Honda GL650

I was 320 miles into a great trek, first stop South of France, when a grating noise made an appearance above the already terrific din. You understand, any noise loud enough to get past the normal engine rattles hugely amplified by the Silver Wing's GRP has to be serious. I pulled off the road, a few miles out of the pleasant town of St Quentin.

I felt sure the noise was the ubiquitous CX camchain cum tensioner combination. Sure enough, it was as slack as could be imagined without actually jumping off the sprockets. A few whacks at the tensioner saw it stop sticking and the rattle was much subdued. It was obvious if I wanted to do any kind of mileage, though, that a call at the first Honda dealer I could find would be necessary.

The 1988 GL650 had accumulated 46424 miles at that point. Most of them in my hands. Apart from all too regular maintenance no major work had been done, so it was about due for some serious attention. This may seem quite a long life for a CX engine, but the Silver Wing’s weight and lack of handling finesse means that for the vast majority of that time it was very moderately used.

The few times I went a bit mad with the throttle were enough for me. At 520lbs it's a remarkably heavy beast for what is basically a rather simple water-cooled V-twin. The huge fairing that looked like it was borrowed straight off a Gold Wing tends to pick up on any wind or large vehicle’s slipstreams, radically amplifying the basic tendency to shake about a bit above 75mph.

Speeding along with a mate who was piloting a FZR600, I had the overweight Honda wound up to an indicated ton when we hit a slight bump. The bars shook once, then went absolutely berserk. Flipping from lock to lock so rapidly and violently I thought they were going to rip themselves out of the clamps. I grabbed everything I could that would help me lose speed. After bouncing back and forth across a couple of lanes of motorway, some semblance of stability was restored. I had dropped about half a ton in my underpants!

Thereafter, I always watched my speed with a cautious eye and paranoid mind. The bike was just as easy to fall off when going around corners. The only way it liked to go around curves was under slight acceleration in an ultra smooth manner. Knocking off the throttle, stamping on the brakes or merely changing up a gear could lead to a quick trip into a ditch or stone wall.

As long as you were aware of its limitations, though, the Honda had some virtues that more than made up for the defects. Until that rattle it had been ultra reliable, never giving a moment’s worry on the road. Comfort was also immense. It was like lolling along in an armchair. The fairing made sense of this riding position as it was extremely protective, even in the very worst of weather. Short of adding a roof, I don’t see how it could be improved on in that respect.

The bike was therefore a tireless eater up of miles. I had often done more than ten hours in the saddle in a day without feeling like I'd endured a particularly expensive and degrading form of torture. My mate on the FZR was in agony after a 100 miles, begging for a bike swap, however short the tenure. It would have to be very short to suit me, after the luxury of the Silver Wing, a minute on the FZR left me with screaming muscles. Brilliant handling and lovely motor completely ruined by race replica fashion.

Yet another liability of all the mass and poor aerodynamics was fuel economy that rarely bettered 40mpg. It didn’t need much oil between 1500 mile services. Tyre consumption was conspicuous (about 6000 miles on Avons), although because I planned ahead a lot and didn’t ride like a maniac front pads lasted over 15000 miles on brakes that were both powerful and sensitive, not yet having decided to seize up. The shaft drive was trouble free other than in its effect on the handling, which added to the buckling and wobbling in bends if you backed off the throttle.

My progress through the heartland of France had been reasonable. On a couple of occasions Frog pigs on bikes appeared out of nowhere, threw me a few threatening glances and then roared off ahead, probably to set a speed trap. | never went fast enough for it to bother me! Apart from Paris, which had been a new kind of hell, the roads were relatively deserted and the drivers drove in a predictable manner — as fast as they could get away with.

The mirrors on the GL were pretty good, vibration and elbow free, they afforded a clear view of vehicles speeding up behind. I had to pay more attention to those hurtling up my back end than | did to the machinations of vehicles out front. I rode with the lights turned up high and my hand on the horn button just in case as soon as I set a wheel in France, but my anxieties were for the most part misdirected.

By the time I'd made it down to Dijon the engine rattle was louder than ever. A tiny shop was crammed with Hondas. The owner took one listen to the engine and nodded his head wisely. For 600 francs he stopped all his other work to fit a new tensioner and camchain. It took two hours as a couple of bolts stripped, but the motor sounded transformed. He slapped me on the back heartily, and after I'd picked myself up out of the gutter, I was able to resume the trip. But only as far as the nearest hotel as I'd had enough for the day.

The next day I took a meandering back road route down to Nice, where I had a mate staying in a caravan a few miles out of town. Nearly 600 miles took over twelve hours but most of it was enjoyable with a few stops for snacks. I stayed off the wine, I knew from past experience that a bit of alcohol in my veins turned me into a demon rider; on a heavyweight like the Silver Wing that kind of thing is definitely not highly recommended. Even at moderate speeds, on narrow, bumpy roads in was dead easy to lose concentration and run the machine right off the road.

Nice is a really pleasant place if you can stand all the tourists lolling around. I couldn’t, so it seemed like a good idea to run up the coast into Italy. My mate wanted to leave in a hurry, too, as he had inadvertently caused a fire in the caravan which had left half of one wall badly singed. He had also run out of money and sold various bits that could easily be unbolted and carried into Nice surreptitiously.

So, two up, we followed the curve of the coast, my attention mostly focused on the antics of rich poseurs in big cars and even bigger idiots on flash Paris Dakar replicas. Entering Italy everything became much worse, the GL leaping about like a giant pogo stick, having taken badly to the extra mass of my 16 stone friend on the back. At the first stop he had crawled off and spewed up his guts, which eventually cleared up his hangover. We ended up in Cicina for the night, which was full of randy Italian girls. Thank God!

The next morning our luck faded away. The camchain rattle came back with a vengeance just as we were entering Grosseto, a name which amply described my feelings about the engine noise. The big question was would the bike survive the 120 miles to Rome or not? The sun was burning down so hard that it was inconceivable that we could push the beast half a mile. Close inspection of the chain revealed that it was not new, neither was the tensioner. I bodged a repair that had the tensioner at an absurd angle but tightened up the chain. We rolled forward, not exactly enjoying ourselves but the sea was beautiful and the weather glorious as long as you kept above 60mph which produced a cooling breeze.

With fifty miles to go, clouds of steam started coming out of the radiator. The damn thing had boiled dry. We emptied our bladders into it, accompanied by a chorus of car horns, as their drivers gaped on in amazement. The water temperature remained consistently in the red, however.

By the time we arrived in Civitavecchia there was nothing for it but to spend some money hitching a ride, with the bike and us stuck in the back of this shaking, rattling old skunk of a truck. I sit here writing this in a cafe in the centre of Rome. The GL650 needs a new water pump, camchain and tensioner to get her back on the road. Rome prices are horrendous, so I'm waiting for a mate in England to despatch some good used parts and doing the job myself. When it’s running again, I'm off down to Sicily, then a boat to Tunisia, across to Morocco via Algeria and then god knows. See you there? 

George Mann

Suzuki GSF400 Bandit

Running in the Bandit proved troublesome. Some youth had lost his job and had to hand the machine back to the dealers with only 275 miles on the clock. All the controls felt tight and there was no power to speak of under 6000rpm, which was as far as I was willing to venture with so few miles under its wheels. With a dry weight of just 365lbs, surely a record for an across the frame 400cc four, the machine’s saving grace was that it was dead easy to throw around, feeling more like a 250 than anything else.

Overall appearance was good, too. With an unusual engine finish, bright red frame and cycle parts, and some neat bits of polished alloy, the Bandit looked like the quality option. Having paid £2900 to the dealer it jolly well ought to be, although he reckoned I had the bargain of the month, a new ‘un fetching £3500 retail. Maybe!

After another 400 miles I started opening her up a little. The water-cooled motor began to respond strongly at 8000rpm, leaping into the red with an indecent haste. Flicking through the six speed box, light and precise as could be, was hurried to keep up with the manic flight of the rev counter, the engine threatening to bury itself past the 14000rpm mark!

