off bus stops once a week. The lad’s name, you are told, is Kevin.

The character is based on a real person, or as your instructor who is about to become this person puts it, he's the biggest dickhead on two wheels. And with that, the tall handsome person standing straight in front of you suddenly goes limp. His shoulders fall, his hands go deeply into his trouser pockets and his jaw drops together with his eyelids. He is now Kevin.

You are taught to take control of the situation. However because you are still learning you forget things. Make a mistake with Kevin and you end up looking a right pillock. Having gone through the theory with Kevin you inform him that it is time to set off on the road. Mistake number one is not making sure you tell your pupil to wait until you are ready. I forgot and so Kevin mounted his TZR125, heavily modified to look like a BMW 100RT, blasted off at warp factor speed to the end of the road and then disappeared.

My modest mount worked hard that night. I eventually caught Kevin, overtook him and waved him down. We were now in the town centre, early Friday evening. I had had enough of this bastard Kevin and his antics. Rule number two, if your pupil does something stupid or dangerous give him both barrels. I marched back towards Kevin, who sat with the most stupid of grins across his face, with a finger stuck well and truly up his nose.

“You fucking dickhead! Are you some sort of arsehole or what? What was that all about? From now on you will do as you are fucking told or I'm going to kick your back passage from one end of this road to the other. Got it straight?” Kevin looked as though he was going to cry. His jaw started to wobble and he muttered something about his dad. He was however going to behave himself from then on. That would do for me and I turned to return to the MZ.

Standing in line across the pavement next to my bike were two middle-aged couples, a foursome in their best togs going out on the town. All four had their mouths open in awe at what they had witnessed. What is the world coming to when an officer of the law sits there and takes that abuse, starting to cry and whinge for his dad? They hurried away as soon as I approached them. If only I had a camera!

This kind of thing went on for seven weeks. The final lesson was The Test. To give the course credibility we were tested by none other than the police motorcycle examiners. They had not seen us before and so we had to show them we had indeed become worthy of the coveted Instructors Certificate. The test was basically as per the course. They rode behind you to check your standard of riding and then they would stooge in front of you. You either pass or fail, there are no grey areas with these guys. I failed! Nerves had got the better of me on the night. I had to return the following week and go through it all over again. This time I passed. What did I fail on? I changed gear at the wrong time, too early and too fast, causing the machine to lurch when the clutch was engaged, a typical learner trick.

The cost of the instructor’s course at that time was £85, however the cost was met by the Cheshire Motorcycle Training Association. In return it was agreed that I would do my first course as an instructor free of charge, the expenses I would have earned going towards the cost of the course. With the introduction of CBT the expenses are a lot less because less hours are needed. The expenses might just cover the cost of running some hyperbike but arming yourself with the humble MZ may well find enough left to treat yourself to a new pair of boots.

In the days before CBT, novice riders could be met by an instructor at the shop where he or she had bought their machine. They would be given, what we in the trade called a First Time Buyers Course. A two hour introduction to the machine and the road. Included in the price was an escort home, which as you can imagine was a good selling point to worried parents.

On one particular occasion, one of our instructors had arranged to meet a young lad who was taking delivery of a new 125 TZR. Our man arrived at the shop at the pre-arranged time of 2.30 on a Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately, the pupil didn't turn up until after 3.30. It was obvious from the start that the pupil did not have the experience of riding he claimed. A quick spin around a field on a C90 step thru was nearer the truth.

And, so it was right back to the basics. By the end of the two hours the lad was still unable to move off without dumping the clutch and stalling the machine. The shop was closed and it was not a good idea to abandon the machine during the night. Another hour’s instruction passed and yet another hour came and went. Things were little better and it was nearly eight o'clock.

Both the pupil’s mother and the instructor’s wife had rung up to ask after their missing men. The booking officer was worried, the instructor’s wife was very worried and the pupil’s wife was so worried she was ringing the police to see if any motorcycle accidents had been reported. Unfortunately, there had been and the near hysterical lady was phoning all the local hospitals.

