I don’t know who was coldest. The rumbling MZ or myself, shivering like I was about to crumble into a thousand pieces. Whose damn fool idea had it been to buy a motorcycle in January, anyway? Especially one so distant, needing a 50 mile trot through the country covered with an icy, foggy mist. The only consolation was that as the only one idiotic enough in the country to venture outdoors I had managed to grab an ETZ300 in prime nick for 300 notes, not bad for a three year old in 1990.
On that trip home I was to learn a lot about MZs. On Kraut tyres I found the handling exceptional over very nasty going - the tarmac was either treacherously damp or just plain icy. The riding position was so natural that I was soon as one with the machine. Progress was often down to walking pace. At times necessary to put both feet on the deck as I kept thinking the bike was surely going to flip sideways, but it never even came close - I had to wait until a bit later until we violently slid down the road.
As my hands and feet began to freeze solid I began to thank the gods that the little two stroke single was lacking in a serious powerband, necessitating much mad clutch and gearbox action... instead, I was able to leave her in fourth for most of the time, gently rolling on and off the throttle as required. The well oiled and totally enclosed final drive was snatch free even at walking pace - had it been in the open air I felt sure it would have seized solid before I'd got half a mile down the road.
It was that kind of day. I tried to fill my mind with Zen thoughts of hot, balmy beach times and roaring fires but failed dismally to convince, first, my extremities and then my whole body that they were not about to expire from exposure.
The concerned owner had offered to fit a full fairing for an extra fifty quid, but I had dismissed this wimpish offer out of hand... not that I had fifty quid to spare. I now cursed the government for my reduced state of affairs and in my mind, in a way totally lacking in Zen, burnt various ministers at the stake. But even this failed to warm me up.
The first problem emerged after a mere 22 miles. The front disc, Brembo caliper and all, seized solid. I had already found that it was tremendously powerful, as likely to send the wheel into a wild skid over the unkind surface as to bring me to a gradual, safe halt. So I had mostly relied on backing off the throttle and the rear brake, which had as much a wooden feel as my seized up from the cold leg, resulting in some quite spectacular slides. Such was the inherent stability in the chassis, though, that all I had to do was back off for an instant to allow the machine to flip back on to the straight and narrow.
Unfortunately, the front brake had seized on when I deemed it necessary to give it a tweak to lose some speed rapidly. Thus, we howled to a stop with frightening rapidity. MZs are tough buggers, there was no damage to the machine after it had slid down the road. Myself, I was so frozen solid that even if I'd broken a leg I doubted it would've registered! It was hell kicking the bike back into life but I somehow managed it, after taking off my glove and wielding the MZ’s copious toolkit.
A few dabs with my boot persuaded the front caliper to fly off, bounce off the forks a couple of times until the hose fell off. The front tyre took a dosing from the escaping fluid but didn’t melt on the spot. Thank God!
The journey continued with no other accidents despite or perhaps because of the lack of a working front brake. I was frozen in position, swearing my head off like a drunken seafarer, shaking so much that I couldn’t get hold of the ignition key when I finally rolled to a halt in my drive. Bike and I fell over in a heap and were only rescued by concerned neighbours, who were very understanding about the way their fence had collapsed on to their garden after being belted by my fast descending head.
Rather than put me off MZs for life, that first ride seemed to serve as a bonding ritual. Thereafter we formed a mutual admiration society. God help any wretch who laughed at my bright orange Iron Curtain wonder machine. I didn’t ride the bike again until late March... there was insurance and tax to save up for. But I cleaned and polished the Orange Pig, as I had affectionately christened her, and fixed the brake back on.
Come spring we were out on the road and ready for anything. In this case a daily grind into the office. Ten miles of horror (on always late buses) was turned into pure joy. The bike might not have much by way of power, although 25hp wasn’t that bad, but it was light (300lbs) and handled brilliantly. This down to a combination of stiff frame and taut suspension, the kind of combination mostly absent on Japanese commuters. The bike could, for instance, run rings around Benlys.
What I really liked was the precision of the front end, the feeling that the bike could be steered to within a millimetre of the required course. This soon led to a large amount of madness, as I pushed the ever so narrow MZ through increasingly small gaps in the traffic at a terrific pace. On dry roads the power of the front disc enabled amazingly rapid cut and thrust actions that left bigger bikes rolling about in my wake like stranded whales. The trip that had taken over an hour on the bus could now be done in less than ten minutes on the bike.
The time gained was put to good use, doing overtime to earn some much needed extra money.
As the summer months came on, the bike was used for running around at the weekend and in the evening. It didn't take too kindly to pillions, losing most of its acceleration and going very light at the front. I have done a couple of long trips, about 450 miles in a day. Comfort is better than could be expected, mostly down to the well balanced riding position which is as comfortable in town as it is at an 80mph cruise, which for most of the time is the practical top speed.
The second accident involved an ancient Ford Cortina that deemed it necessary to do a sudden U-turn across four lanes of traffic. We both thought that it was the other’s fault so a loud shouting match developed. The slob was about twice his proper weight and sported a horrible baseball cap which I promptly knocked off his head with a quick right hook. He didn’t get up in a hurry.
I had time to ride the MZ away, despite the fact that the forks were bent and the wheel buckled. Handling was strange, a determined grip and lot of counter-steer necessary to stop the MZ running off the road. New bits were cheap and available over the counter.
The next winter I fitted a full fairing. That one experience of poor weather had been so bad to convince me that it wasn't wimpishness but the only way to continue riding through the cold and wet months. The fairing was an ancient Rickman without a decent line to its name but it provided total body protection in the worst gales the country could hurl at it.
Handling went to pot, mind you, above 65mph but I could live with that in exchange for feet and hands that didn’t die a death after a few miles of winter riding. The bike was also badly affected by sidewinds with the huge chunk of GRP fitted. The fairing was torn off with the first hint of spring.
In the past two years there were only the two above mentioned tarmac encounters. The MZ has clocked up 19650 miles of such reliable running that there's nothing, in typical UMG style, traumatic to report. I could complain about the fuel economy, I suppose, around 45mpg, or the lack of speed for motorway work, but that would be churlish given that it has otherwise done everything demanded of it and cost next to nothing in consumables.
Spares now cost a lot more and new prices are reaching Jap levels - if I wanted to sell the MZ now I'd make a good profit on the deal. But I can’t bear to part with her!
John Slade
There is a great deal of snobbery in British bike circles. All the talk of the superior virtues of older bikes comes to nothing when you ride an Indian Enfield. The derision is worse than if you turn up on some Jap crap at a British bike event. Never mind that the Indian is virtually identical and in some aspects superior to the original Royal Enfield 350 Bullet and a fraction of the cost.
It was the cost that led me to purchase the five year old machine with just 12500 miles on the clock. The one owner was the typical old geezer with an asthmatic cough that was more powerful than the gentle wheeze emitted from the end of the Bullet's silencer at tickover. “Never had a day’s bother with ‘er,” he managed to communicate between coughs.
The long stroke motor looked brutish to my Japanese trained eyes and the way every function was reflected in its shape and lines near intoxicating. With only 17hp at 6000 revs you had to hang on to every virtue with something approaching desperation. The OHV 350cc thumper clattered and rattled a bit but it seemed generally sound. You couldn’t expect engineering perfection from such an old design.