It was whilst using such revs that handling problems began to emerge. The suspension felt more like the seventies rubbish the Japanese used to shove on to bikes any which way than the high tech stuff employed by machines of the nineties. It was ridiculously easy to lose the front end when over-enthusiastic in corners, only its minimal weight saving the day. I played with the preload on the rear shock and the tyre pressures (there being no other adjustments allowed) to little effect, ending up with the original, recommended settings.

Admittedly, in the coming months the suspension was to become no worse, unlike many other new bikes whose tautness rapidly disappears. Town riding was good with so little mass and loads of steering lock, although the machine had to be screamed in the lower gears to make any progress. Despite the water-cooling, the clutch could be truculent after an excess of town abuse (revved to about 12000, the clutch dropped suddenly, producing a very wild wheelie) when the engine started to overheat.

The single twin piston front disc provided ample braking power when the usual mentally retarded cager decided to get in the way. It was backed up by a surprisingly sensitive rear disc, neither showing any signs of the dreaded wet weather lag, brake fade or, in the six thousand miles I have done so far, seizure. Engine braking was minimal, so it was just as well that the brakes were so excellent even at higher speeds.

The only problem was that the front disc would twist the forks on occasions and on others cause the front wheel to leap up to the vertical when the machine was banked over. These 41mm forks also had a habit of seizing up momentarily under extreme abuse. Backing off the throttle was a much safer, if slower, way of losing speed in corners than employing the brakes. The tubular frame, by way of contrast, always felt taut and there was none of that hinged in the middle feeling of many an older four.

The frame paint finish is of an high order and showed no signs of flaking off even at the cleanly welded joins. Neatly integrated with the rest of the styling, with echoes of their smaller Katanas, it makes you wonder why they bother with alloy beam frames.

The riding position is a mixed bag. The seat height is low but the perch narrow and, after 50 miles, very hard. With a 3.5 gallon tank, was not the fuel consumption poor, range would have been reasonable, although 135 miles coincides nicely enough with a very sore body.

Fuel worked out at 40-50mpg, although the latter would only be achieved at running in speeds, 40-45mpg being much more typical, mostly down to the need to rev the balls off the engine. Oil consumption between 2000 mile changes was zero. Maintenance, by the way, has not been necessary, both valves and carbs needing no adjustment, the rest automatic.

Placing a pillion on the back is not a very good idea. Performance becomes minimal and the front end very light. It's not much use having a good front brake if the wheel isn't in contact with the tarmac. Mind you, the wife weighs about 17 stone, so that may have something to do with it! She complained vigorously about having her legs cramped up so violently and refused to entertain doing more than a couple of miles at a time... which was OK by me!

Top speed also disappeared under such abuse. Solo, it was an indicated 125mph, although it was just as fast in fifth as sixth, which is 13000rpm in top! Usefully, the bike smooths out once into its power band, although it is never so rough as to be a cause for concern. The legal limit is just under 7000rpm in sixth which means it’s out of the power band and needs to be whacked down to fourth which puts the engine on the 10000rpm line, spot on for maximum power, about 55hp at 10500rpm.

Cruising at 90mph in sixth equates to just over 9000 revs, which means the bike has some power in hand for acceleration and the whole thing is smooth, feeling on cam. However, hanging on to the relatively high and wide bars limits the appeal of sustained speeding... it is possible to get down on the tank, with the mirrors at ear level, but backache soon sets in. 80mph was much more sensible, with the engine just starting to get into its power curve.

The faster you go the less stable does the bike become, in direct contrast to the engine's power characteristics. Stability never degenerates to the soiled underwear stage, as much of the loose feel coming from the 17 inch Dunlop tyres as the soft suspension. These Japanese tyres are just about worn out and, of late, have become even more frightening, especially over white lines and the like. I am hoping that a decent set of English tyres will eradicate a lot of the ill ease at speed which currently exists. Pad and chain wear appears very moderate, as it ought to be on such a light, low powered machine.

Having complained thus, I will go on to say that I have enjoyed many a high speed blast in which the speedo has been kept the right side of the ton for most of the time. Despite all its machinations, the chassis never becomes really dangerous; I feel that if you ignore the complaints they won’t bite back and threaten to throw you off. In really dangerous situations, when the brakes are hard on, the machine has to hauled over in an overdose of adrenalin, the bike has always come through with the goods - light weight and stiff frame are the basics that Suzuki have got right.

Minor things like switches and lights all work well. The main beam cuts a swathe through dark country roads and I've never made a mistake with the switches yet. The rear bulb blows every 3000 miles, for some reason, which caused a riot of horns from car drivers who sped up the back, suddenly finding a motorcycle in their path. And one of the idiot lights blew which I have yet to get around to replacing.

Despite riding the machine through the last winter, the finish is still excellent. Not even the exhaust has shown any signs of breaking out into rust. The machine is washed off once a week with Gunk and an ordinary hose, I'm not so perverse as to spend more time cleaning than riding, but am happy with the quality of the finish so far. I have just changed the handlebars for something narrower and flatter but have not yet had a chance to test them at speed... they do make the Bandit even easier to hurl through narrow traffic openings.

Overall, then, although the motor is a bit perverse in its lack of low end power I have come to enjoy screaming around in the power band. The chassis, well the suspension needs stiffening up and the tyres changing but that’s by no means difficult. I'd rather spend out on a set of tyres, new shock and fork springs than try to trade in what is basically a sound, exciting and stimulating little motorcycle. It gets my vote, anyway. 

F Grove

Suzuki GS450E

The nearer I got to home the louder became the engine rumble. I had only owned the GS450 for about half an hour. It was a cheapie. Two hundred quid for a 1987 example. With the total of just over 79000 miles on the clock. Most of its time spent as a despatch hack. Something reflected in its condition. Looking about 15 years old and as if it had been dragged through a sewer backwards.

This vertical twin, with a gear driven balancer, was not supposed to vibrate very much. My example sent severe shivers through the chassis. It was much worse than a Bonnie I had once ridden. The combination of vibes and rumble inspired a sense of dread. I rode with my hand on the clutch ready for the worst. The chassis was equally lacking in inspiration. It felt only moments away from fear and loathing territory. I had already noted bald tyres, shot bearings and pitted forks. So it came as no great surprise.

We eventually reached home. Engine covered in a protective layer of ancient oil. Tickover off beat, accompanied by a chassis that seemed to shimmy in the evening haze. A haze, incidentally, caused by the two stroke like pall of black smoke coming out of the rotten exhausts. The silencers a patchwork of welds, jubilee clipped old tin cans and rivers of rust. One kick, I thought, was all that was needed to turn them to dust. In the garage, the still running engine echoed its groaning noises off the concrete walls. Rumbling mains, I thought. The next day, I took the engine out and split the cases. Enough slop in the bearings and gearbox to convince me that the motor would only be useful for the odd spare part. I knew where there was a low mileage ‘89 version out of a crashed bike just waiting for 200 notes worth of liberation. So no big deal.

The chassis was stripped down to the frame, bearings renewed, rust replaced with paint. The cycle parts done in a nice shade of dark blue. Chrome and alloy bits were polished. Consumables replenished with nearly new stuff from the same breaker who provided the engine. For a lot less than £500 total and a week’s work I had a decent bike ready for the road. That would fetch twice its cost when I felt inclined to sell. I wondered how the engine would react to the Bonnie style silencers I had fitted. I need not have worried.

The motor eventually growled into life. At tickover the noise was reasonably subdued. Opening up the throttle for the first time almost burst my ear drums! But the engine ran very sweetly once on the road. No carb glitches and hardly any vibration. Whenever I saw the cops, I used a tall gear and low revs to subdue the cacophony.

After the first forty miles the engine kept cutting out. Going on to one cylinder and sometimes stalling completely. Coming back on to two cylinders, power exploded on to the back wheel, sending the tyre scurrying across the road. Intermittent electrical problems are the worst kind. I spent many a happy hour poking about at the wires and cleaning already clean connections. Eventually, the motor refused to start again after stalling. I did what I should have done in the first place. Replaced the spark plugs. No more problems!