By the time the pupil returned home after nine o'clock his mother was absolutely crazy with worry, the instructor’s wife half crazed from the stiff drinks she'd been taking and the booking officer fearing the worst. That's just one example of an instructor’s weird and wonderful life. Machine condition is another.

An overheating GP100 with a top speed of 20mph down to a rear brake that was adjusted so tight that even the full force of the large instructor couldn’t turn the wheel. The H100 which made a pinging noise as the chain was as tight and dry as piano wire. The CB125 with a seat held on with insulation tape, a rack tied on with string, a rear brake seized on and a headlamp that was falling apart.

A year old TZR with a high pitched front brake that forced everyone within a hundred yards to stick their fingers in their ears - the pads had been chucked and the caliper pistons used instead! The CB125T with a crack running across the top of the engine, the motor held in place by one bolt and the spark plug leads! And, on and on...

G.A.

Despatches: Life outside Shit City

Picture the scene. It’s 6.30 on a cold March evening, I've just come off the M1 at junction 25. I'm heading into Derby on the A52, to deliver lab equipment to a food factory, which they told the office was urgently needed, though God knows why!

The bike is buzzing happily beneath me, everything is working great, the crisp air swishing past my helmet. I glance at the trip meter, it shows 860 miles that I have covered today. As much as I love riding motorcycles, the place I really want to be is home, The problem with that is that it's a two hour ride northwards and I’ve still to reach my drop off point in Derby, which will probably take the best part of an hour to find, then ten minutes to find someone to sign my docket. I've been on the go for 12 hours and I'm absolutely knackered, but again I won’t reach home until about 9.30-10.00 o'clock.

This is the typical DR scenario and I've just about had all the bullshit I can take that’s been written about despatching in the last few months. So, I thought, let’s cut out all the crap and try to give an honest account of the job and lay to rest a few myths as we go.

Now don’t get me wrong, first and foremost I have always had an affinity with motorcycles, having had one in my possession continuously over the past 12 years as my only form of transport. These machines have been of various makes and capacities, but mainly they have been Japanese, and have given me many hours of biking fun and experience.

However, after a year's despatching my biking enjoyment has waned considerably, no more do I eagerly rush to don my favourite bike jacket and lid, rush excitedly out to straddle my machine and blaze off into the distance. In fact, I give the thing the widest berth that I can manage. Having finished work on a Friday night the bike is locked away and I try to forget about it. Difficult, when you know that the oil and filter desperately need changing and cables need adjusting - these maintenance jobs will have to be done by you in your spare time over the now too short weekends, to save money on dealer servicing. It’s at times like these that you think, why do I do it? And start thinking about all the other jobs you could be doing, then you remember the money you‘re making is infinitely better than you get from the SS every fortnight.

If I was asked what I thought of despatching I would honestly have to say it's one of the worst jobs around, in the top five with shit tester at a sewage works and test rider of Superdreams. Well, if you budding DRs aren’t put off, the diatribe (or should that be diarrhoea) will continue...

The only reason I got into despatching was due to a particularly long stretch of unemployment, and the only way I could think of getting off the dole was to go self employed at something, as other jobs (as you might have heard) in the North East are difficult to come by. A hasty look into window cleaning, market stall holding and other avenues came to nothing. Then whilst browsing through the arse end of MCN I saw the DRs wanted column. I wonder how many fellow motorcyclists have been catapulted into DR’ing in a similar fashion?

Of course, they were all for London, and I was a 60 mile commute from the major cities up here, but that didn’t put me off. The bank manager was surprisingly amenable to lending me a couple of thousand to buy a bike, although he needed proof of a job offer and insisted on life insurance as well as bike insurance (Bennetts of Coventry do a specific policy for DRs). The aforementioned insurance comes in handy, especially when you're zooming along the M18, happen to glance around and note that the package you so meticulously bungeed into place has done a Paul Daniels and pissed off to who knows where.