I was soon to learn that a slight pool of oil was only to be expected. It was nothing to the mess some real Royal Oilfields left when | saw them at events - they were dropping oil by the bucketful. That the mirrors were rendered useless by the vibes was forgiven as I was hard pressed to find circumstances when I would want to break the law on the machine, so hardly needed to look out for blue flashing lights. Plod on bikes often waved as they passed, probably assuming I was a vintage freak on some ancient Brit and therefore to be humoured.
I had expected some kind of braking, though. The first time I tried to pull up to a halt nothing seemed to happen. I had to stand on the back brake and use knuckle busting pressure on the front before the SLS drums responded with some braking action. Even then the engine provided more retardation, having a lovely note on the overrun and plenty of engine braking.
The bike needed an MOT... much to my horror the local back street merchant gave the machine the OK without blinking an eyelid. The brakes were to provide many memorable moments and were eventually to be one of the main reasons why I sold the Enfield. The most disturbing was when a Sierra pulled out of a drive as I was ambling down some country lanes at a most pleasant 35mph. Even at that speed the brakes were next to useless and we only lost about 5mph before whacking the car’s door. I am happy to say that the front end of the Bullet revealed itself as quite tough. The car had a huge crease in its side, I had a slight dent to the rim, which was put to rights by a back street dealer for £20. I was able to ride the 35 miles home without too much worry.
The front end developed a slight wobble but once used to its handling the Enfield is not a difficult bike to control. Weighing only 360lbs it actually feels much heavier, down to conservative geometry and, by today’s standards, a huge front wheel. The bars are extraordinarily wide and provide loads of leverage for bend swinging but tend to take off car mirrors in traffic.
Suspension is all used up by my 20 stones, what little deflection remains only willing to act when the machine runs over a stone or through a huge pot-hole. Ride quality is poor over country roads, with the whole machine skipping over the surface to, at times, a rather alarming extent. The faster you go the worse it gets. In fact, I rarely if ever went above 60mph.
It wasn’t just the chassis that limited high speed fun but the vibration as well. Long stroke singles are not the easiest of devices in which to damp out vibration, although the Enfield’s massive flywheel subdues it to a reasonable extent below 5000 revs. Classic bike maniacs will try to assert that there is nothing wrong with a bit of vibration in a single, it just lets you know that the engine is turning over.
Try telling that to the spark plug that fell apart or the carb that fell off and nearly turned the bike into a fireball. Admittedly, I had not then gotten into the habit of going over the bike with a spanner after every trip! General maintenance was surprisingly infrequent, both valves and ignition timing staying well in tune for long periods.
As mentioned, performance was minimal and limited. There was enough punch to keep up with the flow of traffic up to around 50mph, although from that kind of speed you had to be damn sure you didn’t need to brake in a hurry. And, on a motorcycle on modern roads that was rather difficult. I didn’t even bother taking the bike on to the motorway, I knew it would be only a question of time until I was driven on to the hard shoulder by irate motorists.
The bike was pleasant enough down the back roads, where hours could be idled away gently pottering across the landscape. It took quite a while to get into the right frame of mind to successfully pilot the plot around the country but after a few months I began to adapt to the new demands of a mature riding style. Just about every other biker insisted on burning me off in no uncertain terms, but they were obviously socially deviant, poorly hung, macho mad idiots.
Riding in the rain would’ve made a lot of sense had not water found its way into the drums and the ignition system. Whether having no brakes whatsoever or no motive power was worse I never did decide. No satisfactory cure was ever found for the former but the ignition system eventually responded to being covered in a silicone based spray that was supposed to seal just about everything. At a tenner a can it bloody well ought to.
The one area where I could boast to my heart’s content was the fuel economy. Admittedly, the bike was always used mildly out of self preservation, but 80 to 90mpg was more than respectable for such an iron age motorcycle. Other consumables were equally slow in wearing out, so much so that in 13000 miles in a year I never had to pay out for anything. The engine ran just as well as when I'd bought it with no apparent internal wear.
Starting was still a ritual that required heady levels of concentration and a most macho pair of motorcycle boots. The latter also proved useful in thumping the gear lever (the neutral finder prompted the box to lock up until given a few more kicks, was therefore never used after the first couple of attempts). The four speed box was sluggish in action and I found it quicker to start off in second and boot her up to top as soon as possible. Even with my massive bulk aboard the torque laden motor did not seem to object.
Sometimes, a hot motor which had stalled due to clutch drag (in turn making it impossible to find neutral at a standstill when the engine was still running) proved most reluctant to start. A lot of coughing and spluttering would result from each increasingly desperate kick until just as I was about to collapse from total exhaustion the lump thumped into life, often with a huge backfire through the exhaust. The sound was so sudden and startling that in large cities the populace visibly cringed and one large chap (perhaps ex-army) dived for cover with a perfect roll).
The bike proved itself as a very reliable short distance commuter and was often the centre of attention when parked up. The dangerous lack of brakes (to an extent fixed on newer machines) made sure that I never suffered from either boredom or delusions of grandeur. Also, the electrics were never very reliable, with small fires and blowing bulbs a regular occurrence... even when the headlamp was lit it was about as much use as waving a toy torch around.
These factors conspired to persuade me that enough was enough. I bought the machine for £600 and sold it for £850, which covered my petrol costs. A year's riding for next to nothing can’t easily be scoffed at, but, still, I don‘t think I was inspired enough to want to buy another... maybe when I'm eighty and they have an electric start version.
W.T.H. Potts
Many regard the CB72 as the first modern Honda. This 250cc OHC vertical twin wreaked havoc on the market when it was first introduced back in the mid-sixties. Styled in a much more conventional manner than the angular monstrosities that preceded it, it replicated earlier efforts in being oil tight and generally reliable. It was later to be copied in engine style by the big Laverda twins, although the Italian manufacturer was unable to copy the gear primary drive, having to resort to a chain just like the legions of British twins with which the Honda had to compete.
These days, they are quite sought after by collectors on each side of the Atlantic. However, prices have not gone crazy and if you can put up with a few non-standard improvements (figure shocks, exhaust, seat, etc.) a nice runner can be picked up for less than £500. I have seen bikes in bits with a £750 price tag and immaculate ones demanding £2500, but I doubt very much if these prices were ever achieved even in the heady days of the classic boom.
I bought my bike in 1987. Five different owners had tried to wreck the engine and failed dismally. With just under 33000 miles on the clock she still ran as sweet as saccharin. The chassis had taken a bit of a beating, obvious that the bike had been down the road a few times. It was also obvious that no-one had applied much tender loving care. Mine for £275, which I thought reasonable, all things considered.
I rode around on the machine for a while just to make sure that everything was alright. I had already done a compression test so knew that the engine was basically sound. The absence of rattles was doubly reassuring. Riding impressions were that most of the engine’s claimed 24 horses were still there but that the motor needed to be revved hard through the gears to extract them.
The gearchange was dubious, not helped by massive clutch drag after a few seconds in town, making neutral all but impossible to select - except when I wanted to make a rapid first to second change.
90mph was still comfortably within its means but the handling was evil at anything beyond 60mph. Down to a combination of shot bearings, cheapo South East Asian tyres and original suspension that should have been put out to grass several decades ago. I assured myself that the tubular frame was still straight and that with the engine slung below it acting as a stressed member, a few bob spent on bits would sort out the worst of the speed wobbles.