The GS weighs in at only 380lbs. In town, handling is as easy as could be. What with the narrow DOHC engine and flickable chassis, not much can escape from the 450 in drags through traffic. The single front disc was not really adequate for the more desperate point and grab manoeuvres and the rear drum was wooden in feel. Near collisions occurred on several occasions until I tempered my right wrist a little.

Not that engine performance was all that scintillating. The engine had only done 19000 miles, but showed great reluctance to push the bike above the ton. Or provide tyre burning take offs. What it would do, was provide 80 to 90mph cruising for long periods of time without complaint. The motor prefers 6000 revs plus, when the off beat exhaust (from having pistons moving up and down out of phase) smooths out. It's possible to go down to less than 2000 revs in top, but acceleration is sluggish. I could not fault the gearbox which was slick. Nor the clutch which was both light and controllable.

The chassis was not in such a good state. Even though new bearings were installed in wheels, swinging arm and headstock. The problem was down to worn out suspension. The forks needed re-chroming to allow them to hold some damping oil. The shocks just needed replacing. Nothing too serious. The frame seemed straight and rather strong, though it was an old style tubular steel type. Suzuki has been churning out these middleweight twins for 15 years and had found out something about geometry in that time.

The bike liked to wag its back end when I was over-indulgent with the throttle in the lower gears when leant over. Fast acceleration over bumpy going shook the front forks. Beyond 85mph a weave developed even on straight, smooth motorways, where the machine could just maintain its pace amid the mad traffic flow. The possibly of a dangerous wobble was always there at speed. All it would take was one particularly vivid bump or pot-hole to set the machine off. At times, all the aforementioned ailments occurred at the same moment. Which would make the tortuous progress rather interesting. Although it felt dangerous, backing off the throttle always solved the problem.

I was convinced that all the machine needed was decent suspension. As mileage increased the shocks became less and less interested in insulating the rider from bumps or keeping the swinging arm under control. They were original items so could be forgiven for being worn out. Their replacement with newish Konis appreciably tightened up the back end. The front forks were still troublesome but never became any worse so were never replaced.

As mentioned, the single front disc was not much cop in town and even less use on motorways and the like. I took it apart a few times, bled the hydraulics and tried several different types of pads to little avail. | eventually found some used Goodridge hose which reduced the spongy feel to a considerable degree but did nothing for the braking power. I have known old TLS British drums that were much superior.

At least pad life was reasonable, at over 14000 miles a set. Other consumables were equally moderate with a rear Roadrunner going for 12000 and front for 13500 miles. The chain was OK at 8000 miles but it also needed a new sprocket set each time it was replaced. Fuel stubbornly stayed at 50-55mpg regardless of how the throttle was treated.

Reliability, of a relatively new motor, has been excellent. I have done 36500 miles in less than 18 months with no problems. Regular oil and filter changes combined with a couple of carb and valve adjustments are all it's required. I doubt if you will push the engine around the clock, 83000 miles is the most I've heard of one doing. The camshafts, chain and tensioner usually need attention around 47500 miles. Thereafter, watch out for crankshaft bearings which are not as long lasting as earlier GS twins.

Things I don't like about the machine include a certain remoteness in its ride and the way it has burnt out two alternators along with associated expensive electrical components. I finally got wise and fitted items off a Honda CB400N, which seems to have done the trick, along with a re-wound alternator. That remote ride can combine with the recalcitrant disc to make wet weather work a dangerous business. Sliding tyres are all too common. But I haven’t actually fallen off yet, so it can’t be that bad. And the fuel economy was very disappointing given the engine’s mild nature.

I still have the bike but have also bought a nice condition Kawasaki GPz500S for just under two grand. This shows the strides made in engine performance, handling and braking. It's even more economical than the Suzuki! The GS is wheeled out from time to time but suffers badly by way of comparison. I can’t find any area in which it is superior to the GPz! It isn't even stylish enough to appeal on the retro count.

By the time you read this I will probably have sold the GS450. I might buy another some time in the future, but only if the price was very low.

Gerald Bunting

Ducati 851

I'd been biking for 15 years on machines ranging from a Bantam and a CB400/4 to a Laverda Mirage that I wrote off in six months. Riding around on a 750 Bonnie that needed a rest, I decided to treat myself. Being an apparently mature, fully employed home-owner, it wasn't too hard to arrange a large loan, so in June 1990 I bought a G reg Mk.2 Ducati 851. Just under a year old with 1600km on the clock. Offering cash reduced the price by £300, but at £7700 it was far and away the most expensive bike I've owned.

The Mk.2 is the one with 17 inch wheels, all in red and it's got a single seat (much to the annoyance of the girlfriend). My first impression was of how light and how fast it was - the 851 seemed to combine the flickability of the Triumph with the high speed stability of the Laverda. The brakes are like nothing I've tried before - the first time I used the front brake, from about 10mph, I stopped dead about five feet before I expected to.

As | grew used to it, minor niggles became apparent. The first was the steering lock, or lack of. I'd had the bike for three days and was riding through the back streets trying to find a friend’s new house. At one junction I started to go left, changed my mind and tried to go right. There wasn’t enough lock, my right hand was trapped between the handlebar and the fairing’s frame, and I thought the bike was going over. I kicked down with my right foot, and to my surprise saved it - all due to an alleged dry weight of under 400lbs, I guess. The lightness is down to the motor - it may be water-cooled, fuel injected with Desmo four valve heads, but it's still only a V-twin.

Fuel consumption was a pleasant surprise. On four star she’ll manage about 50mpg, on unleaded about 45mpg. To get this you need to cruise between 80 and 110mph - go consistently faster or slower than that, and you’ll lose 5-10mpg. The petrol tank’s supposed to have a capacity of about 25 litres, but I ran it dry once (just outside a petrol station) and it took only 18.

Effective range is 150-180 miles per tank. The fuel warning light is a pain - it comes on permanently when the tank’s only half empty. It’s bright red and bloody distracting when it first starts flashing (invariably under hard braking). This is in stark contrast to the green indicator warning lamp, which is invisible in sunlight. There's a fuel pump in the tank, and no reserve tap, so it's not a good idea to disconnect the warning lamp.

I've had to buy a few bits for it, and had some for free. There's a free factory mod they do to the fuel regulator - it involves moving it from between the pots because on warm days it becomes too hot and the fuel vaporises. The other mod is to the clutch, to stop it making a sickening crunch whenever it's engaged. On mine, the mod stopped it for about 500 miles, then it came back, then it disappeared of its own accord.

Bits I've had to buy include a mph speedo for about £60 (I got fed up doing frantic mental arithmetic every time | saw a jam sandwich), speedo cable for a tenner and a clutch master cylinder rebuild kit (£22). This last was annoying - after about 2500 miles the clutch suddenly became more and more reluctant to disengage, and within 20 miles it stopped working. Down to the Brembo master cylinder seals failing. Apparently, there was a bad batch of them, and I had some problems locating a rebuild kit - they were all sold out. I'm waiting for the front brake to go next.

I also bought an official workshop manual for £30, as there was no handbook with it when I bought it, and you can only get one with the bike. The manual is written in five languages, one of which is almost English. The ‘refuellings’ technical data informs me that the fuel tank holds 0.706 cubic feet, but it does include useful info as well, such as tyre pressures, service intervals, and the location of the fuse box.

Most servicing, apart from 1500 mile oil changes (must use synthetic), I leave to the local Ducati specialist - after years of doing all my own I don't mind forking out for this, and the 851 is rather more complicated than anything else I’ve owned. I had it serviced after I bought it, and have had two since. The cheapest was £117, for plugs, oil and a general look over. The most expensive, so far, was the 3000 mile service - £289, which also included labour for removing both wheels and fitting new tyres (which I provided), and various other bibs and bobs - like stopping the side-stand from raising itself automatically.

The really expensive service is the one where they discover the valves on the rear pot need re-shimming - the easiest way to do this, apparently, is to lift the frame off the engine - in situ the rear shock gets in the way. Don’t expect much change from £500!