You will also be given a dubious document to sign by the DR company telling you that you are advised to see to your own income tax and national insurance contributions (remember you're self employed) and other rules and regulations, and that you will not undertake any other work for rival companies, etc.

Bike choice is obviously important and can make or break the whole venture. After considerable thought and experience I've come to the conclusion that a twin (for low maintenance costs) of 500-550cc capacity (for low running costs) with shaft drive (for obvious reasons) is ideal for a mixture of town and long run work. Any smaller causes suffering on the motorway, any bigger means huge expense with regards to consumables, so these limits in machinery should be adhered to as closely as possible.

The rates of pay in the North East and North Yorkshire fall way below that of London, and unless you know your way around the city in which you're based then you’ll be lucky to make a hundred quid a week for the first month. After you've bought a decent bike, bike gear, insurance, throw-overs or rigid panniers, you’ll be lucky to have enough left over after paying off the loan to meet the running costs at the start.

I didn’t take this into account when I started, although my wife did (there is a lesson there, listen to wives, they're always right). From my home to work was roughly 58 miles there (about a gallon of petrol) and the same back, five days a week. That's nearly 600 miles a week (I must be flaming mental) before I even earnt anything (which cost about £20).

I was subbing right, left and centre from the boss. Luckily, the first week I knew most of the routes well and did OK. For town work it was £1 a drop, usually in batches of three, at all other times it was around 35p per mile going, and if you're running empty on the way back, tough shit. Although whenever possible I did tout for business from other firms that wanted stuff bringing northwards when I'd been sent to London or Slough.

To give you some idea what you'd get, say York to Leeds, roughly 21 miles, equates to around £7.35. York to London (200 miles) worked out at £70. However, only the keenest of riders get the best runs, those who turn up late or give the boss a lot of shit are left out in he cold a lot.

It is advisable to carry balls of string and loads of bungee cords, as you never know what you will be asked to carry. I remember being asked to do a job from Newcastle to Selby, carrying a bearing for a machine in a mine, when I picked this up, to my horror, it weighed roughly six stones and was about two feet in diameter. No way would it fit into my panniers so it was strapped into place behind me. The seat padding disappeared to nothing and the parcel had cut big chunks out of my leathers and backside.

I would also go for GRP panniers, as throw-overs, although good, will disintegrate before your eyes after three or four months. Road grime, oil, water, dog piss and other pollutants all take their toll. It’s also a good idea to fit a rear carrier as this helps with large items.

I would not recommend a top box because the handling deteriorates, they look bloody silly and I have never liked them! Being in city traffic all day, five days a week is trying and stressful. I guarantee a tumble is on the cards. This usually happens on a Tuesday morning when you're still half asleep and giving the bike just too much throttle, exiting a junction has the back end step out and you falling heavily on to the road. If you're not wearing good gear, instead of picking yourself up, rescuing your machine and carrying on your way, you‘re down to casualty with a dose of salt and blistered arse. Be warned, buy some decent leathers, boots and gloves.

Most of the deliveries are mundane paper work, a lot of insurance documents, passports, artwork, photographic equipment, false teeth, legal docs and more. Dreadfully boring really. City work entails getting lost a lot (wasting time, money and petrol) and much bantering with base on the radio (rented at £5 to £10 a week). The radio is hung on your chest in front of the bib (compulsory wear, emblazoned as it is with the company name) - if by some unfortunate accident you drop the hand held bit of high tech, walk the other way and plead innocence, as they are expensive to repair or replace, or just sneak it back into the office and nick someone else's!