What paint was left on the cycle parts was a dull grey. The chrome was rusted, the alloy gone white and the seat looked like it had been lacerated by a drunken mob of football hooligans. There was nothing for it but to do a quick strip down. I did most of the renovation work myself, having collected various bits of engineering and spray equipment over the years - you can hardly get into my garage for all the essential junk.
The bike ended up BMW white with shining chrome and with the alloy bead-blasted to give a sand cast look. I had some Girling shocks which I modified to fit, some springs off a Bonnie, I think, which replaced the wrecked old ones, some BSA silencers went straight on and I recovered the seat myself, as well as making up new swinging arm bushes.
I proudly wheeled the machine out into the light of a glorious May day. Everything shone, even the tyres which were modern Avons. The bike was persuaded into life on the fifth kick and I was away. Handling was much improved but still not perfect. I think this was down to the combination of the very rigid suspension that I'd fitted, which allowed the bike to be thrown around over bumpy going, and an inherently weak support for the swinging arm, which I could feel flexing.
However, the bike could be buzzed up to an indicated 80mph with none of the horrendous handlebar twitches I'd previously experienced. There were certainly some vibes as the rev counter enchroached on the red zone, but | was to find that unlike on British bikes the vibes did no harm to machine nor rider and could safely be ignored.
A few problems were encountered in the first couple of hundred miles. The electrics went dead because I put the rectifier leads on the wrong way round. This wrecked the battery, the rectifier and the alternator. An expensive mistake. I ended up rewinding the alternator myself, after borrowing a book on the subject from the library, and making up my own rectifier/regulator unit as well as installing a big capacitor in place of the battery (energy discharge ignition). This worked fine as long as you didn’t use the horn at low revs (the indicators have long since gone).
A petrol pipe fell off, the wire I'd used to bind it on cracked. The flow of petrol sizzled on the hot engine until I pulled over and turned the tap off. A lucky escape. Someone came out of their house to see what was going on, claiming to have owned a CB77 in the sixties he was only too happy to proffer some wire.
We had a long chat about how good old Hondas were and at the end of it he wanted to buy my bike for £750. But I declined. Instead, I gave him a lift to the local dealer whilst he was still fired up with enthusiasm. He ended up buying a CBR600! The dealer was not willing to give me any commission, even though he'd paid full retail. It makes you wonder about how they market bikes, I reckon there must be thousands of ex-bikers only waiting for an excuse to get all fired up again!
The back wheel started breaking up. About six spokes went on one trip. It was the excuse I needed to have both wheels rebuilt with alloy rims and stainless steel spokes. The bike was also wearing out the rear chain rapidly, it needed adjusting every 50 miles. I was cursing Honda designers for a while until I had a closer look at the gearbox sprocket - it was running eccentrically.
The mail order supplier sent a new one by return of post but this was also eccentric! Nothing for it to buy a new Honda one three months waiting time. I tried the company a third time and got one that looked OK. Much improved chain maintenance intervals resulted. After these problems the bike seemed to settle down and run reliably for the next few years.
The Dream was not my only machine, so mileage was never very high. I found it a nice bike to run along the nearby country lanes but a bit slow for the motorway and too tiresome in town (with its finicky gearbox and awful clutch). The latter was a pity, for at around 330lbs the CB was certainly light and punchy enough to have been a ball through the traffic - I usually ended up screaming through incredibly narrow gaps, giving it all it was worth in second gear.
With 46000 miles clocked up, the camchain began to rattle ominiously. I decided to replace it immediately, a broken camchain could cause real havoc, but had to wait two months for one to come from Japan. Spares are available, but they are expensive and you have to order them well in advance. As this happened in the winter, I didn't really mind being forced to store the bike away.
I decided I might as well have a proper look in the engine whilst I was at it. I couldn’t believe how good everything looked. The gears, crankshaft and even the camshaft all looked like they were brand new! The pistons and bores were still original and still had plenty of life left. Even the tensioner was OK, it was just the camchain that had stretched beyond its wear limits.
As I knew the bike had been thrashed, I was really amazed by how well the engine had lasted. I put the motor back together with new gaskets and a degree of care. It responded by refusing to start until I'd spent a whole day pushing the thing up and down the back lane. Once fired up, however, she ran fine with no discernible rattles. I have found that she needs her 1000 mile service or the engine goes off tune, refuses to rev beyond 7000rpm and vibrates alarmingly.
Servicing, as was the strip down, is straightforward and takes about an hour. Mileage has now crept up to 54000 miles with no signs of imminent demise. I turn up at occasional classic meetings but the British boys don’t want to know and there are even some Japanese enthusiasts who get uptight at the non-standard bits on my bike. I've even seen one bike fitted with the original lethal Japanese rubber! How stupid can you get?
The Honda CB72 was a fine bike for its day, it’s now outclassed in almost every respect by modern 250s but retains a certain charm and individuality - you can believe that Mr Honda sat down at a drawing board and designed this bike himself. It has that certain flair that creative individuals bring to bear on their work. I wouldn’t pay anywhere near a grand for one, but wouldn’t sell mine for a thousand notes, either. So, work that one out for yourselves!
Eric Golding
A friend of mine spent months devising his own exhaust system for a Suzuki GT500. He was buried in books on the strange idiosyncrasies of two stroke technology, metal bashing and the welding of stainless steel, the only material apparently suitable for the construction of exhaust systems, according to him. He would go on for hours about how difficult it was to make two silencers that were absolutely identical in shape.
When the machine eventually emerged from his workshop equipped with his new exhaust system we were all ready for tales of vastly increased performance. Instead, he would regale us with the fact that his new system was just as quiet as the stock exhaust and that he rarely went above 75mph, anyway. He eventually admitted that for all his efforts the top speed had been drastically reduced and that Suzuki evidently had a better grasp of exhaust system dynamics than he.
When the machine was sold, shortly afterwards, it was with the stock system, his stainless masterpiece consigned to the living room as a piece of modern sculpture. A function it served well as it was indeed an object of beauty to behold. I relate this because three years ago I bought the same machine he had owned from new.
Judging by the state of the silencers it still sported the original exhaust. In between it had gained six owners and over 65000 miles. When I enquired if he might sell me his exhaust system he refused point blank, acting as if I'd asked for a night in bed with his wife - as she was going on twenty stone (she used to be a right nymphet when 13) this was a thought that filled me with horror and dread.
Readers will have already deduced that am I no mere juvenile myself and may perhaps wonder what the hell a man of mature years if not means is doing hacking about on an ancient two stroke twin - I got caught out by the great property crash and had to sell my car to maintain the extortionate mortgage payments. A week of public transport was enough and a flick through the subversive UMG recalled the delights of motorcycling. Within days I was the proud owner of a 1975 Suzuki GT500.
It only cost £75, which was about all I could afford. At my age insurance was next to nothing and road tax could be ignored for the moment. The machine was a runner but as tatty as could be. You could not actually point at any one item and say it was about to fail, but everything was so worn out that it was a surprise the whole thing still ran.