The chain is a 1/4 x 5/8 inch O-ring endless job, and is holding up remarkably well - with about 6000 miles done it's a tad over half worn. Adjustment requires a paddock stand and someone to help put the bike on it. You've got to buy a paddock stand if you want to do tyre changes, my main expense so far. A rear lasts about 2000 miles, a front about 3500. At £110 and £90, respectively, this is expensive.

What makes it worse is that every rear I've fitted has picked up a puncture within 1000 miles - I blame it it on the width (180/55) - it covers a lot of road, so there’s more chance of finding a nail. And everyone who looks at the bike, from bikers to biddies, comments on the size of that tyre.

They're worth the money, though. I've stuck with Michelin radials, and had my first experience of how good they are when I'd had the bike for about a month. I'd just left some friends at about 9.45pm in the dark. The road goes straight for about 200 yards then sharp left. So, showing off, I accelerated hard, then slammed on the anchors for the left-hander. As the front dipped I saw a great stream of water across the road, so I lifted off the brakes and prepared to take a wide line. At this point a car came around the corner, my wide line suddenly became much less appealing. On with the brakes, again, lean hard to the left and not unexpectedly I'm sliding towards the car... thinking that a side-on collision is better than a head-on one. And hey, the bike's sliding but going forwards as well, still completely stable, and it's a shame it's about to be written off. Then it got off the wet, stopped going sideways and continued going where it was pointed, with no hint of high siding, wobbling or any untoward behaviour. I missed the car by about a foot, and realised that I'd never ridden anything like this before.

The suspension I've mostly left alone - it's incredibly adjustable, and doesn't come with any guidance on the settings. The front’s not too bad - just an anti-dive knob to twiddle (position two seems the best) and air forks that I've never touched. The rear has infinite spring preload adjustment, plus compression and rebound damping dials. The only bit I've played with is the compression damping, softening it a bit stopped me being catapulted out of the seat every time I hit a bump at high speed.

I've no complaints about the handling, but I've never managed to get near the limits. There's a right-hander on a dual carriageway I take most days, where the road surface is a bit dodgy, but the Triumph could manage it at seventy. The Ducati can take it at eighty, and probably more - my bottle's the biggest limiting factor in the handling, it seems. The bike's at its best on short journeys on A roads. It's fine on motorways too, but the boredom gets to you unless you cruise at licence losing speeds. There are too many police on the motorways, these days. Fast, twisty A roads are loads of fun.

It’s completely stable on the fast bends - I was overtaken on the straight once by an FZR750 but caught him easily as he braked for the bend while I didn’t. Sharp corners are fun, too, you can brake hard and deep, nothing ever decks, and as you come out of the corner you’ve got loads of power unless you're three gears too high. Peak torque is around 6500rpm but just open the throttle anywhere between 4000 and 8500 for instant stomp.

The engine’s red-lined at 10000 revs but at 9000 it’s feeling busy and the power's dropping off. It’ll pull from 2000 but the V-twin lumpiness doesn’t smooth out until 3000rpm. I've heard the bottom end doesn’t like low revs, so around town I'm in the bottom three gears, around 3000rpm, and the motor becomes quite hot - I've only had the automatic fan come on a couple of times on really scorching days.

For journeys of more than 100 miles it's not so good. I'm over six foot, and that’s really a bit big for this bike, as I discovered when I took it to the Lake District, via Wales. After 150 miles I had to get off and walk around for 10 minutes - my legs and bum were seizing up, although arms and shoulders were fine. Then I managed another 100 miles, before getting off and walking around for 15 minutes. The furthest I've gone on it in a day is about 350 miles with three stops - my arse and legs couldn’t have taken much more. Still, it's not supposed to be a tourer, and I reckon that no discomfort for 100 fast miles is pretty good for a sports bike.

Switches are good - all on the left apart from engine start and stop - but lights could be better. The 65/55 watt headlamp is only bright enough on full beam for marginally illegal speeds, but the dip has a very sudden cut-off. If you're travelling fast and have to dip, most of the road ahead goes black, you either rely on your memory or slow right down. The lamp’s easy enough to adjust, but I can't get a reasonable dip without a full beam that dazzles passing air traffic. Mind you, the contrast between the beams makes flashing the tin box in front very effective - it’s like a flare going off on the back seat, and they swerve out of the way almost immediately.

So, is it worth the expense? Well, I reckon it is, but then I’'m biased, and can just about afford it. Sure I'd like the lights to work better and the tyres to last longer, but I can live with those faults for the otherwise all round fun I get out of it. The girlfriend wants me to buy a dual seat conversion (about £800 last time I asked), but I reckon I'll resist that - the dual seat is completely impractical and spoils the lines of the bike. More tempting is the 888 conversion, but that's a couple of thousand at least and there's no way I can afford that while keeping the bike in tyres and the girlfriend happy. Maybe in a year or so, unless I'm seduced by a new Triumph - but for the moment I'm still besotted with the 851.

N Vale

Dealin'

The UMG seems full or readers’ complaints about being ripped off by greedy motorcycle dealers. As a dealer in used motorcycles I can assure readers that such dishonest practices are in the minority. Often, it is the dealer who is subject to malpractice. A number of times I have taken bikes in part exchange that on closer inspection have turned out to be rolling death-traps.

I have the choice of passing the bike along to another dealer at a small loss, doing the work myself at great expense or selling the dog sold as seen just to recover my money. In any dealership time equates to money and the only way to stay in business is not to waste either!

When selling these dubious bikes I have patiently explained the circumstances under which they were acquired. I have gone to great lengths to explain that there is no guarantee with them and that sold as seen means exactly what you'd expect it to bloody well mean. I have spent hours of my valuable time drumming this into spotty Herberts. But they still come back complaining I've ripped them off, when in certain cases I've actually taken a loss on the bike.

One chap had a father who was in the police force. He came around with his distraught son, all puffed up in his uniform, threatening a visit from the CID to check on the provenance of my machines. I pointed out the relevant lines on the receipt and even showed him my books, which indicated I'd already taken a fifty quid loss on the machine. It was like talking to a bloody brick wall. They departed, wheeling the dead Honda CB550 back from whence they came, muttering all kind of retributions about the power of the law, but I never saw them again.

By far the most troublesome bikes are YPVS and RD Yamahas. Even when they come in running well, they never last out the guarantee without something going wrong. From power valves seizing up to shot swinging arm bearings. I always honour my guarantees however much money I have to spend on parts. Of course, the punter still has to pay for labour at twenty quid an hour, so I am able to recover a portion of the cost. I have a couple of young mechanics who I've taught everything I've learnt in the past 25 years in the trade. Which is one hell of a lot.

I've become so pissed off with two stroke Yamahas that I won't sell them any more. I either offer such a low price that the chap goes elsewhere or quickly pass the bike on to another dealer before anything has a chance to go wrong. I always find that either the past owner or the new one, sometimes both, are such complete plonkers that they thrash the poor bike to death and neglect even simple things like checking the oil.

You would not believe the state in which some bikes turn up. Some chains have been seized solid with rust and sprockets have been completely bare of teeth - the owner has the cheek to demand I repair it under the guarantee. Some bloody hope, I can tell you. I have had years of practice of dealing with irate customers and soon put them on the right track. In fact, I get everything in writing, the receipt stating that all normal maintenance is the responsibility of the owner and not covered by the guarantee even if we are doing the regular servicing. You can't leave anything to chance with the wankers around here.

I even had one chap come in after he crashed the bike, demanding I straighten everything out gratis as it was obviously a fault with the motorcycle that had caused him to fall off in the first place. When I asked him to locate the fault he couldn’t, finally muttering something about a broken brake. ”Broken brake,” I almost screamed at him! I pulled on the lever of the front brake, even with twisted forks and bent wheel the brake still worked well enough to let me shake the machine in sheer frustration at this mental retard. I had offered fully comprehensive insurance as part of the purchase package but he had demanded TPFT, and now only had himself to blame as he pushed the badly bent heap to the nearest breaker.