With northern dialect being strong, as the editor will know (Eh? I come from Cardiff - Ed), living in Welsh Wales, speech that is not northern dialect, the phonetic code, is used quite a lot just to be understood. You know the kind of thing, the cops use it - Alpha, Bravo, Charlie (you’ll feel a right prat at first talking into the silly thing in the middle of a busy shopping precinct, with people thinking you're completely off your trolley, looking as you do like a bloody Martian with all your gear on), Delta, Echo, etc. Still, if you do decide to work up here it would be worth learning and it does come in handy from time to time.

Wear and tear on the bike is amazing. Since starting this job I have nightmares about the amounts of tyres, chains, oil and cables that get rapidly worn out. Tyres can be absolutely blitzed in five or six weeks along with chains. Oil I religiously change every thousand miles - this can be every two or three days, so we're talking big miles here. The good thing about all these items is that they can be set against the dreaded income tax, as can motorcycle gear, petrol, etc, but it still has to be budgeted for in the first instance.

Remember then, that even if you enjoy, no, absolutely adore bikes, this is not the most pleasant job in the world as some people would have you believe. Riding in all weathers, for long periods, when you think the day has ended, the clock in the office says it's time to go but the phone goes and a job for some place you’ve never heard of comes in - as the sole survivor of the day in the office off you go, it's up to you to get the parcel there.

It is at times like this when your hands and wrists are aching from thousands of clutch and brake operations that have taken place over the past eight hours, not to mention your lower back, thighs and bum that you start to question your mental state.

If you do manage to work for a decent firm, it's possible to make a reasonable living, which these days is no mean feat in itself, but after a year of this wiping politicians' arses is looking more and more like the career move of a lifetime!

Beeza

Suzuki GS750

What can you do? All your mates are completely mad buggers. whose idea of a standing start take off from the lights is to drop the clutch with the tacho in the red, front wheel way up in the air and back end snaking around madly. Well, yes, all you can do is join in...

That was how I broke my GS750's clutch, exactly 48 miles after taking delivery of my seven year old, 12000 mile machine. Oh hell! When I say broke I mean BROKE! The clutch basket must've exploded asunder. The engine noise of graunching metal had me kneading my prayer beads and cursing youthful high spirits. Among other things, which included kicking in the head of a stray poodle that tried to piss over the front wheel of the oh so dead machine.

Have you ever been towed behind a hot rod Z650? Probably not. The trouble was his engine didn't run below 6000rpm and then exploded into demon power. We proceeded homewards in a series of shoulder dislocating lurches. Five miles later I was back in the garage.
 
You probably know the scene well. it you don’t what are doing reading the UMG? Most of the sidecase screws come off easily, one or two refuse to budge despite using an impact driver in conjunction with a 10lb sledgehammer. The screw heads are a total mess. The driver slips off the edge and you scream in agony when the hammer whacks your thumb. By the way, the bruised nail took two months to grow out.

Eventually the carnage was revealed, the debris cleaned out of the motor, a few prayers said in the hope that bits didn't get circulated through the motor. A complete but secondhand clutch from a breaker cost £25 and the ever so tough DOHC engine was persuaded back into life.

For the next 250 miles I was well paranoid, imagining all kinds of engine noises and riding with my hand on the clutch in case the engine seized up solid suddenly. But it didn’t. I gave up trying to match my mates in the traffic light GPs. They eventually toned down their madness when the lead bike got it wrong, careered off at an angle, causing a mass pile up. I was the only one who didn't fall off. Laugh? I pissed myself!

The GS ran without any problems for the next 1800 miles when the rear disc locked on solid. l was doing about 50mph when it happened and slowed to a stop, doing a speedway type skid when the bike hit the grass. At least I had a soft landing. After the usual screaming of abuse and waving my scorched hand in the air, I learnt never to touch a disc after it had locked up. It was glowing red so I should have known better. Removal of the caliper, aided by a large stone, solved that problem. By the time I arrived home the hydraulic fluid had eaten its way through the rear tyre to the carcass. Perhaps me mum had been right about buying a nice little Metro! The rear disc was badly warped, whether this caused or was a result of the rear wheel lock up I don't know. The back brake had never been much use, anyway, so until I could find a cheap secondhand one I ran around without a rear brake. I was stopped by a cop once and he didn't even notice!