But it did. After a fashion. Top speed was a mere 80mph, absolute maximum. Acceleration was on a par with a de-restricted 125 and fuel economy with a crazy Kawasaki triple, i.e. 25mpg. When newish, GT500s don’t give out much by way of a smokescreen, but mine was like some demented, ancient CZ250. It just couldn't get enough oil... after a while I realised that the crankshaft seals had gone and the motor was sucking huge quantities of oil out of the gearbox... despite the appalling fuel economy it was using more oil than petrol!
Anyone who has ridden a new GT will know that they come with very slick gearboxes, typical knife through butter stuff. But once they start running when half the oil has done a bunk they become quite agricultural and unpredictable. At least that's my excuse why I kept hitting neutrals as I tried to carve my way through the box.
An exchange crankshaft was the obvious answer. Unfortunately, taking the engine apart to perform this simple operation (sarcasm, dear) revealed a long list of faults which included small ends, pistons and one cracked cylinder head. Not to mention the minor fact that all the seized in engine bolts snapped in half rather than come undone. A race engine was found in MCN classifieds. Bits were mixed and matched from the two engines to produce one motor that was in a reasonable state.
The bitch refused to start until new plugs, points and ignition wires were fitted. Even then the engine ran like it was going to stall at any moment below 3000rpm. Which was a bit nasty, because the GT is one of the mildest motors in the known universe and should run from tickover up to 8000rpm with the ease and smoothness of an electric motor.
The high compression pistons from the race engine needed different jets in the carbs, but I didn’t have any... so, I took off the air filter which provided much smoother running and was one less maintenance task to attend to. To be honest, I did not expect the motor to last long enough to worry over increased bore wear from lack of air filtration.
The gearbox had not warranted any new investment in parts, promptly starting to play up with new ways of embarrassing me. Such as finding a false neutral and absolutely refusing to engage gear unless I stopped the engine and went down the box to the real neutral. Natch, this would only happen when there was a long, long queue of cars behind.
The chassis was par for the course. We are talking hacking here. The forks and shocks were dead meat, totally unpredictable in their reaction to the road. I might as well have been riding a vintage rigid framed bike for all the bumps they absorbed. The swinging arm bearings allowed lots of lateral play but still resisted torsional bending. There was a certain amount of play in the wheel and steering head bearings that no amount of tightening of nuts until the spanner felt like it was going to snap in half could cure. The result on the road? Bloody terrifying above 60mph! These bikes when new had reasonable steering but expected half decent tyres, not the Japanese rejects that I bought from the local dealer for a fiver a time. He kept telling me that it would be cheaper to lie down in front of a train if | wanted to commit suicide, but would I listen? No, I found out the bloody hard and painful way.
I can say that sliding the GT down the road does surprisingly little damage to the chassis... well, it was in a pretty naff state to begin with and a few more dents and scrapes would not add to its appalling appearance. Even I managed to escape serious injury, for some reason, more often than not suffering mere gravel rash.
When my wife insisted on paying for a set of Roadrunners for my birthday the transformation in handling was absolutely amazing. Not that a term such as precise could in any way be applied. But in the wet stability was on a par with a C50 with a lot less slithering about. Aiding this was the fact that the power was still minimal, the machine still refusing to do more than 80mph.
About 500 miles after the rebuilt engine was installed, the smokescreen came back with a vengeance... this time the rings had shattered, something to do with using oversized pistons in standard bores, I think. The solution appeared to be to use standard rings on the oversize pistons in the standard bores! Well, it wouldn't cost me anything!
The reassembled motor still smoked something chronic but ran better. Next little problem (this was not the sort of bike that you could get bored with) came from the front disc. This antique specimen, when it wasn't seizing up or refusing to work in the wet, provided more than adequate stopping power, despite the fact that the pads were down to the metal.
Roaring, or rather, gently bouncing up to a junction I grabbed a handful of brake in my usual masochistic way only to find that the lever came back to the stop as if there was nothing on the other end. Going across a busy junction at 50mph produced a volley of angry horns and but narrowly avoided being the cause of a massive pile up.
Pulling over, I noted a huge crack running through the caliper that not even the layers of grime and road dirt could hide. I quickly decided that Aralditing the two halves together would not be a good idea. A seized up caliper was found after much eye strain and a couple of weeks of reading MCN classifieds. The best bits from the two were combined to produce a brake that was passable for the kind of performance the old slug could produce.
I did, believe me, make an effort to sort out the chassis, but rust had got a hold of the steel. Every time I painted something, no matter how much rust killer I applied, a week or so later the paint would start to curl off and the dreaded brown rash emerge. The bike seemed to be telling me it wanted to arrange its own gradual demise and I'd better leave it damn well alone. So, I did.
The remarkable thing was that the less I did to the bike the better it seemed to run. After a year I had adapted to the exigencies of the wasted suspension, rubber cow handling and bemused looks of disbelief from honest citizens that such a heap could actually turn a wheel and was, more to the point, allowed to.
That was a moot point, as it hadn’t had an MOT since god knows when. But living out in the country the plod have a more relaxed attitude to such things they are more worried about violent youths setting fire to cows and such like.
Midway through the second year, alarming noises started coming from the engine. Sounding just like a bunch of nails in a washing machine. God that pissed me off, although I should not have been surprised. The gearbox bearings had given up the ghost, allowing the shafts to destroy each other. Anyone who has ever owned a GT500 will know how rare gearbox components are. I got lucky with the purchase of a complete engine for fifty notes. The owner reckoned it was still a runner and, indeed, the engine had been filled to the spark plugs with oil so was well preserved.
I couldn’t wait to put this one in and lost no time installing it. Would it start? Like hell. Turned out to be the old plugs breaking down in the combustion chamber (there had been a strong spark outside). A new set provided the goods and the motor roared into life third kick. There were no nasty noises but performance was very constipated, not doing more than 75mph however hard I tried to thrash the bike through the gears - at least it still had a slick gearbox. This engine lasted well, doing over 16000 miles in eighteen months without needing to be taken apart.
After the second year the chassis was in a really sorry state. Even I was embarrassed to be seen aboard it. In a fit of financial suicide I stripped the heap down to the naked frame, had everything metal shot blasted, primed and sprayed. The pitted chrome and dull alloy refused to respond to any remedial treatment, so the gloss black machine when reassembled looked passable rather than newish, but was still a huge improvement. I even fitted a new wheel plus swinging arm and steering head bearings.
No discernible improvement in handling was noted. It did take six months before the rust broke through again on the tank and frame. The latter must've been rusting from the inside out for three months ago the rear subframe snapped on the one side. When a welding torch was applied about six inches of tube dissolved, it had become paper thin and dispersed by the heat. A new bit of tube, some elaborate bracing with sheet steel (on both sides, just in case) and some artful welding work eventually sorted the problem. My mate who did the work also told me that the frame was bent and the wheels way out of line. He reckoned the handling should’ve been even worse than it was.
To complete the disintegration, one silencer actually fell off, so I kicked the other one off and put some shortened baffles in the downpipes.This made absolutely no difference to the performance... it still went just as slowly as a de-restricted 125! But the howl! It sent dogs into an absolute frenzy - as they could accelerate faster than the slug I often had to kick them in the head with my motorcycle boot!
That just about brings us up to date. Rust is everywhere again, the engine's song is very muted (although not the exhaust) and fuel has dropped to an all time low of 21mpg. I doubt it will see out this year if left to decay further.