Another popular misconception amongst purchasers of my motorcycles is that even if they run the engine dry of oil I'm supposed to pick up the tab! Fat chance. Some cunning little buggers even claim that the sump plug fell out. Can you believe it? They must think I was born yesterday. I soon take the wind out of their sails by saying my workshop has the technology to spot the difference between an engine gradually starved of oil and one that has suddenly lost all of its lubricant. Of course, I haven't, but it's a good way to spot the liars and cheats.

The other common way of trying to rip me off is bringing in some heap that has been rolled down the road and hastily repaired. I've developed a good eye for out of line cycle parts - I've bloody well had to, I can tell you! I also use a magnet on the tank to check for filler. Of course, the owners all deny any repair work but a few gentle taps with a hammer usually causes the filler to fall out. There's no way anyone would ever get a twisted frame past my eyes!

You see all sorts of characters in this business. Irate customers going berserk when I've refused to repair their machine after they’ve ruined a perfectly good motorcycle by their own neglect. I keep a bit of iron pipe under the desk to restore some order when things get out of hand. One huge chap burst into tears when I refused to refund his money after his GS125 engine blew up under him. I had warned him repeatedly that the machine was way too small for him and that spending three thousand notes on a CBR600 was much more sensible. Would he listen? Like hell!

The other thing that irritates the hell out of me is people who buy bikes from me and then go to another dealer for servicing. There's no way I honour their guarantee when they do that. I feel insulted, as if my wife had married me for my money and gone elsewhere for a shag. I've gone to the huge expense of setting up this wonderful workshop equipped with fully trained - by myself no less - mechanics and just because we charge a bit more for our service, they insist on letting some cut-rate amateur loose on their machines. If anything goes wrong with their bikes after that insult I tell them they can go and claim off their cheap grease monkey!

By far the most unpredictable bikes are old British machines, bless their hearts. I've never, ever given any sort of guarantee with these old heaps... er, classics. I used to do a nice line in British motorcycles, importing them from a mate in the States. Now that everyone has got in on the act, purchase costs are too high and sale prices too low. I off-loaded the last of my stock at the peak of the market, more by accident than any special judgement.

I know some dealers who are sitting on a pile of overpriced junk which they won’t shift until the end of this decade. Quick turnover is the name of the game in the used bike market. In my time, I used to make a couple of thousand a week net profit out of the British stuff, but these days I'm lucky to make over 500 notes a week all told. Yes, indeed, times are hard. My mechanics don’t manage much more than £125 a week but they are young enough to manage on that. I need that kind of money just to run a Merc.

I do have fond memories of my youth in the fifties and sixties, of speeding around on British bikes but I haven't ridden a bike, other than to test them out, for the past two decades. I find the Merc much more comfortable in the often foul weather. Not to mention safer. You wouldn’t believe the number of punters who have killed themselves in the past few years. I do keep a battered old leather in the office just to persuade the punters that I'm really one of boys. You also get as much free coffee as you can drink and loads of hard won advice. I try to be fair to my customers but there’s nothing like someone trying to take advantage of my good nature to get my goat. Can't say fairer than that, can I, chum? 

B.L.R.

Moto Guzzi Lario 650

The problem with buying a crashed Moto Guzzi Lario was that there were few in breakers. In fact, there were few on the road. I ended up fitting Le Mans forks and waiting two months for a new frame to be hauled over from ltaly - the tubes had snapped when the local amateur tried straightening the bent one. I had plenty of time to check out the 650cc V-twin motor, set it up to perfection, reassured by the fact that the clock said only 6800 miles in between the shards of broken glass.

I had so much time that I tore apart the awful mess of wiring and quietly made up my own loom with aircraft quality wiring (borrowed from work). The ratbag of switches, regulators, rectifiers, cut-outs, relays and other cunningly engineered bits of electrical sophistry were replaced or merely deleted along the way, good old Japan coming up with much better bits via the breaker.

It was cheaper to have an alloy tank made up than buy a new one. A lovely Le Mans twin headlamp fairing was eventually persuaded to grace the front, along with Lemon clip-ons, clocks and idiot lights - all cut price from the local breaker. Wheels were an altogether different problem until some lovely magnesium cast items were procured from some idiot who thought it was a good idea to take a tuned Lario racing and found out the error of his ways when the first time out the motor blew up.

I too found out the error of my ways when a week after the machine was finally brought back from the dead, I went to see a pristine example on offer for two thirds what I'd ended up paying for mine. You know what they say about fools and their money...

At least the bike was finally in good shape and a joy to ride around on. The riding position was hell for slow work but that only gave me the incentive to ride like a lunatic. A lot lighter than the Le Mans, at 380lbs, the front end was undeniably too stiff, chattering over bumps and making the bike shake its head when backing off the throttle.

Taking your hands off the bars at 30mph it felt more like a Raleigh Wisp than a piece of taut Wop technology. However, there was a nice, new rigid frame that somehow helped the bike hold its line however rough the suspension became. And with a shaft drive that would wind up the back shocks something chronic it could become very rough indeed.

The engine spits out a deep, tractor-like rumble through decidedly non-standard megaphones that some juvenile delinquent not a hundred miles from this typewriter thought an ideal match to the bright red character of the Lario. They did prove an ideal match to the carburation once the air filters and associated hoses were removed.

A mighty wallop of torque is available just off throttle which around six grand goes wild, the silencers give off this delightful how! that has police reaching for their notebooks half a mile away. Lumbering along at low revs in top gear does subdue the roar to the point where police merely grimace in disgust, but the riding position is so painful that I can only stand it for a few minutes at a time.

Indicated top speed has been as much as 140mph on the admittedly unreliable speedo - it once started flicking animatedly up and down the scale. Even if it’s only 120mph, which is what the UMG claims, that’s quite impressive for a 60hp vee twin that has its roots in the extremely Plain Jane V50. Comfortable cruising speed is 85 to 100mph, beyond that the motor puts out some vibes and the bike also weaves horribly.

The immensely powerful Lemon front brakes are not part of the linked system normally seen on Guzzis, as the race wheel came with its own calipers and steel hosing, so it seemed a shame to waste them. The only problem with this set up is that pad life is less than 3000 miles...

I have done just 13500 miles in the past two years on the Lario - about a third of what I did on my last Japanese machine. Major engine problems have included one set of pushrods that jumped out of their rockers, jammed the valves open so that they smashed up the piston, in turn scattering alloy bits through the engine. Granted I was pushing the motor well into the red in second gear at the time - no way, I thought, that some youth on a YPVS was going to show me up. Actually, he came back and towed me home!

After I'd sorted that mess out, the main bearings started rumbling less than 1000 miles later. The deformed crankshaft, wrecked bearings and further bits of alloy circulating through the engine may have been caused by the original seizure or may have been down to bad design or mere bad luck. Whatever, there was no way I was going to throw more good money after bad on an engine that had shown itself willing to wreck almost every component that hid within the polished cases.

Before I could advertise my immaculate chassis, someone else was advertising a crashed V65, this having the cooking version of the Lario’s motor with a mere 52 horses to hand. It was only £200 for the whole mangled machine, so was worth a try. The lump refused to fire up until I had carefully fitted the air filters back on and placed some proper silencers on the end of the downpipes. Thereafter life was found but to my mind it was often doubtful if it was worth the effort.

After the glorious thundering of the Lario motor the V65 felt like it would not be able to pull the skin off a rice pudding (which was how looking at the red figures in my bank account made me feel). In reality, just over the ton was possible with hardly any vibes and a contented purr out of the silencers - the neighbours were once again talking to me rather than setting their dogs loose on me!

It seemed sensible to strip off the fairing, fit some proper handlebars and start riding in a manner befitting my mature years. After a while the silencers fell to rust, the air filters proved impossible to fit back on and some jets in the carbs, the megaphones and the demon grin reappeared. For just over a month the Guzzi ran like a dream, regularly hitting 110mph until I did the same trick as before, tangling the valves and seizing the motor.

