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Fuck Netanyahu and the murderous Israeli regime. Free Palestine!
There were times with my ten year old CG125 when I dearly wished I was on something else. Almost anything else. What did I hold against Honda's ubiquitous commuter single, what had caused my utter scorn? Well, I was 6’6” and weighed 20 stone. The CG was built for a Japanese dwarf and weighed only 220lbs. Judging by the way the general populace laughed, sniggered and threw bricks at our passing form our partnership looked more than a little ridiculous.
I could live with that as whenever I stopped the doubters ran as fast as their little legs could take them. Its 11hp when new felt more like 5hp after 20000 miles of abuse. Every time I crossed the 50mph barrier its little heart seemed to be tearing itself apart if the way the pegs and bars shook with the vibration was any guide.
In some ways the niggardly acceleration and pathetic top speed was all to the good. The drum brakes, even when replenished with new shoes, were prone to fade, the dangerous lack of braking disappearing to nothing. I often ended up bellowing at cagers and pedestrians to get out of the damn way, quite effective if I put a fearsome scowl on my face. The horn was the kind of squeak redolent of a mouse trying to get out of the petrol tank and far less effective than shouting and gesticulating with my arms whilst steering the little Honda with my knees.
The suspension was permanently down on the stops with my weight aboard. The seat was like a bed of nails that even my extra padding endowed by nature did little to overcome. Steering at the best of times was vague, at the worst suicidal. The CG would veer off in different directions with all the predictability of a kitten being chased by a Great Dane. At least I was never bored.
Being on the dole there was little hope of upgrading to something better. The one time I went for a DR interview I ended up destroying an office partition and breaking a flimsy chair. The boss's lack of a sense of humour was appalling and | nearly had to give him a slap when he got a bit lippy. He reckoned I'd be better off in a circus!
It was a pretty bad day. Coming home the throttle cable snapped, leaving me stranded with an engine at tick over in a stream of 30mph traffic. The only way out was to wrench the bike up on to the pavement at about 25mph. We lurched over the kerb and ran down some city types before coming to a halt, the front wheel wedged into some iron railings. I ignored the screaming from the injured, tried to pull the bike out.
After a terrifying bang, I ended up shooting backwards with a Honda CG125 in my lap, plus half a hundredweight of iron railing that had torn out of the brickwork. A few more peds were taken out as well! It took police equipped with a welding torch to free the front wheel from the railing. Had I not been penniless on the dole I would’ve ended up with a massive bill for damages but as it was they gave up when I sent them letters from the dole office and bank manager explaining my plight.
The front wheel was a bit mangled but replaced, together with the throttle cable, by a breaker in exchange for an afternoon’s work stripping down a couple of mangled bikes. The newer drum brake proved slightly better in the braking department but still provided lots of unnerving moments.
Even with my bulk aboard, the horrible Honda was ideal for cutting through congested traffic. A couple of times I even picked the damn thing up and hurled it across central barriers and other impediments to my journey. Pavement work was more trouble than it was worth as invariably some annoyed ped would run alongside whacking me about the helmet with their briefcase or handbag. Obviously, a case of pure jealously. Where the CG became totally lost was riding into headwinds or up hills. When both of those were combined, speed was down to about 10mph in first or second and on one memorable occasion I actually ended up running alongside for a couple of hundred yards. I often ended up with no more than 40mph on the clock, the bane of frustrated cagers as there was no way my dignity would allow me to ride in the gutter.
Doing more than 50 miles in a day left me with a sore bum, shaking hands and feet, plus a brain that was numb with pain, fear and sheer insanity. Not surprisingly, the seat split every 200 miles and the base would break if I pushed my luck by patching the old one up with rags and insulation tape.
Every time it rained a little I had a wet bum for days afterwards because the saddle soaked it up like a sponge. I tended to avoid wet weather because the tyres, always bought secondhand and worn out, slithered all over the place, adding to the feeling of riding an out of control donkey. The drums filled up with water, making sure I couldn't lock up the wheels on damp roads... and removing all braking power.
A couple of times I just stepped off the bike at about 20mph! The indicators had long since fallen off and my legs were long enough to allow me to clear the bike without whacking the wedding tackle (and yes, ladies, it is in proportion to the rest of my body...). The little Honda careered off down the road riderless, which if anything improved its stability. Until some cage or other solid object ended its freedom. Damage was surprisingly minor in these insane incidents. I did more damage to the front wheel levering on tyres, usually after I'd punctured the inner tube in a couple of failed fittings. I ended up seeing red when that happened and actually buckled one rim into an oval shape! There was always the possibility that when riding a wheel would collapse under the stress but usually it was the bearings that went. The rear wheel bearings rarely lasting more than 4000 miles. Naff or what?
The overall build quality of the CG is not very good. An English winter corrodes everything made of metal and even the plastic bits go off! The mudguards have a quaint habit of rusting away until they fall off. When the front one jammed in the wheel, the retardation was so violent that I was thrown over the bars. Slimmer builds might get away with rolling down the road but I ended up on my back with a spine breaking descent from grace. The Honda vindictively tried to finish me off by landing atop my shaken but not stirred form. A minor sensation was caused when I finally arose, clothes torn asunder, as I took revenge by tearing out what was left of the guard and stamping on it until it bore a passing resemblance to asquare ten pence coin. You can't let these bikes get the better of you!
The silencer was similarly short lived and afflicted with rust. At least it did no more damage than to send myself, and everyone else within a half mile radius, temporarily deaf. It used to half fall off the downpipe, scrape along the ground until final disintegration occurred. Riding on an open downpipe made sod all difference to the carburation, which was so worn that fuel economy was a shocking 60mpg and the spark plug would: often be flooded with the excess of fuel. For some reason, even the police left me well alone, to continue on my world weary way.
The engine would run for about 5000 miles before needing any attention. The crankshaft mounted points were so fiddly that my gorilla sized paws couldn't cope and a mate had to stand in whenever the motor refused to start. I could just about manage to pour in some oil when it went down to the minimum mark; valve adjustments weren't needed before a rebore was required! The piston proved the most precarious item in the engine, but | know people who have got 30000 rather than 5000 miles out of an engine, but they weigh about a third of my own bulk.
Invariably, it’s cheaper to acquire secondhand parts than do any serious engine work. Or it was until a gudgeon pin sheared and took out the whole motor. The bike went into a skid that my instant reflex action on the clutch did nothing to remove. I did my usual stepping off trick and watched in amazement as the bike wobbled a good 100 yards down the road before falling into the gutter. I picked up the half length of chain that'd snapped off. At least it made the bike easy to push home!
My friendly breaker put me to work for a week in exchange for a running motor, which after fitting I'd foolishly ridden home in the dark. The CG has lights that would have most push-bike owners writing to their MPs. Somehow I got back in one piece, narrowly avoiding being run over by inattentive car drivers and riding the CG into some roadworks.
I suppose you could say that I’ve got used to the bike’s strange ways and even enjoy myself for the majority of the time. They are quite tough little buggers that I can recommend to commuters; I’m looking forward to the day when I can afford a Gold Wing.
Two years with a Rickman 650 Triumph reminded me of nothing more than my first wife. It was a right bitch. Liked nothing more than to show me up in public. Just as I was going completely berserk, a brief moment of exhilaration would cause me to gasp with shock and hold back. Then it'd be back to public breakdowns, screaming sessions and general mayhem. Moments of intense passion stopped me taking a large hammer to it. The wife ended up costing me every penny I had. The Rickman was bought as a consolation prize on the back of a £3000 bank loan. Yes, it is dangerously stupid to get involved with a new mistress on the bounce.