Despite the fact that my finances have improved greatly, I have no intention of selling or even scrapping the bike to buy a car... the original owner keeps popping over to lambast me about not spending a couple of grand bringing her back up to standard condition. He was absolutely horrified when he'd seen what I'd done to the exhaust, going on at length about how I'd wrecked the scavenging effect. He reckons he knows why his exhaust didn’t work and if I fix up the bike promises to give me a modified version of his system. Can’t wait!
Jim Lawrence
As a compulsive reader of magazines I come across various bits of interesting information. For instance, Cessna were proudly announcing their new executive jet, claiming a 20% reduction in fuel consumption whilst increasing power and longevity... and some French company had produced a diesel engined motorcycle of huge proportions; the liberated car engine propelling the mammoth to about the ton and doing better than 100mpg at 55mph!
The mind boggles. Obviously, flight range is important for aircraft and if they make the same kind of major cock up as the Japanese motorcycle manufacturers with regard to fuel economy the plane falls out of the sky and just about every one is unhappy. But to take a Peugeot diesel engine out of a car, stick it in a motorcycle chassis that would shame a Gold Wing 1500 and then deliver over 100mpg! This column has often thought than 100mph, 100mpg were useful yardsticks in determining effective motorcycle design.
Seeing as how this has been achieved using a mammoth diesel that on any sane account should not have come within a mile of a motorcycle chassis, the present, utterly pathetic economy of Japanese middleweights is shown up in an entirely new light. Even were it to be admitted that diesel engines are 20% more efficient than petrol motors, which may or may not be the case (I haven't the time nor energy to dig out the relevant book) the fuel economy of the French machine would still be exceptional when compared with any number of small Jap bikes.
The technology of jet engines is even more remote from yer average motorcycle design, but the point is, as with small hatchback designs, the rewards for building more efficient engines are greater sales. In the motorcycle world those in charge would have us believe that as long as fuel economy is not too horrendous it really doesn’t matter, a bit of flash style and a quoted huge top speed will smooth over any cracks that appear, at least long enough to get the motorcycle out of the showroom.
This arrant nonsense and senseless design all started, as far as I can place it, with those nasty Kawasaki triples. These horrible beasts only had one function in life, to tear off at a blistering pace on any and every bit of straight tarmac. When introduced, stern warnings were issued by the old farts who tested them, along the lines that anyone lacking in a decade’s motorcycle experience would do well to avoid them. This was all grist to the mill and made the bikes even more popular with irresponsible youths and ageing juvenile delinquents ever so intent on letting the good times roll.
Everyone was so overwhelmed by their speed and so frightened by their lack of cornering ability that they had no time left to take note of the way the fuel was being spewed straight out of the exhaust. 20-30mpg was par for the course. After those triples, everyone else who made motorcycles could at least console their impoverished owners with the fact that it was a lot better than the H1.
Or perhaps the malaise began a lot earlier than that. When motorcycling was thrown into the modern era with the introduction of the Trident (stop laughing) and the CB750, economy was the last thing on their manufacturer’s mind. The Triumph Trident, a cobbled together rat-bag of previous Triumph parts and low rent design, was predictably as horrendous on fuel (by late sixties standards) as it was chronically overweight.
The Honda shared the mass problems but economy was almost reasonable, or at least not so unreasonable that owners were going to complain voraciously whilst still bedazzled by its four silencers, disc brake, electric start - and smooth, reliable, oil tight power plant. Any owner used to the self destruct nature of British bikes was only too willing to accept higher running costs if it meant actually arriving at their destination without breaking down.
The CB750 motor was an exceptional piece of engineering if you were either in marketing or production, but its engineering finesse rather than mere multiplicity of parts lacked the cutting edge of the earlier CB450 twin. Honda then followed a path that would’ve sent aircraft manufacturers bust and car makers into the red (as per British Leyland or whatever name it was then trading under). For the next several years engines were detuned, economy reduced and the whole edifice shored up with a dubious style. The pinnacle of these wasted years turned out to be mush like the Superdream, the CB750F and the CX500.
Along the way, those journos not busy trying to land a PR job with the motorcycle manufacturers were either too ignorant to know any better or too far gone on an excess of drugs to give a damn about anything other than going as far and as fast as possible at someone else’s expense. There were one or two exceptions, but fewer than you might’ve hoped.
The seventies were a relatively wild period when the land was not blighted by massive unemployment, and most kids had a pile of spare dosh to spend on whatever took their fancy. Perhaps, this liberation allowed the complete abyss in motorcycle design to flourish?
The other manufacturers concentrated on producing bigger, faster and occasionally tougher machines. Everyone trying to outdo each other in terms of power. Chassis design was as neglected as economy until the marketing departments decided that handling might sell motorcycles... or a cynic might merely form the thought that the spectre of mad American lawyers lining up to sue the butt off manufacturers of motorcycles that threw their riders off at the first opportunity, inspired some rapid re-designs.
Eventually, something approaching capable motorcycles began to emerge from the Japanese manufacturers, notably the CBR600 and FZR1000. But along the way, rather than doing something about economy they decided to compound the problem by designing frames that needed profoundly sticky and ridiculously short-lived rubber to work, as well as disc brakes that either seized up and died or wore out both pads and discs in a few thousand miles. The race inspired look made necessary a totally ridiculous rear disc on anything from a race reptile 125 up.
The only useful bit of design to emerge in the past 25 years, with reference to economy, being the O-ring chain. And even that is slightly flawed by the manufacturers selling a higher grade to the factories than what Joe Bloggs buys from the mail order store... even then, some poor bugger has to rip off the whole rear end to replace the chain (I mean, how bloody ridiculous can you get?).
The alternative of shaft drive is entirely possible but only when you start with the crankshaft facing the right direction, for all other engines the refinement of an enclosed chain is ‘all that's necessary. Even poor old MZs can manage that, but in the current climate of design that ancient two stroke engine adds to the malaise with its appalling fuel economy.
Two strokes are due to make a come back soon with the introduction of direct fuel injection engines, the petrol being injected straight into the combustion chamber after the exhaust port has closed, thus not having the usual easy escape route straight out into the atmosphere. With the inherent superiority of the two stroke cycle, efficient liquid cooling and some sophisticated electronics it’s quite likely that strokers will become more economical than four strokes, even if the latter were designed for economy rather than high speed kicks.
It will probably be by accident that economy improves on OHC designs. The combination of variable valve timing, optimised combustion shape, trick electronics and ultra sophisticated fuel injection combining to produce an engine that slogs like a Panther at low revs and goes for the red zone like a GSXR1100 on methanol. Judging by the slow reaction of the manufacturers, though, by the time they get around to radically improving economy the problem will have been solved by the widespread introduction of electric vehicles... but that’s an entirely different ballgame that I won't go into here.
This whole malaise really does piss me off. In 1992 we should be looking at 150mpg, 70mph; 100mpg, 100mph and 75mpg, 125mph motorcycles. As well as valves that don’t need adjusting, single carbs even on fours (although the four will probably disappear from the motorcycle scene as materials and technology progress) and no damnable rear discs. You would have thought that the massive decline in motorcycle sales, year after year, would have given the manufacturers just the slightest, tiniest hint that they were doing something very wrong. But then they act like typical multinational companies, as if they know better than anyone else... a whole string of expletives have just been deleted in a belated attempt to pander to those who believe the UMG is a family magazine... (ditto!)