Confusingly, in whatever form of inspiration the engine managed, fuel always stayed pretty much the same - a dreadful 35mpg! Tyres wore out at an horrendous rate too, nothing I tried lasted longer than 4000 miles and one set of Pirellis were down to the carcass in 2350 miles! The shaft drive caused no problems, although towards the end there was an ominous whine from the universal joint and the kind of driveline lash that made the agricultural gearbox almost impossible to use unless you took hours over the change.

I was a dab hand at Guzzi reconstruction and was relieved to find that this time the valves had merely cracked the top of the piston and not filled the engine with two tons of molten alloy. A spare but ancient looking V65 cylinder, piston, head and carb were placed on the one side in an experimental manoeuvre. Much to my shock, the engine fired up and ran! Vibes were more intrusive but still not up to Triumph twin levels.

It seemed like a good moment to get shot of the heap of... er, rare classic Italian motorcycle with modest improvements to improve its road manners, which is how I put it to anyone who was silly enough to phone up. As a psychology student past (although I didn’t pass, if you see what I mean) I doubled the price I wanted. At that ridiculous level everyone was bound to assume it was a good one!

I was deluged with calls by would be collectors and enthusiasts. The first fool who turned up all but thrust the loot into my greedy hands and was gone before the second had time to roar over from the other side of town. He was disconsolate to have missed the Lario, muttering something about them being the best bike Moto Guzzi ever made... what absolute rot! 

I was laughing all the way to the bank but was waylaid by this neat little Ducati 250 single. Desmo head, beautiful lines, just a few dents in the tank, bent forks, frame just a tiny bit twisted and... WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Simon Lock

Kawasaki Z1100

The weirdest, wildest wheelie the massive Z1100 managed was the one where it flipped right over and landed on top of me. I was rushed to hospital with multiple injuries, some of which I am still afflicted with today... the falsetto voice being the most obvious! The only good thing to come out of this terrible misadventure was that I so totally cushioned the Kawasaki’s fall from grace that it emerged completely intact, not even scratched.

It was not until seven months later that I was able to exact revenge. A Transit did a sharp left turn just as I was piloting the beast along the gutter on his inside. This accident took place so slowly that I was able to step up on to the pavement, leaving the Z totally merged with the Transit. Both vehicles were rendered totally immobile and a huge traffic queue formed whilst the police tried to separate the two.

About the only bits not mangled on the Kawasaki were the engine and frame, everything else was either bent or crushed. The insurance, fortuitously comprehensive, paid up exactly what I'd originally shelled out for the brute and threatened to dump the remnants on my door free of charge... No thanks, after eight months I had had more than enough of the bloody thing. In retrospect, I feel sure the machine was possessed of some malign spirit.

Right from the outset the bike had been a bugger. Only two miles after purchase of the 1982 machine, the fuel ran dry. I switched to reserve only to find that it did not work. Pushing 550lbs of recalcitrant metal two miles to the nearest petrol pump did nothing for my mind set. Twelve miles later, back home, I noted that there didn’t seem to be any oil in the engine. Further examination revealed that it was pouring out behind the final drive sprocket.

It needed about a gallon of oil every ten miles until I put in a new seal. Whilst doing this I noticed that the sprockets and chains were shagged, so replaced them with a cheap pattern set that were worn out in a record 1750 miles... mind you, I did wheelie start the brute on every possible occasion. This might be why the clutch went with a huge bang that startled the pedestrians and car drivers in the High Street as much as it did myself. Another long push home revealed a large amount of alloy debris from a shattered clutch.

The motor had already done 83500 miles, so having alloy fillings running around for a few seconds could not have helped its health. Still, there was quite a large proportion of the original 100 horses available, judging by the way she went through tyres and pads. The former from the searing acceleration, the latter caused by the desperate need to lose massive amounts of speed to get the wobbling, waltzing rubber framed hippo in some kind of shape for anything that vaguely resembled a corner.

It was possible to get as much as 130mph on the clock when | was willing to kiss the tank with a mind set on a serious death wish... even on the long, straight, smooth motorways that abound locally, the machine bore more resemblance to a water buffalo on heat than a motor bicycle with a steel frame. Most of this down to the suspension which was what the machine came with from the manufacturer and in a seriously decayed state - soggy springs and next to no damping.

There was a certain art to hanging on to the handlebars and damning the consequences. At least most other vehicles gave us a wide berth, the striking resemblance to an accident looking for somewhere to happen convincing all but the most foolish or merely blind to keep a safe distance. The leaping about was so bad as to often chaff my inner thighs as I was thrown about in the seat rather violently.

Things became even worse if I took a pillion, even a petite one. The shocks sagging down on to their stops and the wheelies becoming all but uncontrollable. Young women were not impressed, most leapt off the back at the first opportunity, tore off their helmet and threw it as well as a stream of abuse at myself. I was not too worried, as it happens, riding the Kawasaki was such a mental and physical strain that I had no energy left for sex, not to mention previous injuries to my private parts.

Falling off was merely a matter of a moment's inattention. Especially in the wet. Whatever virtues the Z1100 mill might have as an adrenalin inducing, mind warping means of rapid acceleration in the dry were totally lost at the first signs of dampness. The back end’s tendency to try to overtake the front’s at the merest hint of throttle made damn sure of that.

What kept me riding the Z was the way the engine would lay down the power, more and more grunt streaming out of the mill every fraction the throttle was opened. It was exhilarating, exciting and damn frightening at the same time. My mates mostly had middleweight plastic reptiles that needed the balls revved off them to keep the Kawasaki in sight up to 120mph, at least on a straight road. I didn't have to try to outdistance them until we hit the curves, when they still couldn’t get past because the Kawasaki was taking up most of the road, leaping all over the place. When in such company I usually overdid it. I once cocked up my line for a tight country corner so completely, that I had no choice but to flick the bike up straight, stand on the brakes and ride straight through a two yard thick hedge. The bloody bike didn’t even seem to slow down and we ended up skidding through a herd of bovines, until the bike went into a particularly frenzied wobble, threw me off and all but cut this bloody great cow right in half before finally coming to a halt.

Apart from being covered from head to toe in cow shit I was fine and the Kawasaki started first prod of the button, after myself and two mates had managed to pull it out of the hole in the ground it had managed to dig for itself. The bovines were fussing around their dead mate, glaring at us in a most malevolent manner. Luckily, there were no bulls around and the farmer was must've been busy humping sheep, not even my screams of fear alerted him to our presence.

The big brute was ridden back out through the huge gap in the hedge and we rode like shit to get out of the area before anyone got wise to my misdemeanours. At the first petrol station, my mates jet-washed all the muck off me and the machine, keeping a great distance before the shit was cleared away. The next two weeks I was off work with pneumonia!

After about three months the engine acquired a very healthy top end rattle which turned out to be soft cams, shot camchain and a couple of broken piston rings which had, of course, taken out the bores. Rebore, new pistons, new cams, new tensioner, new camchain and new gasket set added up to nearly five hundred notes.

I didn’t really run the engine in. I'm not the kind of chap who can potter around at C90 speeds all day long. This perhaps explains why top speed never bettered 120mph and why acceleration had lost a distinct edge. Fuel also became worse, going from 38 to 34mpg - the bike was taking every penny I managed to scrape together in running costs. The gearbox was also making funny noises as I continued to boot it up through the box with the throttle wound on and no clutch - the change was never good, now it had become downright BMW-like agricultural in nature. Sure enough, a screwdriver between engine case and ear revealed some rumbling gearbox bearings. Best ignore it, I consoled myself.

A gang of us used to hit the motorway (I better not say which one) early Sunday morning for high speed races. Much to my annoyance, the Z1100 kept getting left behind, however much I screwed the motor through the lower gears. Talk was not of doing 150mph by the cognoscenti but 175mph! Talk about being outclassed - I started thinking in terms of bolting on a turbo charger and stripping off all the unnecessary bits.

But I never did get around to that. The Transit van did me a great favour by writing off the bike. The way the engine was rumbling I would never have got half what I'd originally paid. I used the money as deposit on new GSXR1100 - with a race kit, naturally...