Especially one with an insane heart. The Rickman chassis was designed to take any unit Triumph motor. Mine was a worked over '68 Bonnie. Worked over by a lunatic with a death-wish. The compression ratio was so high I could stand on the kickstart. The cams were so wild it'd spit flames out of the massive Amals. The open megaphones were so loud that window panes tried to jump out of their frames and even the deaf would scream abuse at me.
Starting involved flooding the carbs until there was a puddle of fuel on top of the crankcases, leaping a yard up in the air and giving the lever a full bodied lunge. So committed had to be the kick that if it backfired I was either launched through the garage roof or suffered such leg pain that the surrounding environment was blue with curses for hours afterwards.
When the engine finally deemed to start, after anywhere between five and ten kicks, the booming noise was accompanied by such an excess of vibration that the bike would shuffle across the garage floor on the stand and I could feel the fuel and oil gurgling away in their tanks.
Both the clutch and the throttle were so heavy that even a Moto Guzzi Le Mans owner would be writing away for a Bullworker. Both were vicious. The clutch take-up would hurtle the bike forward or stall it dead. The throttle springs brought the revs back to 1000rpm in an instant if I tried a right-hand turn signal as an alternative to the weekly replacement of the indicator control box.
These traits were combined with one of the nastiest riding positions I'd ever come across. It recalled some of the sexual games the first wife insisted I should play; you can guess who ended up in the submissive role! With low clip-ons, a skimpy seat and a body racking stretch over the long petrol tank, town riding was akin to being tortured on the rack, sexually abused by a donkey whilst having one’s head stuck inside a 1000 watt bass speaker.
Moments of relief were found by opening up the throttle in second and third. Come 5000 revs the vertical twin engine put out an extreme amount of power that pushed the rock steady machine forward like a steam-roller falling over the edge of a cliff. Whilst acceleration was suitably inspiring, submerging the vicious vibes under the thrilling way the road was eaten up, trying to maintain a constant velocity was an entirely different bag of horrors. Down to the vicious vibes the vile power unit was putting out.
That's the trouble with Triumph twins. They were originally designed as a mild 500 when their OHV pushrods were acceptable and the puny two bearing crankshaft was able to withstand the minimal engineering forces. Over the years they became both bigger and higher tuned without any fundamental rethink to their design. More cubic capacity and power added up to an increase in vibration and decrease in longevity. Where a well put together Tiger 100 was a neat bit of tackle, a racing spec Bonnie was hard pushed to do 1000 miles without something failing or at the very least falling off.
The Rickman trellis was hefty high grade steel with bright nickel plating. It was so strong that it only needed a bit of mild modification to take the CB750 engine in later guises. It was easily good enough to take any excess that the Triumph engine could put out. A stock Bonnie might be good for 120 to 125mph, mine might manage 130mph in theory but in practice the primary vibes were so intense that I rarely tried to break through the ton. The engine and frame didn't seem well matched, any tendency the motor had to buzzing amplified by the large diameter, thin walled tubes.
Vibration had always been a problem with big British twins. Norton cobbled together their Isolastic mounts, Royal Enfield dynamically balanced their cranks and Triumph relied on rubber mounting everything that didn’t need to be welded to the frame (except the engine whose bulk was used to reinforce the swinging arm mounts). The Japanese didn’t do much better, they either built the chassis so heftily that it weighed as much as a four or fitted huge engine balancers that robbed the machine of most its power and lost the marvellous direct connection between throttle and back wheel in which the hoary old Triumph, for all its sins, revelled.
There were a series of coastal back roads in the Fenlands where the Rickman really showed its mettle. The flatness of the area meant I could see way ahead, and ride on both sides of the road to set the bike up on the racing line when necessary. The roads were a bit bumpy which gave the stiff Rickman forks a hard time but didn’t stop me banking over until my boots were buffeted by the tarmac, nor cause the Rickman to veer off the desired line.
It wasn't quite as quick steering as a stock Bonnie but made up for that with much better stability. If the riding position made no sense, if debilitating road shocks aged my body and if pot-holes threatened to break my arms, I just knew that I could ride it straight over logs and heel it so far over that I threatened to go horizontal. This on thin old-tech Dunlop tyres that lasted for more than 10,000 miles.
The only time stability was really upset was when the half fairing fell off on to the front wheel. Rickman made lots of GRP products, their quite curvaceous half fairing being reasonably stiff, although the screen used to buzz about a bit. The vibes had got to the fairing’s bracket, causing it to slam down on the minimal front mudguard. At the time, I was doing 35mph through town. The bike went into a massive wobble around the screaming front wheel. I had a rude meeting with the tarmac as the Rickman flew through a collection of startled peds. Luckily, their soft bodies absorbed its sudden self-destruct tendencies.
The fairing was wrecked, though, with large cracks. The headlamp and front guard were also broken. Neither were much cop but dealt with the niceties of the law. I took the opportunity to fit some clamps and bars, as well as a big chrome headlight. That made the bike more tolerable in town, where my back no longer ached is if I’d spent the day carrying around 50 kilo bags of cement.
A major hassle during town riding was the front brake. Rickman were, I believe, the first company to fit discs at both the front and rear on a ‘production’ roadster. Both were Lockheeds, that also made an appearance on other British bikes, which at least meant I could still buy pads and seals. The biggest problem with the single front disc was that when used below 30mph it'd lock on as solidly as a Doberman on a thief’s balls! The rear brake was just as touchy, sending the back tyre into an ear busting screech. Throw in some wet roads and it was broken leg time. The thin tyres had no answer to the locked up wheels, other than to try to fling the Rickman down the road.
With a 31” seat height and low centre of gravity it was relatively easy to get a boot down before the bike got away from me. I only messed up completely the once. The bike flipped up but then slid over on the other side, catching my ankle in its descent. I was howling with the pain as it was actually broken. The peds looked at me as if I was insane; there was no blood nor amputated limbs littering the pavement, so they thought it was a lot of ado about nothing. I eventually ended up in a wailing ambulance shot full of pain-killers.
When the Rickman Triumph and I were reunited, the bike showed no signs of its demise save for some grazing on the GRP petrol tank. I hobbled around for a couple of months until I could regain its seat. I took that time to polish up the engine and chassis. Rickman made their chassis to quite a high quality. Although it'd tarnish quickly over the winter, a bit of polishing would soon restore its patina, not bad going for a bike that was 18 years old! Even the spokes laced into chunky alloy rims resisted the urge to go brown with rust. I did have to replace the Girling shocks whose springs had corroded to the point where I thought they were going to break up.
Many more engine parts than chassis bits went west in the 14000 miles I extracted from the reluctant motor. The crankshaft, for instance, wasn't good for more than 6000 miles, at which point just about every internal component, save the four speed gearbox, was just as worn out. The engine had some lumpy racing cams that proved impossible to replace when great chunks of their lobes went missing. Standard Bonnie items were still available, so it seemed like a good idea to de-tune the beast a little. The lightened pushrods and polished rockers I retained. The huge valves had cut back guides that barely lasted 2000 miles, but there wasn’t enough meat left in the head to replace them with stock stuff.
The primary chain boasted a belt conversion, whose great expense appeared justified in the lack of attention it needed compared with the standard chain drive. The clutch had heavy springs that shot across the garage when I removed their retaining nuts. Despite the vicious clutch action the plates lasted nearly 10000 miles. The drive chain, despite the swinging arm being mounted on eccentric adjusters, lasted for less than 5000 miles, whilst spraying loadsa oil over passenger and the back end (as did the rear wheel with water due to the total lack of mudguarding). I think the short chain life was caused by the half a foot between swinging arm mount and final drive sprocket. The latter was the usual tedious chain case disassembly to replace.