Bill Fowler
Punishing is the only way to describe despatching in the capital city on an old BMW R60. I had owned the bike since way back and it had provided years of reliable service. We were growing old gracefully together. Then, sudden redundancy plunged me into the real world of motorcycling at its most furious.
As this all took place in winter there was no problem finding work in London. Most sensible people had either gone on the dole, off to Spain or found more appropriate work. I had all the necessary motorcycle gear, knew London pretty well and knew that the Beemer was still reliable, backed up by a large stash of spares.
The big problem was that the 600 was best suited as a long distance tourer and not a town bike. And I was 63, not 23, used to a relatively sedate 15000 miles a year. The first few days were really bad news. Every bone in my body ached like it had when I'd been plunged into National Service. The big difference was that the pains were still there when I woke up the next day!
The second day was much worse. It was ride a few miles, have ten minutes break, do another job, have another break. The controller was infuriated by these sudden radio silences and accused me of working for another firm. This youth, still in his teens by the look of him, needed a good slapping but I managed to promise to do better the next day. As I was only being paid for the jobs and mileage covered I don’t know what all the fuss was about.
The R60 has several problems with traffic. The most obvious being its gearchange which is politely termed agricultural. I should add that the bike has done over 130000 miles so anything you may have read about new BMWs need not apply. The box crunches through the gears and needs a foot covered by a heavy duty boot to have any chance of effecting a clear change... an hour in traffic causes the thing to seize up in whichever gear it finds itself. Depending on the gear, you can carry on with a single gear motorcycle or give the bike 15 minutes to cool off.
The carbs also have a habit of suddenly spewing out the fuel over my boots, often igniting in a small ball of flame... one pedestrian leapt about a yard in the air when the flames suddenly appeared next to his trouser leg and would have probably spent the next hour berating me had I not accelerated off sharply, the sudden gust of air usually being enough to extinguish the flames.
Power delivery is fine for low speed work if you ignore the shaft drive which judders in any gear above second at less than 2000rpm - in fact, I have taken to dumping the bike in second and riding on the throttle, it is still capable of taking off from a standstill in that gear if the clutch is abused. The latter sports modified springs and harder plates, so is a pain on the left hand but able to withstand much misuse. It's a bit jerky and I have inadvertently raised the front wheel a few inches off the ground on a couple of occasions - a great feat on a machine with such conservative steering geometry.
And that is another problem with the Beemer in town. Although by no means a heavy bike it has large tyres and a slow steering nature, as well as two huge cylinders sticking out. After a ritual abuse session from the master of my narrow universe (the DR boss not the wife), I rush out into the street all wound up for a rapid transit around the Great Capital, often to find that within minutes gaps that young whipper-snappers can easily rush through on 125s are not wide enough to allow the BMW to pass.
On a few occasions I have gone ape with the sheer frustration of being held up in traffic on a motorcycle. Hauling on the low, narrow bars I tried to plunge the madly thrumming, jerking Beemer around cars, up on to the pavement and down narrow, cobble-stoned alleyways. The usual effect of such actions is to jar my muscles and end up with the bike wedged in between cars whose drivers jam on their horns in a huge cacophony of noise mingled with the usual vocal abuse.
Taxi drivers are by far the worst. I can understand this to a certain extent, for they have to rush everywhere at a rapid pace to make ends meet just like DRs. Unfortunately, we don’t have the option of completely ignoring their existence, which is the way they like to treat motorcyclists. The only time they recognise our presence is when they crash into us... one of the lads in the office flipped his nearly new TZR into the side and over the top of one cab. He was thrown clear, OK until the by then enraged cabbie staggered out, took one look at his written off taxi and knocked the shit out of the DR. He still hasn’t been let out of hospital...
I have had quite a few scrapes with the black cab brigade myself. Once practically taking the complete side off a taxi with the cylinder head. I didn’t bother to hang around to argue the niceties as one glance at the beetroot red face of the driver, about to explode, was enough to convince me that a strategic retreat was necessary. Perhaps not a good example for the younger generation but I value my skin too much to risk a confrontation with some rabid youth, who's as likely to give me AIDS as beat me to a pulp.
The soft suspension is actually still up to absorbing most of the rutted, neglected road surfaces that serve the city. Speed is never so great as to induce the wallowing appropriate to such soft forks and shocks - indeed, the last time I broke through the motorway limit is so long ago that I could not accurately name the date. The few long runs needed to deliver parcels to places like Birmingham and Bristol were easily accomplished without any strain on the boxer, although I was berated in the usual manner for taking about twice as long as anyone else, including 125 mounted trainees.
Where the bike shines through is in low running costs. Even on worn Bings, economy is still in the 60-70mpg range, tyres around 15000 miles (old style Avons) and brake shoes once in a blue moon. The TLS front stopper has become a bit vicious in the wet but still has surprising power in town, where my bacon has been saved by it many a time. Oil changes are needed to the engine and gearbox every 700 miles to stop it misbehaving.
I have been doing this despatching for seven months now and actual mechanical failure of the ancient Beemer has not occurred. It's generator has required a new set of bushes, whilst the valves, carbs and points need weekly attention, but other than that and oil changes she has run splendidly, much to the annoyance of various DRs who need to change their Japanese machines every other month.
I have learnt to pace myself. I am by no means the fastest on the job and my arms and shoulders do still suffer some pangs, but I have got into the rhythm of the work now and the boss only flies into a rage at me about once a month. As he's doing about six different jobs in the office, to cut costs to get us some work, I can’t really hold a grudge against him for his apparent insanity!
When all’s said and done I don’t really enjoy despatching in London. The traffic is completely insane, about 90% of the cars ought to be banned just to give things a chance to flow more smoothly. The air is often vile and every time I go home, the flannel I use to wash my face comes off covered in black grime. I don’t know what harm the exposure to the polluted atmosphere is doing to my lungs.
I will keep going until I am 65 and that will be the end of it for me. Now that the winter is over I am at least able to enjoy the summer weather, which is a great bonus, although I am beginning to curse the way the engine throws up the heat off its massive cylinders. I earn a reasonable £300-350 most weeks, which is more than I was getting in my last job. If I had to factor in the cost of the BMW, or worse still a new bike, the net earnings would be a lot less but as I have no less than two dismantled R60s in the garage it's unlikely that I would wear the bike out even doing several times my normal yearly mileage.
James Cummings
Races on the road are frowned upon but when a pack of modern superbikes get together, ego, madness and machoness takes over from common sense and, even, the laws of the land.
My FZ featured a race 4-1 exhaust, open carbs and suitably adjusted carburation. These minor mods must've had some effect on the power output, which standard was 100 horses, as it'd accelerate like a bloody rocket all the way up to 150mph whereas before it lost its pace at 135mph. The only thing to slow me down was a clumsy gearbox that continually tried to show me up by selecting a false neutral. I'd bought the bike with 9000 miles on the clock and it hadn't turned intransigent until 22000 miles were done.
It's a common complaint on hard used FZ750s, solved by fitting new selectors if you have the time, energy and money. I hadn't, thus with 38000 miles on the clock I had the most sensitive left foot in the UK. Take it slow and steady, which goes against the grain on such a fast revving engine, and it'll select gear OK on the way up through the box. Coming back down it's dead easy to become completely lost, end up with a locked and screaming back wheel.