Smithy

Learnin': Yamaha DT125

Oh goodie, I thought, a nice looking Yamaha DT125R for a mere 600 notes. I'll have some of that. The smarmy dealer led me to the gallows, er, phone over which the parents were persuaded that the only way to keep their 18 year old son in school was to come down that instant with the cash, persuaded them to sign a receipt which stated sold as seen and then put me on my way with a fluid ounce of petrol. The push to the petrol station was most face losing. I began to wonder if I should have consulted wiser, more mature counsel before buying the 1987, bright, shiny red example. Fools and horses, and all that...

I had to ask the nice petrol pump attendant if he knew which type of petrol the bike took. He reckoned unleaded was OK so in it went. He also advised that I buy a litre of two stroke oil and after a struggle I found where that went, too. Just as well, the level was already below the minimum mark.

The bike refused to start and soon reduced me to a wreck, although the kickstart didn't need much pressure. I began to wonder if that was how it should be. I then noticed that the engine run switch was in the off position. I was both chastised and overjoyed when she fired up first kick.

Giving her a bunch of revs as a reward I experienced my first wheelie... and my first crash. Very embarrassing. Especially as my crash landing had caused a car to swerve into the station’s kiosk, demolishing the structure in one swift movement. The attendant was as white faced and tearful as myself. No-one was very understanding of the fact that I'd just bought the bike so didn't have any insurance. Least of all my parents who had to fork out several thousand pounds to the petrol company.

What a way to start on the great motorcycling adventure! Still, we all have to learn, which was what I kept telling the few people who were still willing to pass the time of day with me! I had a good grasp of the basics of motorcycling from my days of riding an old C90 down the local lanes. The clutch thing proved a bit of an obstacle to master but, after a few weeks of stalls and mad wheelies, I got the hang of it. It still felt sudden and violent in action, to my mind, but I really had nothing with which to compare it.

Riding the bike through the school gates for the first time I felt like the master of the universe, the centre of attention of the whole damn school. The side stand took that exact moment, when a crowd had gathered to view the newest, most powerful motorcycle in the school; to snap off its mounting.

I didn't give a damn that the machine had landed on the headmaster’s car (it seemed only proper to park the bike next to the main entrance), only that my nice shiny petrol tank now had a deep scar in it and that my many former admirers were rolling about on the floor in hysterics.

That day the head went into a rant about the dangers of motorcycles, banishing all such fearful devices from beyond the school gates and threatening the lash for anyone caught on school property with a leather jacket or crash helmet. My popularity with the moped crowd plummeted, even more, when I knocked one off when he swerved into my path on the way home. Luckily, there was no damage to my machine, although his FS1E suffered broken forks and crushed tank. He was one of those sixteen year olds with gland troubles and was about twice the size and weight of a normal teenager, so I agreed to pay for the damage before he did me in.

My parents banned me from riding for a month after that and then sent me to some poxy training school. The DT was dead easy to roll around the stupid bollards and the instructor was quite impressed with my dexterity. He rode an ancient Beemer, so I put a bag of sugar in the tank when he was busy ogling the only girl. She was actually the school nympho - there's always one in every school - who would drop her knickers in a reflex action for anyone who hinted at sex.

At the next lesson he turned up on a ratty MZ with a locked petrol cap. You could see he was eyeing each of us with suspicion. Someone must’ve hinted that it was me because he kept me riding around in mindless circles for ages until I got so fed up, I gave the DT a bit of throttle and threw her up the road. I stepped off and the bike demolished every bollard in sight before coming to a halt. Damage was limited to a few bent bits. We never did find out the extent of the damage to the BMW but it never made a reappearance.

After that period of re-education I made damn sure my riding deteriorated rapidly. Not helped any by a mysterious misfire that cut the motor out or a front disc brake that decided it didn’t want to work any more. I dropped some hints to the parents who insisted that they would pay for repairs, so the dealer and I split the dosh after he had put in a new set of pads and claimed a long list of parts replaced. He also managed to trace the misfire to a malfunctioning side stand switch, so the wires were connected up as I hadn't bothered to replace the stand there was always some car handy against which to rest the Yam.

I took to the local woods on the bike. There were a group of hoodlums who would scream through the forest frightening the shit out of any silly ramblers or animals that were unlucky enough to get in their path. I had not yet gained full control of the Yamaha, so when I messed up a wheelie to get over a log, crashing to a stop in mud and causing a mass pile up of other bikes, I was again not the object of great popularity... their method of revenge was to tear all my clothes off and make me ride home naked! I'm well endowed, if I say so myself, so old grannies had the shock of their lives!

I was the laughing stock at the school the next day. I was more worried about the way the bent front wheel was causing the bike to wobble viciously every time I went over 30mph. I blamed Yamaha for using poxy spoked wheels rather than myself for hitting bloody great fallen trees.

The parents were dropping strong hints that they would only pay for University if I acquiesced to a nice little car but I told them I was only going on a GSXR1100, after I'd passed my test! Spoilt little rich brat, I know, but there you go. There was no way they were going to dole out yet more money on that bloody motorcycle, as they had affectionately come to describe the DT.

A DT with the DTs was more like it. An old codger was found who would straighten out the wheel for a packet of Woodbines and an introduction to the nympho, who the local wideboy had taken to running on death alley (the local, AIDS infested red light street). He kept the wheel for a week but it came back as straight as when issued from Japan. Handling felt well transformed, although the way the back shock bounced around, and a kick at the Mono-cross swinging arm, revealed enough slop to give an old hooker nightmares (we may as well stay on this theme).

That didn't bother me in the least. The bike could still be flung around like a nifty fifty. An acquaintance insisted I fit on this rusted aftermarket zorst. Jesus and Mary. Mother had phoned the police the moment I had started the bike up, fearing an earthquake or something. She was to dine out on the way the patio window had shattered into a trillion pieces for months to come. The police weren’t that interested when they realised that the offence had been committed on private property but I noted a Panda car loitering for days afterwards. I was wise enough to ride out across the garden, through the garden at the other end and out through the understanding neighbour’s drive, he having previously been a Triton rocker before getting the new religion (capitalism, silly).

Readers will have realised that I was then completely irresponsible, totally amoral and a general a pain in the ass. The more perceptive will also realise that I was on a hiding to nothing. My nemesis came in the form of a coach. The Yam was on this fast piece of dual carriageway doing about 70mph. It was bouncing about a bit and suddenly decided to bounce about a large bit. Into the side of the coach.

The DT was never that stable a motorcycle and the loss of composure was sufficient to throw me off the madly buckling machine. The Yam, I was later to learn, was crushed flat by no less than three cars. I was not so lucky! I lost half my skin to the tarmac (I blame the headmaster for going into a rage when I dared enter school in full leathers, banning them outright), broke both legs and only just avoided ending up a bloody spastic, by all accounts. Life in the vegetable farm at 18; doesn’t bear thinking about. I lay here writing this story in something approaching agony but I'm not going to let the bastards win. As soon as I can walk I'm going to get back on a bike*. And damn the consequences!

Mitch


*Barring fate, Mitch would be 43 now. If he did get another bike then I doubt he even saw 20 - 2019 Ed.

BSA B44

Do you recall the classic mania in 1987 and 1988? When it seemed like if you didn’t buy the bike that month, the next it would’ve doubled in price. At the very least! In this mood of desperate price escalation and misplaced nostalgia for something I had never known, being only 20 at the time, I found myself handing over three thousand notes for a 1967 BSA B44 Victor.

This splendid looking thumper had impressed me no end by the way it roared up the road, a joyous blend of exhaust note and sheer torque straining my senses. Having the gearchange on the wrong side after a few years of Japanese iron took a little getting used to - the change itself was heavy enough to require the most hefty pair of boots I could find. These clod hoppers were impossible to walk in and after a week of kick starting and gear changing fell apart.

That was to be the least of my expenses and worries. Almost immediately the shiny facade began to crack - arriving home I found the polished engine covered in oil. It happened every time I wrung the motor’s neck in third gear, hitting an indicated 90mph before doing a clutch-less change (or bloody great lurch if we are being truthful and literal) up to fourth, which was also top. It certainly didn’t need more than four gears, there was torque aplenty right through the rev range.