As well as the engine rebuilds there were the weekly, sometimes daily, maintenance chores. Points, valves and carbs all needed attention, along with a tediously extensive list of bolts that needed spanner work. The carbs had a peculiar tendency towards falling off. They usually hung on by the hose or throttle cable but I had one roll down the road, ending up flattened by a following truck. The Rickman Triumph is the kind of bike that makes membership of the AA or RAC compulsory.
All relationships have to come to an end. The good ones from death, the bad ones from separation. The Rickman was sold, funnily enough, when I decided to get married again. Yes, I never learn (only joking, dear). The Rickman has one massive drawback with regards marital relationships and the courting process. It’s only fitted with a solo seat. That was the excuse I needed to off-load the troublesome terror at a massive loss. The beast had served its purpose, kept me amused for a couple of years until I recovered from the trauma of the divorce. But it’s not a motorcycling experience I ever want to repeat again!
It was the boredom more than anything else that did it. That, and too many months working like a slave to acquire a pocketful of dosh. Be kind to the Americans, they sure know how to pay. The GTS1000, I’d soon convinced myself, was such a solid machine that it possessed a mind of its own. I'd be motoring along in laid back, relaxed mode when suddenly all hell would break loose. Throttle back to the stop, Malone frame in racing crouch and within a moment's breath, three figure speeds on the clock.
My only excuse, was the penal speedlimits. They're so pathetically low, and the Yanks so crazy about enforcing them, that it makes sense to play make belief; imagine I’m on a German autobahn. ‘Course, the American drivers haven't a clue about reacting to a two-wheeler hurtling between them at twice the legal limit. Goes well beyond their experience. I thought it was an amusing way of commuting to work every day; blow the tedium right away and bring some much needed joy into my life. If the sun was shining, I'd sling my helmet over my shoulder and ride bare headed.
After a couple of months of this madness, I had a folder full of citations (not the sort you could boast about anywhere other than inthe UMG) and become so bored with work that I was playing Russian Roulette with a nifty revolver I'd bought (this is America, boy, stop whimpering). For some reason the registration mark had been filed off, so god knows what was its history.
It seemed an opportune moment to leave the States. Apart from anything else, the large lout of a boss was making noises about not being able to track down my references. I was tempted to tell him that my CV was almost entirely false, just to fuck up his day. As soon as I was able to get hold of my month’s money I was ready for the road.
I decided the GTS had to go. It favoured madness, was so easy to ride at crazy velocities that it was a quick way to kill someone who knew what their right wrist was made for. A last ride was called for. At 3am express train along the elevated highways, the sonorous exhaust ricocheting off the darkened buildings, the cops too busy being jerked off by transvestite hookers to take much note of my helmet-less 130mph burn ups.
The GTS went in favour of a newish 883 Harley Davidson and a large bundle of notes to my good. These smallest of Sportsters are seen either as a pile of crap or a righteous piece of motorcycle. This one had proper twin discs out front, a great big headiamp that wouldnt have looked out of place on a vintage Cadillac and a custom seat that looked like it'd escaped from some Jap crap custom but was as comfortable as some big fat Negro mamma.
As someone used to the vibes from a tuned Norton Commando, I couldn't really complain about the buzz put out by the agricultural V-twin. That was part of the point of the bolide, it was so nasty, vibratory and generally ill-making after 85mph that it severely limited my speeding antics. Harleys only work as laid back, 60 to 70mph cruisers, when for strange, strange reasons, that can only be explained by riding the vintage machines, they work very well indeed. The whole American motorcycle industry is founded on that exotic fact.
I left New York in the dark. All things considered it seemed like a good idea. Luckily, the front light was so powerful I had no trouble seeing where I was going (not something that could be said about standard Harley lights). It wasn’t so late that I could safely dump the helmet and I'd resisted strong urges that'd been plaguing my mind. Namely, the need to dress the Harley (and myself) out in cop clothing; proceed to have a real ball terrorising the general automobile populace. That this is a federal offence with a long, hardcore prison sentence if not a bullet in the head as a reward, might have had something to do with my stalwart resistance... and still being free of drugs and drink.
I was heading north, if it went against my nature, was at least good for a change. First stop Montreal, over 300 miles away. The highway was straight with enough lanes to get lost in. Easy peasy. 300 miles divided by 70mph equalled just over four hours, call it five with the frequent stops for fuel caused by the cute but entirely impractical peanut petrol tank. This proved a bit optimistic.
First, there were the mad artic drivers, who'd sneak up behind me, give me a hoot on their ship sized horns and then try to run me off the road. Some beer swilling ruffian would lean out of the window and try to knock my head off with a full can of Budweiser. What a waste of beer. I soon became convinced that they’d used their CBs to gang up on me, at one stage I was completely surrounded by four of the buggers. They must’ve been bored out of their heads.
Who needs hallucinogenics when you can find yourself suddenly being a very tasty morsel in a meat sandwich? I had to perfectly match the speeds of the lorries behind and in front of me. This went-on for about half an hour until they grew bored of the game and sped off into the night. Fucking cowboys! I pulled into the first services before I had complete heart seizure. Took half a dozen cups of coffee to stop the shaking. Frequent caffeine overdoses being my one remaining vice in these days of sobriety and sanity.
I'd just about recovered when this real road rat, in premium gorilla size, came over to my table. He pulled me up by the collar of my jacket to enquire just what motorcycle I rode. This form of greeting, alas, is all too common amongst our colonial cousins. When I breathed the magic words Harley he threw me back into my seat, like a discarded bit of junk food. Which was just as well, for him, because I still had a hand free and would've happily blown away his kneecaps. The only way to meet the dissolute American Dream is with an of excess violence. Do unto others before they do to you.
That was 130 miles into the trip and my second petrol stop. It was eerie riding on, deeper into the night, watching the clarity of the sky increase as the pollution of the Big Apple was left behind. The Harley decided to be playful, 160 miles down the road, turning into an asthmatic big single, sending shudders through the chassis that tapped right into my spinal cord. I played along for a while, until I became pissed with a 50mph maximum speed. Harleys are pretty simple beasts and I'd soon sussed it was a duff spark plug. Must be a common malaise as there was a spare one in the tool roll or someone up there must like me (unlikely).
The rest of the journey lacked any wild events, except for my eyesight almost failing and the whole trip taking a good eight hours. Where all the time went I couldn't tell you. There was some kinda wine festival in Montreal but I managed to ignore it; drank orange juice or coffee in the more dubious bars for a week of self-indulgence. The plan after that was for a month running around the Great Lakes. Clean air, relaxed living and laid back motorcycling.
Some hope, what looked and felt like a massive typhoon swept across Lake Superior on the third day. Ice cold polar breezes dried my breath before it had a chance to get out of my mouth and I lost all feeling beneath my waist. By the time I arrived at the ever so aptly named Thunder Bay, I was the only idiot left out on the road; an object of wonder as I staggered into the first hotel I came to.
After about a week of being hunkered down there I was far gone on drink and drugs again. It was the only way to survive sharing the bar with huge Canadian men who growled rather than spoke and tended to amuse themselves by insisting I arm wrestle withthem. They were so obnoxious it was a major feat of restraint that I didn’t run amok with the gun.
After the sun came out I managed to get some riding in, but by then my mind had lost its grip on reality. I was so far gone I ended up with some fifty year old floozie on the pillion, who used to take her false teeth out before she got down to business. Try as I might, I could never get things together so far as to run out on her and after a week of abusing my body she started talking about marriage. I felt like blowing my brains away.
