The NEC in Birmingham ain’t my favourite place, but an unlikely (and certainly unintentional) coincidence of UMG deadlines, the motorcycle show’s opening and my presence in the UK (yes, all the rumours are true!) meant that I felt honour bound to make the 100 odd mile trek from Cardiff. The last time I tried that blizzards closed down the motorway and hundreds of people were left stranded. Fucking English weather.
Anyway, having this time actually got to the damnable place in one piece and in a reasonably coherent frame of mind, the first shock was the eight quid needed to gain admittance, steroid freaks in pseudo military uniforms stopping me from sneaking in via the back entrance for free. The motorcycle show having been shoved in a new annex, seemingly miles from the main exhibition halls. As I had no intention of admitting to being editor of this rag, there being an equal chance of blagging free entrance as receiving a vicious beating for my continued intransigence, I reluctantly dug deep into my loose change and didn't even receive a grateful smile for my troubles. Tut, tut.
Once upon a time, I used to go to these shows full of hope that some wonderful new piece of motorcycle engineering would blow my mind away. I long ago gave up such childish expectations, for reasons that will be all too obvious to anyone who partakes of this column on a vaguely regular basis. I mean, shit, I keep reading about these car companies striving towards 100mph, 100mpg autos whilst all the motorcycle lot have to offer are increasingly irrelevant race replicas and pathetic commuters.
It makes you want to throw up! It harks back to the generation of swine who ruined the British motorcycle industry, massive evidence of which is arrayed across the road from the NEC at the National Motorcycle Museum. At one point the British motorcycle industry must've seemed just as powerful and invincible as the Japanese do right now, but because they continued in their own stupid ways for too long they ended up with nothing. The Japanese are different, they are brilliant engineers, spend huge quantities of money on R & D and use the latest production techniques. Yet, they’re rushing down a blind alley that will leave them bankrupt in the end.
Evidence of that was in the Ducati M600 with a retail price of £5000 and Triumph boasting about increasing production by 50% to 9000 and rationing supply to the UK market. Cagiva, Aprilia and a couple of others were threatening to take over the 125 and under market with reasonably priced bikes even if they were not quite at the leading edge of technology. The Japanese blame the rising Yen for their highly priced 125s but the truth is that the majority of the components, sometimes the whole machines, are sourced or assembled in third world countries where for the price of a chain you can live for a month.
The Japanese were proudly parading the latest array of race replicas (even Ducati had to go down this regrettable course with the 916) which if you changed the paint schemes would be almost interchangeable and so boring that I quickly flitted past them before I was tempted to harangue not so innocent executives.
I concluded, from what was on offer, basically nothing, that the Japanese manufacturers had gone insane. Kawasaki finally got around to fitting bigger, wider wheels to the GPz500 and then ruined the whole show with a rear disc brake, when the drum looked better and functioned almost perfectly as well as costing sod all in consumables and not seizing up in the winter.
Honda introduced the CB500, which looks like a sort of muscular XBR but is in fact a modern, water-cooled vertical twin which weighs the same as the GPz500 but develops less power. In a minor outbreak of sanity it does sport a rear drum brake, but water-cooling apart, it’s the kind of bike they could’ve produced twenty years ago as a worthy successor to the CB450 Black Bomber. Better late than never, I suppose (and at £3600 not so out of court that it’s impossible).
Being impossible to please, I looked with incredulity at an example of the CB500's predecessor, the Superdream. BSA Group (producers past of the Bantam and Beagle as well as the Gold Star and Rocket Three) under the Remarque name were proudly claiming a world first in the remanufacture of the CB250N. I refrained from asking if they fitted the dubious chain driven balancers or sold them off to the local fetish group. Don’t get me wrong, it looked as good, if not better, than new, but why chose one of the less brilliant motorcycle designs in the history of the Honda Motorcycle Company (even if 50000 were sold in the UK). Still, a snip at 1700 notes and bound to make classic status in the year 3000.
Whilst my mind was in turmoil from this contact with reality I stumbled into the Haynes stand. Aha, I'll have one of those, said I, pointing at the GPz500 manual. Not here, said the woman in charge, you have to go to the stall under the Russian flag where they're on sale for £9.99. By the time I'd found the stall the same woman was there stocktaking. When I pointed out that they didn’t have the GPz500 manual, could she fetch one from their stall. No! She was stocktaking, the next delivery was two days hence. But you have five or six on your stand, whined I. No, they were for display only.
She then complained that someone had stolen several manuals already. If that was their attitude I wasn't surprised. Still, nice to know that British companies haven't been affected by the recession and can happily forgo sales (whilst we were having the conversation about half a dozen other punters had similarly complained). In fact, some of the glossy magazines from other publishers seemed to have bigger stands that some of the smaller motorcycle importers, a strange and worrying distortion, especially when the mags are only willing to quote eighteen month old circulation figures. Some are just hanging on by their fingernails.
Oh well, I was in a pretty bad mood after half an hour. The place seemed pretty cramped and there were a lot of people there for a Tuesday afternoon (although there were no queues outside) and my camera's battery had decided to go completely flat the first time I tried to use it.
A moment of light relief was found looking at the Jawa/CZ stand; even funnier was the new BMW single, a lovely chunk of watercooled DOHC thumper engine (although the Aprilia version is even more interesting with a five instead of four valve head and roller instead of plain bearing crankshaft) completely dominated by a dreadful and largely useless half fairing. Luckily, I hadn't eaten so had nothing to throw up, but if ever an engine demanded to be shown off, this was it. Still, the plastic looked like it could be easily torn off and it was cheap and light for a BM (£4500 and 375lbs).
The Yamaha stand was full of missed opportunities. No electric start on the XT350 and no sign of the excellent little XT225 Serow (which has an electric boot). The FZR600 was thoroughly updated but in a way that was as likely to do as much damage to your back and wallet as your licence. The Suzuki RF900/600R showed a semblance of sense in its riding position but looked like they had brought the RE5’s stylist out of retirement.
Those manufacturers who decided that the colour of choice for the season was gray showed the kind of grasp on reality so beloved of race replica, er, designers. Having nearly collided with a bloody great grey R100RT (the old barn door type), I can attest that such colour schemes blend perfectly with the tarmac!
Just as the boredom level was becoming intolerable (I’d walked past one magazine editor's stall several times, seriously thinking about slapping him across the face with my hefty camera for past sins), some catwalk madness emerged from the Harley stand, making it impossible to see the cycles through the agog crowd. No great loss. The frails remained, sadly, fully clothed. This is, after all, the politically correct modern world.
I’ve even begun to look back with nostalgia to the shows in the old Horticultural Halls in Victoria, where at least they had the common decency to drape nearly naked women in unlikely positions over dubiously modified motorcycles... whatever happened to all those turbocharged Kawasaki fours? They probably either blew their guts out or threw themselves down the road due to massive chassis deformation.
Just as I was trying to decide if I should do another circuit of the halls some louts started playing live music, with the bass turned up so high it rattled what was left of my back teeth. The music was old, stale stuff (your editor has finally found happiness in Apache Indian and the inexcusably named Shaggy) that some splendidly formed frails decided was perfect for bopping up and down to. It seemed a fittingly ridiculous scene, a reflection of the whole show, on which to make my exit. Sharpish, like!
Bill Fowler
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