Top speed was an indicated 105mph. Surprisingly high for such a small bike of ancient design, I always thought. Stability was fine whatever the speed, the short wheelbase and light weight not affected by even tyres that were nearly bald. The only shortcoming was the quality of the ride - the springs were so hard that only the largest of pot-holes persuaded them to work. The re-covered seat was equally hard, my body given a wild massage on even the most smooth of roads.

Even a large front wheel failed to inhibit the way the bike could be chucked from side to side in the bends. Aided by a useful amount of feedback from the road and ever available power, the Victor was often victorious in dices with middle weight Japanese twins down the back roads.

Motorways were possible but not preferred. Beyond 80mph acceleration was slow and unpredictable, any number of minor factors conspiring to take the edge off available power. The bike twitched quite violently when caught in the wake of speeding artics or buses, needing a rapid dose of brake and backed off throttle. The latter provided manly engine braking that was in a class of its own. In more normal circumstances I could often control my speed quite adequately just by opening or backing off the throttle.

This picture of perfection was tainted by the insidious nature of the vibration from the single cylinder motor which lacked any form of balancer and thus increased its ferocity of vibration in line with engine revs. Luckily, come 7000 revs the engine had all but dissipated its power, so the really chronic, eyeball disjointing vibes that came thereafter were never to any degree endured.

The engine was never what you could call smooth at any revs, there certainly being no need for a tacho to know what was going down, but the most annoying patch started from 70mph upwards in top gear. 80mph was just about tolerable for half an hour, but no more. Any faster for any length of time resulted in bolts falling out, hands and feet going dead, and an intolerable ringing noise in my ears.

Short bursts past the ton were possible, but such speeds could not be held for any length of time. Straight from an old Jap crate I tended to ride on the throttle, much to the horror of the Barbour brigade who cautioned piously not to exceed four thousand revs under any circumstances - the greater good of British motorcycling came long before actually enjoying yourself, according to these chaps. They usually went to great lengths to keep their tyres from getting dirty, carrying their precious cargo on trailers or in the back of Transits.

This was not the picture painted by the glossy comics, according to them British bikes were so wonderful that they had to be ridden! I would be the first to admit that the Victor was a ball to ride... light, punchy and good handling it could acquit itself well down any series of country lanes. Never mind that the ride was body destroying and that the vibes kicked up enough of a frenzy to wreck most of the chassis!

Full of the visions conjured by the glossies in all my innocence I went out and rode the Victor as hard as conditions allowed. At classic events I was studied with both horror and contempt for such an avant garde attitude to the holy grail of British biking. Mind you, I did begin to wonder a bit when the bike needed a full service every 400 miles, including an oil change as it kept turning to this murky grey sludge, and why after every ride I had to spend a good hour going over the bike tightening down all the bolts that had come loose.

True revelation as to what I had let myself in for came after 1850 miles of abuse. About forty miles from home the engine ground to a stop with a large crunching noise that had been preceded by a knocking noise, itself emanating from a large clicking sound that I had ignored for a mile or so, hoping it was just passing through and would disappear if not pandered to. It had disappeared but not in the way I had hoped!

The AA took us home. The driver of the recovery vehicle was himself an old British bike fan who poured forth a long stream of expletives when I'd admitted how much dosh I'd paid for the bike. He reckoned the whole BSA factory wasn’t worth that much and that his general love of motorcycling had been ruined by his experiences of British motorcycles. Sobered by an hour's worth of hard facts on old British bikes I was near tears when the B44 was finally rolled into the garage.

The engine came out of the frame with remarkable ease... well, two engine bolts had already gone missing! It proved impossible to do much more than remove the cylinder head and case covers, the rest of the motor gave every appearance of having turned into one solid lump of iron and alloy. An experienced mechanic came over, took one look at the way the piston had melted into the bore and told me to start looking for a new engine.

I soon found out that 440cc BSA singles are extremely rare and expensive items. I was beaten to the door for a CCM 500cc version by minutes. That might have been something. Eventually, a B25 unit was acquired for £400. This was heard running and made pretty much the same gruff noise as the bigger single so I thought it would be OK. After a bit of hassle with the engine plates, the motor was fitted into the still pristine chassis.

To say that performance was disappointing would be the understatement of the year. Despite its smaller capacity the engine rattled and vibrated to a much greater degree and yet was only able to push the Victor up to 75mph, down a steep hill with the kind of frenzied vibes that made it difficult to see the road ahead. I thought I had bought a bad one, but careful cross examining of some owners at the next classic event I attended suggested that they were all that bad. One eventually admitted that he liked the looks of his B25 but had filled the engine with grease to stop the motor leaking oil and never started her up - it vibrated so badly the bike had started to fall apart when just ticking over!

I could understand the point about the oil leaks. I would have been better off filling the petrol tank up with oil and the oil compartment with petrol, so voracious was the oil consumption. By the way, the B44 regularly gave 70-75mpg whilst the B25 could not manage 60mpg. The first long ride I did, forty miles into the trip the bike ground to a halt. It was a gradual demise just like when the petrol runs out, but there was plenty of that left.

No, the points had decided to fall apart. Much amusement followed trying to put them back together. I did succeed but the devious device was to repeat this trick every so often. A 100 mile ride meant spending ten minutes checking out all the likely bolts... a 250 mile ride meant readjusting the valves, resetting the timing and turning the carb jets back in.

A 500 mile ride meant a major engine rebuild. A gross exaggeration... well, after 520 miles mine needed a rebore and new set of rockers. The gearbox kept making horrible crunching noises but became no worse and looked so complex in the workshop manual that I left well alone. It only took 770 miles for the rebuilt motor to seize solid. I admit, I was caning it mercilessly but it was the kind of engine that had no torque to speak of and not much power anywhere in the rev range.

I had been frantically searching for a B44 motor but to no avail. The only one | actually saw had a split crankcase and was probably internally in a worse state than my own. I had no intention of wasting time and money trying to rebuild the B25. A mate said he had an old BSA motor in the back of his garage that was salvaged from a crashed bike.

Turned out to be a C15, the early version of the B25. Given the way they drop their oil it was surprising that it was still filled to piston level with the black stuff. This was a troublesome beast to fit into the frame but a bit of welding and hammer work soon sorted it. What can I tell you about this one? It was just as much a slug as the B25 but didn’t vibrate half as much. Fuel was around 80mpg, once I'd modified my riding style a bit to suit the venerable nature of the motor... surely antique status?

Oil leakage was on a par with the B44, about a pint every 100 miles. Passably competent at 60mph, by the time 70mph was up it felt like it was trying to bust its gut. 75mph was achieved on the odd occasion when I forgot my new, mature riding style. This is the one motor that has been vaguely reliable, doing 11000 miles in the last 18 months with nothing more than the odd bit of attention to valves, points and oil.

The chassis is superb as ever. I forgot to mention the brakes before because they have not caused the least bit of trauma. A front TLS drum is coupled with a SLS rear, both sensitive and powerful. Totally controllable in the wet they have saved me several times from eating tarmac. The shoes have not required replacement... that is one thing about these old Brits, consumables just don’t seem to wear in the same way as Jap stuff. I wonder what the secret is?

I love the buzz from riding an old Brit. I hate their rotten engine designs. Even in C15 form I have had many stimulating adventures. Wherever I stop, however remote and desolate, usually someone appears out of the woodwork with a story to tell of their own adventures. I am sometimes cruel by relating how bad British bikes can be but it doesn’t seem to get into their heads. Their grip on nostalgia is too firm. I think it’s more down to how they felt when they were young, and how motorcycling used to represent their freedom than anything else.

For myself, I have the choice of moving on to something Japanese and using the BSA as a second bike or to keep searching for a decent engine, there must be one out there somewhere. There is no way I will ever get my money back but, to tell the truth, I don’t give a damn. It has been one hell of an experience; one I would not have missed...

Clive Peters