The Harley produced some moments of amusement that kept me from going completely insane. In an amazingly short time it'd become an old friend, that relentlessly growled through the landscape. You gotta keep a hold of some joy in life.
It seems to me that motorcycling’s going to split into two camps, with little in between. Commuting and sporting bikes. The former will be far removed from the current dross and the latter will become so extreme that only the rich will be able to afford to both buy and run them. The only good thing about these changing times, that the secondhand market will take a decade or so before it dies from lack of rideable machinery. You have been warned.
The current crop of commuters are pathetic. Expensive to buy, they don’t even offer decent economy. Their build quality is so poor that after an English winter they begin to look worn out. The suspension is so lowly specified that the first time the novice commuter rides over a potholed road he'll probably have a heart attack. The tyres are low grade rubbish that react to greasy roads by sliding wildly. They can’t even build bikes with proper mudguards!
In almost every other engineering sphere, designs have improved, longevity has increased and prices have fallen. In the commuter game, the same old gunge is churned out year after year, with the same marginal performance, pathetic economy with designs that hark back to the fifties and make an Ariel Leader look innovative. A plethora of different models with only one thing in common - an absurd price that would have most punters shaking their heads in disgust and looking for a nice, used car - just serve to show that no-one selling motorcycles has the slightest idea of what they’re doing.
And yet, the roads are actually becoming safer for motorcycles. This isn’t due to any great foresight on the part of the government or even local councils. Quite the reverse. As major cities assume grid-locked status, as cars become so stuck in ever lengthening traffic jams that it’s quicker to walk, traffic speed has been so significantly reduced that it’s much easier to avoid the machinations of bored, frustrated cagers as they try to avoid heart attacks by venting their angst.
Even some inherently dangerous, cheaply produced commuter can be whipped around the barely moving cars without too much trauma, at least by those who have a little motorcycle experience. Those who don't know what they’re doing, or who have just done the bare minimum on hired motorcycles to pass the test, will be in for a shock when they find their glorious commuter barely adequate to the task of staying upright in a straight line on one of the rare decent bits of tarmac.
In terms of road safely, there’s little difference between buying a fifty quid sixties hack and a £1500 (gulp!) new commuter. The only way that the manufacturers will get ahead of the game, and start selling hundreds of thousands rather than thousands of bikes, is by combining modern design with practicality. The former means the use of plastic for the whole chassis, direct injection stroker engines which can be tiny yet powerful and frugal, and a simplicity of the whole in terms of the number of parts and integration of the design. Practicality in the commuter market means a windscreen, roof and built in roll-cage (in plastic). Forget dual seats, add economy of more than 200mpg and a price that makes them look attractive.
The sporting side of motorcycling is well served by some fantastic engines and brilliant chassis. All it really needs is a bit of attention to ergonomics because people are just not going to keep on spending 5000 quid upwards for machines that leave them screaming in agony after ten minutes in town. Their purchase price is about 30% too high and the running costs between two and four times over the odds. For the moment, the experience offered by a couple of models is so good that they can survive on the back of that. They really do push the rider’s senses to the limit.
One of the more interesting elements of motorcycle racing, to which a lot of these big bikes bear an unfortunate resemblance, is the knowledge, occasionally revealed in the more intimate of interviews with racers, that the way they avoid cataclysmic crashes when things go seriously amiss is by reacting in a different time frame. Everything slows down, the instant between certain demise and crafty reaction appears to extend long enough for what, to mere mortals, seem miraculous acts of savage survival. The same thing happens to fighters in the ring when the going gets really tough.
Unfortunately, the ability to throw one’s brain into this mode is not easily won, is, indeed, the exact reversal of the normal trend to waste hours, days, months even years in mediocre toil. Various religious creeds and philosophies touch on such subjects, but few people have the time, energy and patience to even read deeply into such matters let alone become involved in the tedious business of mastering their intricacies. Racers, like other athletes, undergo massive physical and mental training to get away with their antics on the track.
Only rarely when others ride a motorcycle in the danger zone does such a direct connection between brain and reality occur, for most people reaction to imminent demise are somewhere between subconscious survival instincts and blind panic that leads to frozen immobility.
Personally, I rely on the subconscious to a dangerous degree. I know that some people ride along continually assaulted by an excess of stimuli, valiantly assessing road risks and taking the necessary avoidance actions. This all seems like a lot of hard work to me, when the good old subconscious is able to resolve situations before I've realised they have occurred (perhaps I just think very slowly). On the race track the truly great riders doubtless combine both traits to an extreme extent, although the directness of reaction of racing bikes obviously helps.
Often I've found myself braking, running down through the box and changing direction just before I've realised what was going down. Had I been relying on mere observation I probably would've fallen off or been crushed to death, or worse still ended up as a vegetable, by the actions of some inconsiderate cager. On other occasions I've floated through gaps in potential accidents, that had I been a split second later or sooner would've seen the painful end of moi. Only realising my timing after the event. Readers who doubt the veracity of such laid back techniques should realise that in the past twenty years I've only fallen off a few times; believe me, I hate the pain resultant from tender flesh meeting harsh tarmac.
Pain is another barrier that racers can breach. Famous riders racing long distances in apparent top form with injuries to wrists, fingers, ankles, legs or shoulders, that would have most people running around in an hysterical screaming fit. The actual act of riding at ten-tenths putting horrendous pressure on the injured part of the body. Pain killers, in such circumstances, are not a viable option as they dull the mind just when it needs to be at its sharpest. I don't know quite how they overcome the pain, the most obvious answer being that the massive act of concentration needed for racing pushes the distress to the back of the mind. Whole religions have been founded on the ability to withstand massive, brutal pain. The illusion of such avid devotion as disturbing as being on a ferry full of football supporters.
My own observations would differ, not from racing but by being cursed with quick rotting teeth and a fear of dentists that went beyond the mere pathological according to some (but always seemed entirely sane and sensible to myself). Used to be that I would only cross the threshold of a dentist’s surgery when afflicted with so much pain that I could barely resist total mental disintegration. On one occasion, rather than trying to distract myself from the pain I concentrated, focused upon it until it intensified to a point where I thought my head was going to split in two... and then the agony just vanished.
Quite what trick I played on my mind I wouldn't like to say, but the pain relief lasted for days rather than minutes. Whilst I've found it impossible to repeat this trick (perhaps I wasn’t in enough pain), it conceivably explains how people can withstand horrendous torture and how racers can keep going when by any sane account they should be rendered caterwauling cripples. Racers being one of the most competitive breeds, they but rarely reveal even the most minor of tricks that keep them ahead of the pack.
Certainly, overcoming pain and skill barriers is a character building business that need not be limited to race track excesses, can be equally well tested on the daily trudge to work on just about any motorcycle that can still turn a wheel. In many ways an old hack is a better means of chancing one's luck than a pristine race replica, at least it’s possible to test the machine's limits without coming to the attention of the excess of police patrol cars and loitering helicopters wasting huge sums of public money laying in wait for speeding vehicles.
Funny things begin to happen when fear, pain or even paranoia is faced and overcome. If that can be done on the mere trip to work it even makes some sense out of the rotten design of motorcycles off-loaded as adequate commuters or high tech race replicas; perhaps the modern biker should revel in the dangers and deficiencies of their machines.
A massive amount of muscle is needed to fling the GSX1100 around. Even after two years I haven't become used to it. I'd expected a bit of effort in town, after all she weighs in at 550lbs and inherited the conservative geometry of the old GS series. It wasn’t for another couple of years that the monoshock, sixteen inch wheel version came along and changed the character of the beast out of all recognition.