500 miles later the engine started making a horrible clacking noise. The automatic camchain tensioner had stuck on, a few whacks with a hammer sorted that. Performance appeared to have disappeared at the top end. Previously, 130mph was possible, now it was struggling up to 115mph. There was also a lot of blue smoke on the overrun. I was later to run into a previous owner who told me that he had 39000 miles on the clock when he sold the machine, so it had done at least 42000 if not 52000 miles!

800 miles further down the road the vibes increased markedly throughout the rev range, it felt like I was on a pile driver. Engine out, head off, after the usual curses and bruised knuckles. Fucking cheap Japanese bolts and alloy. There were a couple of cracks in the cylinder head and the top of one piston was badly pitted. The only good thing was that it didn't need a rebore.

The motor ran well after several bits had been replaced from a breaker. It cost about £80 to fix, which I suppose wasn't too bad. The front discs seized up 300 miles later. The calipers appeared to have seized together and proved impossible to strip. As the front forks were sloppy, a Katana 1100 front end was bunged on, which got rid of a hundred notes.

The handling was a bit better; it had previously shook its head viciously coming out of bends, and this now occurred at very high speeds. Stability was generally acceptable, although the bike was thrown about by large bumps.

Despite these problems, I did not hesitate to take the GS on a 2200 mile jaunt to Germany and France. My mates also rode big air-cooled fours, seven bikes roaring across the landscape on open pipes. The rear Metz only lasted 3750 miles, which meant I had to replace it in Germany. That was OK because they are cheaper over there, and the dealer even removed and refitted the wheel for no extra charge. Bikers are treated as human beings on the continent instead of scum like over here.

By the time I got back to the UK, the chain was dragging on the ground, teeth were missing off the rear sprocket and the engine was misfiring below 3000rpm. I rode it in that condition for another 400 miles as I couldn't afford to replace the chain at that time. When I finally stumped up for a new C&S set, the battery kept losing its charge and the engine cut out below 5000rpm.

The dreaded electrical demise had affected the dear old GS. I rode around on a total loss system, after disconnecting the evidently shot alternator. I had two batteries and kept switching them over. The bike would do about 50 miles on a battery if you didn't use any lights, indicators or horn. It was OK for commuting, but I couldn't go off with my mates.

A weekend on the pillion of a mate's bike frightened me so much that the next day I sent off for an exchange alternator and starting phoning around for a reg/rec unit. No change of the latter, but a Superdream item wired up OK, and 17500 miles later its still there.

I kept the bike going even after buying a Z1000. I rode the bigger bike for two years, but when I got married sold it and went back to the GS. After the Z, the GS felt agile but slow. The engine was pouring out smoke again, but not just on the overrun this time. A rebore was needed, but a GSX750 came along at just the right moment.

A brief pause here. I don't really want to talk about fitting the GSX engine in the GS frame. Suffice to say, a welding torch, access to a lathe and use of a big hammer were necessary. The bike was off the road for about three weeks. The new machine went like crazy for about 2500 miles, then seized up solid. I had stripped the GS engine down in readiness for a rebuild, so I did that as quickly as possible.

The bike felt slow and ponderous when it went back together. I had outgrown the GS750, it no longer provided me with the necessary kicks, and I had little faith left in the engine. I had put it up for sale just prior to writing this, and started looking for something faster.

Overall, it was a good introduction to big biking. I wasn't that impressed with the engine toughness, but it may just have been that I purchased an engine with a very high mileage and one that had already finished its useful life. Unfortunately, that's probably true of most GS750s these days, so buying a used one is a minefield. I have found that newer Kawasaki air-cooled fours, even the little GPz550, are a better bet as you can get lower mileage ones for the same money.

George King