Under such mistreatment the back end will move around a little, but never so badly, other than in the wet, as to throw the bike down the road. A White Power shock and a fork brace with the forks on their highest settings, are necessary adjuncts to such sterling stability; the stock fare goes distinctly mushy after the first 15000 miles to the extent that even straight line stability goes a little wild.
A similar effect can be produced by running the FZ on worn out tyres, equivalent, if the boredom of modern life ever really gets to you, of living on a razor’s edge. The bike squirms over every road imperfection, the tyres slip and slide every time the throttle is hit in anger and just the slightest bit of water is an invitation to an early meeting with the Grim Reaper!
All that is in contrast with running the bike on newish tyres and well set-up suspension. Then the FZ feels so well attached to the road that it seems miraculous and the faster I went the more weight the 475b bike seems to shed. Ground clearance is as prodigious as the angles of lean made possible by the tyres’ grip, the frame’s strength and the cleverly devised weight distribution from the canted forward engine.
And what a neat bit of high technology the motor contains. Yamaha's (almost) unique five valve head, gorgeous castings and a quality of build that none of the other manufacturers can match (the gearbox apart). Put in this way, the internals are entirely as they came out of the factory, the valves have stayed so exactly in tolerance that they have never needed any attention and power is still so stunning that the engine seems not to have worn one tiny little bit. The only thing I've ever had to do is adjust the carbs every 3000 miles!
The way it produces power is just as good. Even the almost straight through exhaust has failed to stop it knocking out a useful amount of torque below 6000rpm. It's quite possible to ride in town without ever exceeding this limit and still kill just about every cage stone dead. Moderate use of the throttle puts it into a frugal mode where 55 to 60mpg is available and consumables don’t seem to wear at all.
The joy, though, when the revs rise and the exhaust wails means it's a hard heart that can resist the odd dash into the red. The first few weeks it used to blow my mind right away, requiring a completely new perspective on taking traffic gaps and when my brain couldn’t keep up with the surging acceleration some frantic work on the triple discs, which even when they howled the tyres seemed only just adequate to the task.
Any bike that makes 100 horses renders maximum cruising speeds entirely theoretical. It's more a matter of what your mind and licence can take than what the motorcycle can churn out. Anything, in the UK, over 100mph for more than a few moments is just asking for Big Brother, via cameras or loitering patrol cars, to confiscate your licence if not the machine and income for the next several years. The only way out if you really want to speed is false number plates and an unwillingness to stop for anything; I'm a little too old for that amount of stress.
Odd bashes on German autobahns revealed the FZ as entirely capable of withstanding speeds in excess of 125mph for as long as my brain could take it. Or my pocket, as fuel seemed to go through the engine at an incredible rate and layers of rubber were left behind (30mpg and about 1mm of tread in 300 miles). The half fairing that was normally tolerable became quite effective as the 125mph gale whipped around it, entirely missing my body if I crouched down slightly.
The only weak spot in high speed, long distance touring was the seat which went a touch hard and eventually took to soaking up water. It ended up with a rather twee cover and an extra thin layer of high density foam, which helped but did not entirely cure the discomfort on really long distance tours.
Much more problematic were the discs, both fore and aft, which suffered from just about every fault ever caused by brakes in the history of motorcycling. A certain mushiness was the first symptom which I thought would be fixed with Goodridge hose and new hydraulic fluid but the lever would still come back to the bars under repeated use. That was down to caliper seals that were starting to leak. That presaged much seizing of calipers in the following winter, which after several rebuilds meant they were so worn out that | had to run around breakers looking for replacements.
I even went so far as to buy a brand new set of calipers that, some 16000 miles later, are starting the terrible cycle all over again. They probably took offence at the discs which had begun to warp after becoming so thin that they pinged. This was an '88 bike, they may have got better with newer models but somehow I doubt it. When everything was set up to perfection the brakes were quite tolerable. I preferred Ferodo to Dunlopad or EBC brake pads as they lasted longer and worked slightly better in the wet, but don't expect them to go for much more than 5000 miles.
Part of that wear comes from racing with my friends down our favourite country roads, where the real lunatics get the front wheel up in the air at 100mph. The FZ750 has the edge on the better 600s and can even give the litre bikes pause for thought, especially where there are more curves than straights. The expense of running the FZ is about on a par with the bigger bikes rather than the 600s, although it pales into insignificance against the cost of fully comprehensive insurance. TPF&T is bad enough, as these kinds of bikes are prime targets for thieves.
The only time I was ever traumatised on a long distance run was when the back wheel's bearings started to break up. Some wild back end wobbles resulted. I was about 120 miles from home and in a bit of a panic as each mile I put on the clock the wobbles became larger and larger. My mates had a great laugh, especially as I hadn't bothered with the AA (the engine was so tough I figured it would never break down) so I had the option of pushing it or riding at about 10mph. I gave it a brief burst of speed from time to time to stop myself going completely insane but it felt like the swinging arm was going to fall out of the frame.
Back home at about 2.00am I couldn't sleep so pulled the wheel out to see the extent of the damage. The spindle proved reluctant to come out and only did so when the one bearing broke up completely. The bearings were full of rust and the spindle was bent. It didn’t help me sleep! New bearings and a used spindle soon had the FZ back on the road.
Another major expense was a Dream Machine paint job on the tank and plastic, in Yamaha yellow and black. The original shine had faded rather than rusted away, something that couldn't be said for the forks which eventually became so pitted I had to have them hard-chromed. I fitted gaiters when I got them back two years ago and they are still perfect now.
The White Power shock and rear suspension linkages get covered in crud every time it rains due to a stupid lack of mudguarding but they have resisted the huge amount of wear that normally accompanies such lack of thought and design. Some of the plastic prongs on the fairing and panels broke off. Superglue held them for a while, but I ended up fashioning my own and welding some tabs on the frame to hold nuts whilst using screws and rubber to mount them. This had a pleasant side effect of making the fairing less susceptible to what little vibration the engine put out... it never got through to the bars or pegs.
One friend has owned an FZ that has done 123000 miles from new with just the replacement of one camchain and tensioner in the engine (the gearchange action beggars belief) although most of the chassis has been renovated, replaced or upgraded. He has set his chassis up so nicely to suit his needs that he has no intention of trading in for a new bike but will get a newer engine when his fails or when the gearbox becomes totally inoperable. It seems like a good path to follow, as there’s certainly no need for any more power or a better frame. Maybe the FZ marks the end of the throwaway Japanese motorcycle.
Pat Linder
I bought a 1986 Kawasaki GPz750 with the intention of using it as a long distance tourer. 26000 miles of abuse by just two owners and £1800 made, to my mind, a reasonably good buy, especially as the local dealer wanted £2750 for a similar bike. It pays to buy private even if it means running around a lot, wasting time looking at thrashed machines and having to be a bit flexible in choice of bike.
The 750 is basically similar to the GPz900, a machine, in its time, famed as much for its chassis as its four cylinder, water-cooled engine. The 900 was once a leading sports machine but now has been redefined as a sports tourer. So successful was the bigger four that the 750 sold only in small numbers, its combination of 85 horses and 490lbs rather less attractive than the 900’s 115hp and 500lbs.