Even at high speeds the ponderous steering was still there. The good side of that was high speed stability that was solid. The bad part was the need to wrench muscles to get the GSX through the bends. A series of the dreaded S-bends would end with the Suzuki either down to a walking pace or us going walkies on to the nearest bit of soft ground.
I'd say that the straight line stability was so damn good that she much preferred to go right across roundabouts or through hedges rather than track the required course. This took a lot of getting used to, as can be imagined. The solution to most of the handling quirks was to use every muscle in my body to overcome the bike’s natural momentum. Oddly, putting a pillion out back made it slightly easier to handle, suggesting the GSX had too much weight over the front wheel.
The first 800 miles was mostly fun, as I fought to master the handling and revelled in the excessive torque and power produced by the engine at almost all revs. I thought I was winning, then the front end started wobbling every time I approached 45mph. If I took a hand off the bars they would slowly go from lock to lock until I freaked out and quickly grabbed hold of them again.
A few miles later loose steering head bearings were revealed when I tugged at the forks, becoming a bit desperate to find the cause of the wobbles. A set of taper rollers were hammered in but I nearly threw up the first time I tried the bike as the bars shook vehemently in my hands. It took six attempts to get the steering head stem at the correct torque. These taper bearings are very sensitive indeed.
The GSX was very sensitive to tyres. I found the best combination was rear Metzeler and front Arrowmax, as odd as this coupling might be. A much lighter friend found the bike diabolical on this rubber, so it’s very much personal taste. The front allowed slightly quicker steering than a Metz, whilst the better grip at the back end allowed fast exits from bends without the back tyre squirming all over the place. The combination of gut churning power and excessive weight, tore the back tyre to shreds in less than 4000 miles whilst the front would go for about twice that. They both had to be replaced when the tread was down to 2mm, unless you actually enjoyed falling off.
The other handling nasty was hitting potholes, either in town or out on the open highway, when the bars would flutter for what seemed like a hundred yards. The best reaction, once clear of the pothole, was to loosen my grip and not try to fight the bars. That way the oscillations could die down of their own accord. It still made my heart stop when it happened at ton plus speeds.
I bought the bike when just over 23000 miles had been done, benefiting from some upgraded suspension and an engine with a full service history. There's nothing worse than trying to cope with 100 horses and 550lbs on worn out OE suspension. One friend with a rat GSX1100 had us in hysterics with his tall tales of having to ride off the road, being thrown right out of the seat and weaving between cars on one wheel...
I've never conjured up the courage to try to wheelie my GSX. If it started to career off I doubt if I’d be able to pull it back on line. Wheelspin I can handle, though, as the back wheel slides around very controllably. Even that I don’t do very often because there’s enough torque to ruin a tyre in an afternoon.
Even better, the power was allied to a slick gearbox that was a pleasure to use even though there was no real need to employ it. The engine could be dumped into top and run between 30 and 135mph just by rolling the throttle open. It came in harder once past 6000 revs but in top gear, 50 to 90mph, roll-ons there were few bikes that could come close to keeping the GSX’s number plate in sight.
Comfort was limited by a too wide seat and tank, making it difficult to reach the ground if you were on the short side. Not very nice on a bike this heavy, which is also quite top heavy at town speeds. The few times I’ve tried to push it backwards the mass and disc drag combined to almost give me a hernia you have to be very careful how it’s parked, as a slight incline makes it impossible to pull out. The centre stand had been long since junked in the interests of improved ground clearance, sothat was one thing I didn’t have to fight. My last GS had a diabolical stand that left the back wheel a foot off the ground and all my muscles strained - and I ain't no ten stone weakling!
The big Suzuki had a surprisingly good finish, even the engine alloy and wheels not needing much hard work. The only tedious chore was cleaning the calipers every time I fitted new Ferodo pads, at around 9000 miles. The sixteen valve head and four CV carbs didn’t need much attention and the rest of the bike seemed well able to look after itself. Oil and filter are, of course, changed every 1500 miles.
After the first year, with 49000 miles on the clock, I was well pleased with my purchase, having become used to its ways and built up total faith in the reliability of the motor. One friend actually offered me £500 more than I paid for the 81 machine, so impressed had he become with the bike from the pillion perch. I thought about this for a while but decided to stick with the Suzuki.
Typically, perhaps, two weeks later the battery was having trouble holding enough charge to turn the starter motor. There was no way I was even going to think about trying to bump the brute into life. Big Suzukis are infamous for electrical burn-outs. I was relieved rather than annoyed when I pulled the battery out. It looked old enough to have been in the bike for the past 12 years. Knowing that any weak link in the electrics could take the whole system out I replaced it straight away. There haven't been any electrical problems since, not even a blown bulb.
Fuel was what you'd expect from such a big, heavy bike capable of blasting through the ton like most other bikes manage 50mph. The worst consumption I ever achieved was 28mpg, from a 130mph autobahn bash when I was fighting a heavy head wind. The GSX has wide rather than high bars that leaves the rider spread-eagled in the turbulent air stream. Not really comfortable for more than five minutes at speeds in excess of the ton, but I find that by adopting a riding position that involved getting my head down and using the pillion pegs I could take an hour or two of autobahn cruising.
I had to rely on the twin front discs when the foreign cagers did something crazy, like falling asleep at the wheel. The brakes were almost demonic at speed, surprising given their age but reassuring at high velocities. They were a bit vicious in the rain, but | guess that’s the price you have to pay. More normal motorway cruising, when not much more than 90mph was involved for most of the time, turned in 35 to 40mpg. The GSX seemed to laugh off such paltry speeds, feeling like it was barely turning over.
The best consumption I managed was just under 50mpg, that was pottering around winding A-roads where the lack of handling finesse limited speeds to a most moderate level. The GSX was rather relaxed when used in the 60 to 70mph cruising mode with none of the frenetic nature that might've been expected, thanks to its excessive torque. Town riding gave about 40mpg.
Anyone who expects these big fours to be cheap to run is wasting their time. They will run relentlessly, though, mine has now done 76000 miles, looks beautiful and has a silky rustle that many 6000 mile engines can’t match. An amazing bike!
I travelled 100 miles on BR to view the XJ600. The owner met me at the station. Took me for a blast out into the countryside, where he reluctantly let me have a short ride. Exhilarating! I checked the logbook against engine and frame numbers. Everything matched. After some haggling the 1991 machine was mine for £2200 in used fifties.
No sooner had I taken over ownership than the clouds opened. Never experienced so much rain. I was thankful that newish Avons were fitted. Didn’t have any waterproofs, was soaked through within five miles. Only another 95 miles to go! The XJ growled forward at 70mph without any trouble. The front discs were a bit vague, going from nothing to a howling tyre.
20 miles from home I left the rain behind me. I dropped down two gears, went mad on the throttle. 130mph. Wow! Stability wasn’t bad, just a slight flutter from the front wheel. The half fairing lacked width and height. In the rain it'd helped soak me through. In the 130mph gale the wind whipped around my head. After a few minutes I felt like someone had head-butted me. 90 to 100mph was much more sensible, also removed most of the high frequency vibes. The air screaming through my jeans soon dried them out.
Once home I noticed a big puddle of oil under the engine. The level was under the minimum mark. The sump plug was hanging on by a thread. There was no washer under it, but I found a suitable copper washer, did it up and was forced to do an oil change. Good practice. A few other bolts were loose. I gave the bike a good going over.
The XJ engine series has been around for yonks. The somewhat finicky XJ550 started it all off. In ’84 the engine was enlarged and toughened up. The '91 version developed 66hp at 10000rpm and 36lbft at 9000rpm. That would suggest the motor needed to be revved relentlessly. In reality, there was plenty of torque below 7000rpm and the mill was smooth running. The real power came in between 7 and 10000 revs, with the engine going dead by the time 11000rpm was reached.
The engine's almost square bore and stroke dimensions (58.5 x 55.7mm) must've helped in the development of torque. The DOHC four cylinder engine was well able to withstand constant abuse. My bike had only 8000 miles on the clock, so I was pretty sure that it'd run for at least 20000 miles. Regular maintenance consisted of oil and filter changes. The carbs and valves don’t need much attention.
The XJ weighs about 415lbs but feels a bit lighter than that. It's dead easy to chuck through traffic. Once I'd become used to the violence of the front brake, my commuting times became drastically reduced. I felt quickly at home as the riding position was perfectly suited to the human body. None of the contorted horrors of the race replica bikes. The XJ is one of those machines that can be ridden in a mild way or on full throttle insanity.
It was furious fun going to work. I came close to clipping cars a couple of times. They moved so slug-like that I had to re-educate my mind to the velocities attainable on the XJ. I was thankful for the ferocity of the fierce front brake. Given half a chance it'd smoulder the tyre. The horn was just about up to scaring the wits out of erring drivers.
After two weeks the engine started Cutting out. I noticed that when I switched on the lights the cutting out became much more intense. A day or two later, the XJ wouldn't start. A flat battery. I put it on the charger for a couple of hours. It still wouldn't turn the starter over. One new battery later I was back in business. Two weeks later the same thing happened, along with blowing bulbs. The rectifier was churning out AC. The breaker turned up a new one for £20. He reckoned it was very rare, said I should check the wiring over. There was a loose wire in one of the connectors. I soldered it in. No more electrical problems.
No sooner had the XJ begun to run well than the front discs began to make ringing noises. The pads were down to the metal, seemed a bit harsh with less than 9000 miles done. I didn't have time to replace them immediately. Rode on the back disc and engine braking for two weeks. When some cage appeared from nowhere I had no option but to use the front brake lever in anger. The forks bounced down on their stops for a moment, then BANG!
There was just time to throw the XJ around the back of the car. Despite the 18 inch wheels it could be a fast steering bike when necessary. The front end was leaping all over the place. Making some loud noises like metal was tearing itself apart. The disc had cracked up, ruptured its carrier. I took the front wheel out to remove what was left of the disc.
When I pulled the front wheel free, the forks bounced down on the grookayund and the bike fell over. It was going to be one of those days. After picking the bike up, putting the wheel back in, I was ready to ride home without a front brake. The breaker was amazed to see me so soon but was happy enough to hand over a good disc and a couple of sets of pads. He hinted that the bike might've been involved in an accident, so unusual was a disc breaking up. I couldn’t see that, not with the way the XJ handled. There were no obvious signs of crash damage, such as grazed levers or cracked indicators. One caliper was found to be partially seized but fixed with new seals and a bit of polishing.
There followed a period of calmness. 6000 miles of trouble free running. I really enjoyed the bike, it was just fast enough to be interesting but not so powerful that it tore through the consumables at a crazy rate. The tyres hardly seemed to wear at all and the O-ring chain needed an adjustment every 1000 miles.
I was disconsolate when, with only 15000 miles on the clock, the camchain started rattling. It was this more than anything that convinced me that the bike had been clocked. Camchains usually lasted at least 30000 miles. The new camchain was fitted in an afternoon, the tensioner was OK. I was a bit dubious about keeping the bike for any longer but it ran so well that I decided I'd give it one more chance.
The weekend after the camchain job I was hustling around Kent with the frail on the back. I though the rear end was waggling around a lot. The XJ has the usual mono-track suspension. Two-up, the shock often seemed marginal. It was obviously beginning to show its age as I heeled over into the bends. Even mild bumps were knocking the tyre around and the girlfriend was digging me in the ribs with a vindictive fury.
After the weekend, stability returned in solo use. The bike was like a second skin, responding easily to my every whim. I should've paid more attention to the state of the rear suspension a month later the back end was allowing wobbles even at mediocre town speeds. It was a combination of a shock with no damping, shot swinging arm bearings and worn out shafts in the linkage. I bought some new bearings, the rest from the breakers. It was a tedious way of spending a weekend, battering out corroded in spindles and cursing the lack of grease nipples - there wasn’t any grease on any of the shafts.
The silencers were speckled with rust, the frame paint was bubbling and some of the alloy refused to clean up. The plastic and tank still looked like new The further away from the bike that you got the better it looked. Top speed was still 130mph! Acceleration could still blitz every car on the road and most bikes. 90 to 100mph cruising was as easy as opening up the throttle. There wasn't really any need to kick up the box like a lunatic. But I used to do it for the rush. During one such excursion I was pulled over. Whilst one cop gave me the usual sanctimonious lecture the other checked the bike on his radio. He came back with a nasty grin. My bike didn't exist according to Swansea! I was obviously a nasty little thief who should be banged up right away.
After a couple of hours of interrogation, with the usual nasty and nice cop, they phoned my father who turned up with the logbook, which was a complete fake. Of course I had no idea where the guy was living and no memory of the phone number, although from the date on the receipt they could've traced it back through the paper. They reluctantly let me go, saying they would have to keep the Yamaha. Fucking great!
It was my good fortune to pick up a 9000 mile Honda CB750F1. It was so cheap that I immediately decided, being of both a cruel and lazy disposition, that I would see how long it would last in total neglect mode. It took longer than I expected, given the poor reputation of this OHC four. I can only suggest that its early engine failings had been sorted out under warranty and its first owner had been meticulous about running her in.
Not being entirely daft I did concede 1500 mile oil changes and keeping the bike in decent tyres. I’d already had one bloody endorsement for riding my previous mount on bald rubber. I didn’t want to end up a confirmed felon, god knows what our extraordinarily warped justice system would do to me.
First impressions, then. Handling was heavy but stable. A remarkable feat given that the shocks were still original. The heaviness was expected, the bike weighing in at nigh on 500lbs. Top speed was a tolerable 130mph. By then both vibes and the chassis were making the Honda a bit twitchy. The rate of acceleration up to 120mph was impressive, the old dragon seeing off some quite modern 600s. Getting that final 10mph was hard work, needing a racing crouch and some determined throttle work. As well as along, straight bit of road. Given the state of my licence hardly worth the effort.
Speed was going to be adequate, bordering on being even great fun. It had a rough and ready way with the power that plastic replica bikers would find disturbing, but to someone who'd grown up on malcontent British bikes it seemed a natural extension of the motorcycling experience. It was nice, though, to be able to ride around without bits dropping off...
That was what I was thinking when the chain broke, some three miles from home. Being something of an old hand, I had a spare link in the toolkit. Being stupid, it wasn’t the right size, no way of getting the retaining clip on. I superglued the link plate to the pins. I was thankful that the chain hadn't whipped a hole in the crankcase, a common way of wrecking these engines. I rode home at 10mph, ever sensitive to the nuances of the transmission lurches.
The gearbox was something of an acquired taste at the best of times. The clutch was a bit too direct in its action and the cogs would show a reluctance to engage. On the good sign of leaping into false neutrals once they were home. As the chain wore out the gearbox became almost impossible to use which serves as a warning point for when a new chain should be fitted.
The chain that broke, on careful examination, was full of tight spots and had about six links missing. I later found that chains lasted very poorly, indeed, and I ended up taking links out myself even with the potential disaster of a broken chain. The cheaper chains could be out of action within 4000 miles and very conscientious maintenance allowed an expensive one to last 10000 miles.