85hp was quite enough for me, even if the 750 needed a bit of action on the throttle to make it really move and a change down from top gear if some exciting acceleration was needed to take a line of cars at, say, 70mph. The aerodynamics of the bike were good, though, allowing the speedo to play with 145mph, maintaining just about any cruising speed under that, so it was never, once it got its sails up, a slow bike.
It is a complex one, with water-cooling, 16 valves, four carbs and a complex array of black boxes. Kawasaki are not famed for the durability of their ignition systems, so before I did anything else all the electrical stuff was given extra rubber mounting. The battery was found to be lacking in acid, with a bit of white corrosion around the terminals. It was then three years old so I thought I'd play a safe hand by replacing it. Further experience revealed that an eye had to be kept on the level as acid would burn off at the approximate rate of 10mm every 500 miles.
The switches were easy to use but they got a dose of WD40 just to be on the safe side. The front headlamp was well up to 70mph jaunts down country lanes at night but the rear lamp blew twice in the initial 500 miles. This caused by a dodgy earth connection rather than the vibes that came in at 5500 to 6500rpm. A direct wire from lamp to battery solved that one. I bought some bulbs just to be prepared but, typically, never had to use them in real life.
As I intended to use the bike for long distance touring, with as much as 750 miles in a day, I took off on some milder excursions to test the water. The seat didn’t impress after the first 150 miles but the riding position was on a par with one of the older boxer twins (i.e. excellent) and smooth cruising at around the ton on motorways proved a cinch. I sent the seat away to be recovered and upholstered, the returned article providing vastly superior comfort.
The engine wasn't ideal for really long distance work as a bit too much effort was needed on the gearbox, itself not the smoothest and slickest item in the known universe. Better under acceleration than changing down but trying to pull away in top from 40mph with any suddenness on the throttle had the transmission leaping around, making some most disturbing noises. The engine never ran entirely cleanly on the carbs, only when there was a bit of dampness in the atmosphere did it run with any fluidity. On really cold mornings it seemed to be seizing up, only just stopping itself from cutting out; early Kawasaki fours being famous for carb icing but it wasn't that cold and the bike was supposed to have been modified.
The engine certainly gave every indication of running very lean. In Europe, careering around the mountain passes the temperature gauge went deep into the red only reviving when I pulled over and switched off the motor, the electric fan swirling away furiously. In the high passes it would run OK for ten to fifteen minutes until the thin air caused the engine to overheat again.
Through miraculous hairpin bends with sheer drops I had my heart racing as the huge mass of the Kawasaki threatened to let loose on the dubious road surface. Coming back down to normal altitudes, the Kawasaki coughed a couple of times and then ran away with the throttle as the engine ran fine and hard. I almost melted the disc pulling up for the next set of curves, which twisted every which way and by the end of them I was down to 25mph with shoulders that felt like they'd been dislocated. It was only afterwards, when I caught my breath, and my heart beat had returned to normal, that I revelled in the sheer buzz of it.
The big fat Metz’s were worn out in 3500 miles of high speed abuse. This led to some amusement finding a shop that sold replacements where the Frogs spoke enough English to understand my strange needs. Buying from motorcycle shops cost twice the mail order price in the UK but fitting and coffee were thrown in for free. On worn tyres it didn't feel safe above 70mph, a real downer as I relied on fast cruising to break the back of my need for high miles, wanting to visit France, Spain, Portugal and Italy in a few weeks.
The expensive O-ring chain was much more impressive, hardly ever needing any attention and lasting for well over 10000 miles. The pads were OK as well, but mainly because on the high speed bashes I rarely used them, relying more on looking where I was going and backing off the throttle. Save when some lunatic tried to run me off the road with sudden brutality. Then the brakes were harsh enough to lock up the suspension and squeal the wheels. Saved my life about three times.
And one time not even the brakes were enough. It happened on an Italian autostrada when I was roaring along at 90mph and some Wop lunatic shot out in front of me, joining the motorway at 70mph, or so, from the slip road. I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, had time to lose maybe half my speed before the side of his car hit my bike. I went flying into a chorus of horns as the cagers behind tried to avoid running me down. I was wearing full leather and some body armour, having suffered bruising and gravel rash in my youth, and as I rolled in between a couple of cars I thanked god for having such foresight. By some minor miracle I came to a rest next to the central barrier, grabbing hold of it as I spewed my guts out.
The bike had wrecked its fairing on both sides, crushed the silencers and lost mirrors, indicators and most of its paint. There seemed to be about twenty cars that had piled into the back of each other, a thousand Wops who were screaming at each other, waving their hands around like Ken Dodd on speed, and a million wailing police cars and ambulances suddenly descending on the chaos. By the time the first plod had reached the scene I'd pulled the GPz750 upright to stop all the water, oil and fuel pouring out.
An act of charity that caused the policeman to go berserk, waving his pistol under my chin and screaming incomprehensible Italian at me. It was only then, as the shock was wearing off, that I realised why he was holding his nose, the violence of my departure from the seat had made me shit myself. About a week later I was let out of the jail, after beating the shit out of a couple of amorous perverts, and allowed to push the Kawasaki out of the pound. Exactly what happened I'm not sure but it seemed like a good idea to get out of town as fast as possible. This involved tearing off great chunks of plastic, using six rolls of insulation tape to hold important bits together and fitting a Fiat 500 headlamp on to the front of the bike (it was the nearest car and it popped out with a few taps of the hammer, he had two after all).
In this state I continued the trek home, having already covered 7000 miles on the GPZ. Speed was restricted to about 60mph as the frame went into frightening wobbles above that, down to slightly bent and twisted forks. After a while I just dumped the bike in third, relying for most of the time on engine braking as the forks tried to jump out of the yokes every time I used the twin discs and the back brake had been cracked in the crash!
This nerve racking journey took about a week as my durability had been shattered by the bruises from the crash and the terrible time in jail. Leaving Italy I gave them a reverse Winston and have no intention of going there ever again. Back home I set to the bike in a frenzy of activity, picking up GPz900 parts cheaply as the bigger bike usually blows its engine before 50000 miles, so there are loads of chassis bits on offer.
Resurrected, I seemed to have lost my nerve, cursing the machine’s heft, sure in my mind that had it been 100lbs lighter I would've had a chance of throwing it out of the way of the speeding car. Taking a job in Central London meant the bike was as suitable to the daily commute as using a Yamaha Townmate to do long distance touring.
After a week the temperature gauge stayed firmly in the red despite the fan making more noise than the engine. I was tempted to ignore it, run the bugger into the ground as an act of retribution, but dripping coolant was making a mess of the garage floor so I put in a new length of hose to replace the torn original.
After a month of commuting hassle I decided the bike would have to go, so I asked at a nearby DR office if anyone was interested and almost caused a fight amongst potential purchasers. I went for the one who carried the ready cash in his underwear. He tested the GPz by doing a hundred yard wheelie, crashing down on the straightened forks and then burning off half a layer of rubber with a 180 degree turn. As it didn't fall apart under him or blow up it was obviously alright and a deal was struck that made the pair of us happy. I later learnt the bike spat him off on a greasy road and he landed up in hospital with multiple fractures. The bike was a write-off that no-one wanted to buy back. A fitting end!
Rick Trench