As I was running the bike on a shoestring I was a bit miffed to find that the back tyre was equally short-lived. They were torn through in 5000 miles and it was a brave man who'd use an F1 on a rear tyre with less than 1mm. The front went for about twice that distance, but was even more alarming when worn out as the wheel would slide all over the tarmac.
Combining worn tyres with a misfiring engine in the wet gave me flashbacks to an old BSA B31 I used to skid around town on, only that one just had one cylinder to cut out and would go completely dead at the most inopportune moments. Rumour holds that the ignition coils are the culprit but as long as I remembered to spray the bike with WD40 it'd survive the worst the British weather could throw at us..
That's more than can be said for the calipers which, in all, needed seven rebuilds. The clever little nerd who designed the calipers should be taken outside and shot because they seized up in away that made them impossible to split without some very innovative use of the chisel and hammer. I redesigned them so that a bolt inserted would cause them to part in a matter of seconds.
The pads were actually long-lived, about 12500 miles which made the constant strip-downs all the more galling. The brakes were OK when they were working, nothing to write home about (or to the UMG, for that matter) but adequate for losing speed in a hurry, not likely to lock up the wheels without warning and only a predictable, controllable bit of wet weather lag. When the calipers started gumming up all that went to pot and just about anything could happen. Nasty. A length of Goodridge hose for the front brake eliminated a lot of sponginess at around 27000 miles.
A couple of impressive points about the engine. Between oil changes it didn't use a drop of oil. The points were never touched and were still original when the motor finally failed. The carbs and valves were left to their own devices and seemed all the better for it!
The suspension wasn’t so happy to be abused and neglected. The rear shocks, by 15000 miles, were causing a bit of derangement at the back, with weaves and wobbles, plus some thudding over bumps. I noted as I was investigating the back end that the swinging arm bearings were a bit loose, so as well as a new set of Konis some bushes were hammered in. The spindle had come out with a few gentle taps, even had a little grease left on it.
The forks were another story. The first sign of malaise was leaking seals from the pitted fork surface. The seals were not easy to get out or put back in without damaging them. After a month they were leaking again so I bought a new set of stanchions. The seals still only lasted for about 4000 miles a time after that and by 35000 miles I had to do a complete refurbishment, new bushes, heavier springs and yet another set of seals.
The new forks firmed up the handling, stopped some of the large weaves in fast sweepers and removed some vicious twitching over pot-holes. After a couple of years piloting the F1 I had got the handling down to a fine art, knowing exactly how far I could take the bike and knowing which weaves meant it was time to back off. I had experienced some deadly speed wobbles when the chassis was worn out, but it was just a matter of exerting muscle as the brakes were applied harshly. If I was going to fall off I wanted to do so at as low a speed as possible! But, by a combination of luck and skill, I stayed aboard the bucking machine.
Suspension apart, over three years of abuse I paid little attention to the chassis. I never cleaned the F1, touched the electrics nor did anything to the exhaust, which was as rusty as an old nail and by the time the end finally came full of enough holes to be useful as a cheese-grater. Even so, the engine wasn’t affected by the almost straight through exhaust... it was probably compensated for by the original, untouched air filter.
I did have to renew the spark plugs every 10000 miles to ease starting and stop some chronic cutting out, that even half a can of WD40 couldn't help. Right up to its final days the motor was still capable of putting 120mph on the clock and turning in 45mpg. Nothing special, perhaps, but you have to bear in the mind the level of near total neglect to which the Honda was subjected.
The end came at 47000 miles when the Honda looked like such a total rat that the local plod were pulling me over and using it as an example of neglect with which to instruct young traffic cops. Beginnings of its demise came at 39000 miles when the gearbox became really beastly, leaping out of second and third with a dangerous lack of warning. Changing from first to fourth really tested the machine's character and production of torque, making town riding a real pain. It would've taken a major effort to remove all the gunge off the engine just to get at the screws! The next chain change I put on a tiny engine and large wheel sprocket, which made fourth like third and therefore just possible to take off in it.
The final demise came from a rattling primary chain and knocking main bearings. I'd had three years of good biking but most F1s are too high in mileage to be worth bothering with, these days. If anyone’s got a crashed one with a good engine, though, drop me a line via the UMG.
My first ride on the '76 Honda CB550F was so bad that I was almost reduced to tears. It was so cold that every time I dropped the visor the air froze solid. My fingers had lost all feeling. The only reason that my feet hadn't gone the same way was that the engine was stuck in second. The vibes that blitzed the pegs was an exotic way of keeping my feet warm.
All things being equal, I could've probably survived but the engine was also cutting out. Power came in, went out, came back in a thoroughly unpredictable way. The back wheel hobbled around in response to the jerky power delivery. Patches of ice ridden over would have the chassis in near terminal shakes. I was as frozen as i was petrified.
At one point i was down to 10mph. The engine had cut out on to just one cylinder which whispered its reluctant beat like Tina Turner in a particularly intense moment. I had the throttle fully open when all three other cylinders suddenly came in. The back wheel squirmed and my frozen body threatened to crack in half. I started singing to myself, fearing that exposure would set in and I’d sink deep into sleep as I rode along, and wake up being put back together by indifferent surgeons.
That's what happens when you buy a bargain bike in January. £75 for a working if wrecked looking CB550 was too good a deal to turn down. I should have paid a bit more out and got someone to cart us home. The house was more than a welcome sight as we finally made the outskirts of Brum. The Honda stopped dead as soon as we came to a halt, with a clunk that sounded expensive.
After several days of recovery | was ready to attack the bike in earnest. It was too cold to ride even if I'd wanted to. The living room was the warmest in the house and using irrefutable logic therefore the ideal place to see what was what. The gearbox troubles turned out to be nothing more than worn splines on the gearchange shaft. It'd do one or two changes when the securing nut was tightened up with spanner breaking force, but thereafter refuse to work. I hammered some nails into the spines with the lever on loose then tightened up. It worked!
Encouraged, I waded into the notoriously fickle ignition system. Someone had, sensibly, already fitted electronic ignition. The HT leads and caps were heavy duty, rubberised. The coils were the only other source of malaise but they shone with newness. The only other thing I could think of was the engine cut-out switch. I couldn't be bothered to pull it apart but tore its wiring out of the system - there was always the chance that a bit of insulation had worn out.
A quick blast around the housing estate revealed that everything worked as well as could be expected from a 48000 mile motorcycle that wasn't even on the pace when it was new. I was congratulating myself about being a clever little boy when I fell off. The dreaded black ice had kicked the front tyre away. Fortunately, it was at low speed, both bike and I survived the experience with little more than a shock to our systems. Just my luck, though, that the local school let out a horde of urchins. There were absolutely delighted at viewing a real life accident. Especially when the ice got me the second time as I tried to boot one of them up the arse. I went flying, nearly breaking an elbow!
I decided to wait until the spring before riding the CB again. That gave me plenty of time to go over the chassis, clean up the rust and do a not unreasonable paint job in bright orange. There was plenty to do, including finding newish tyres, chain and pads. The chrome on the wheel rims was disgusting, cured with a wire brush and black Hammerite. The rust hadn’t gone so deep anywhere on the chassis that it wasn’t possible to do a salvage operation. Not bad for an eighteen year old bike.
When temperatures were more moderate and the ice had done a disappearing act, I was ready for the open road and an excess of high jinks. I didn’t get very far. The battery revealed itself as not willing to hold a charge. We stuttered home, lucky to make it to the door before the bike sunk into a deathly silence, made all the more spectacular by the Mad Max roar from the 4-1 exhaust that normally echoed off buildings. Bike batteries are extortionately expensive but there was no way the CB would run without one.
The next ride was more successful. I did nearly 100 miles before disaster struck. The OHC four was not the most powerful middleweight in the world; indeed, could be called gutless by those of an unkind disposition. That was not the impression I had when I shut the throttle dead at 70mph in third. Nothing happened, or rather the bike continued to scream ahead as if the throttle was fully open. It dawned on me, as I saw my life flash before me, that the cable was stuck.
In retrospect, it was quite impressive, the way the Honda shot over on to the wrong side of the road and then banked over so far I almost took my kneecap off. The suspension was old, stock stuff that turned to quivering mush then locked up solid. I feit like I was on a rocking horse that was about to fall apart, but she held her line and got us out of the corner at about twice the speed I'd normally entertain. It was only then that thought to switch off the ignition! After a slow journey home the throttle cable was filled with grease and given an easier route. I then had to spend two hours putting the carbs back into balance.
The handling was generally reasonable but seemed heavy for a 420Ib bike. Town riding was hard work, partially down to the extremely narrow bars fitted by a previous owner (of which there had been eight) but they did allow comfortable 80mph cruising. A remarkable lightening of the handling occurred when I loosened off the steering head bearings a touch.
In town that was fine, but on the open road at speeds above 70mph the bars began to twitch in my hands. The steering head bearings were pitted and looked egg-shaped. A new set of taper rollers had a beneficial effect on handling - light at town speeds, as steady as an FZR up to 80mph, when the weaves would come in due to the shagged suspension. By 85mph the front wheel didn’t seem to know what it was doing and I thought my early demise was written in the way the chassis needed a couple of lanes to weave across.
I kept to 80mph and below. It was quite fast enough to keep up with most traffic and with a naked bike there was an exciting feeling of fighting the elements. This was helped along by the way the motor vibrated. The mirrors were useless, the tank threatened to fall apart whilst the bars and pegs made a Triumph twin seem a paragon of smoothness. Along with a rock hard seat, the CB didn’t really have enough beef to make it as a grand tourer.
There was always some minor irritant that intruded upon my feeling of well being. The engine would suddenly cut out and refuse to start. Felt like fuel starvation, sure enough no fuel coming out. Looked in the tank to see bits of rust floating in the petrol. The filter at the bottom of the tank was blocked up. I shook the bike a bit to free the debris, rode home with two more stops to repeat the exercise.
When I went to undo the fuel tap it wouldn't shift. After taking a lump of skin out of my hand I became really nasty and whacked the screws to loosen them off. The next thing I knew I was holding a large chunk of petrol tank still attached to the tap! The rust had eaten so deeply into the tank that there was no chance of welding it even if I found someone willing to wave a welding torch in its direction. That's how the bike ended up disguised as a CB400F, as I picked up a good tank and seat for £25. At this age old Japs are at the end of their natural life and liable to fall apart under you!
One day I was riding along, quite content with my lot in life, when I glanced down at the motor to see oil spurting like blood out of an artery where there should've been a valve cap. It had fallen off despite the fact that I'd tightened it up after adjusting the valves the day before (a 750 mile chore but there were only eight of them and they were simple screw and locknut jobs). By the time I reached home there was hardly any oil left in the engine but it didn’t seem to do any permanent damage.
It seemed like a good time to sell the machine to a mate who'd fallen for its simplicity. That's what the pervert said, anyway. Blow me if, in the past six months, the damn machine hasn’t run like clockwork. The heaviest expense was fuel at 40mpg. I only used cheap, worn consumables and made a nice profit on the deal. It’s not a very good motorcycle but as a cheap hack I couldn't really fault it.
There are bargains and there are bargains. The Z1100R made a disgusting noise when it was started and when it was revved. I turned the engine off and set my offer on the basis that I'd need to buy a new motor. £450 seemed a bit absurd even to my ears, as the rest of the chassis glowed very nicely and the consumables were nearly new. I refused to pay more than £500, waved ten used fifties under the vendor's nose.
That left me with a huge brute of a bike to get home. The willing vendor let me use his phone to speak to the AA, to whom I already belonged. I told them I'd broken down outside my friend's house. We regaled each other with motorcycle tales until the AA chap turned up. He insisted on hearing the engine before he'd call for the trailer, reckoned it was probably the starter clutch, which made the vendor's chin drop down to his knee-caps.
The next day revealed that it was indeed the problem and a few used bits from the breaker had it ready to rock and roll. First impressions were of a fearsomely fast four that thrived on revs. If the G-forces hadn't been so great from the acceleration then I would have ridden everywhere with a wicked grin. I had great fun out-dragging the 600 and 750 race replicas, although the bigger stuff had so much more power and less weight that it was hard work to keep them in sight.
Top speed was a rather optimistic 150mph on the clock, with only a little queasiness from the chassis. It wasn’t stock. Upgraded with alloy swinging arm, Marzocchi shocks, fork brace and a couple of fat, low profile Avon radials. The latter might've been dubious on the relatively narrow rims but their construction ensured there wasn't any wobbling from the rubber.
The feel was mostly sure-footed, only large bumps hit whilst upright caused the forks to shudder. It'd do the same trick when banked over, heading out of bends under hard acceleration with a few bumps on the exit lane. It felt more frightening than it really was, as the forks would soon settle down again - the previous owner had fitted a bloody big steering damper! He'd recalled, after I'd paid the money, that he once had to fight a speed wobble that almost left him ruptured!
After about 400 miles, the terrible rattling recurred. The starter clutch had come undone. I put it back together with Loctite. I would've been quite happy to kickstart her into life but the bike was of the era when they stopped fitting them. The big, old tech four had no engine balancer and precious little rubber in the engine mounts, with resulting patches of intrusive secondary vibration. Vibes came in at 65 to 75mph, disappeared for awhile, coming in at 95mph onwards with increasing intensity as the throttle was wound open.
This ruined the bike’s ability as a high speed cruiser as the riding position was immensely comfortable for all riding, except for the really insane speeds that would only be plausible on German autobahns. Then, there was too much wind blast from the handlebar fairing and thus too much strain on shoulder muscles - we’re talking 120mph cruising here. The bars rather than the pegs were worst affected by the vibes, as little as an hour sent my hands all funny and another half hour would have my feet joining in. A four hour trip left me shaking like a junkie desperate for a heroin fix.
Some thick handlebar grips and reassembling the footrest brackets with new rubber mounts reduced the buzz to a much more tolerable level. Whilst there was no way the vibes were going to harm the motor, based as it was on the original toughie - the 900 Z1 the buzz could get through to the chassis.
A blown back bulb almost got me killed when some artic driver only saw the bike at the last moment. He braked and swerved, the squealing tyres and brakes making me jump a foot in the seat as he brushed past with about a hair's width of clearance. No amount of fiddling seemed to help the poor longevity of the bulb, varying between a mere 800 and an almost acceptable 3000 miles.
More worrying was a battery than split, soaking a large area of the bike in acid. I had no end of trouble with rotting wires after that, until I'd replaced them all. That one happened 200 miles from home so was an AA job. It'd developed poor starting just before that occurred, leaving me trying to push-start 600Ibs of bike and luggage. It was ridiculously easy to fall over in a heap as the-Z was reluctant to get past compression when I dropped the clutch. Whether or not these problems had anything to do with the ignition module burning out I wouldn't like to say.
Kawasaki fours are a bit infamous for this trick, I think it’s more down to the vibes than the electrical malfunctions. Whatever, new they cost a small fortune. Used ones are extremely rare, but | managed to pick one up for fifty quid. The best that can be said for them is that when they go the motor refuses to run altogether, making used ones easy to test. Extra rubber mounting is the best solution.
That happened after I'd had the Z for five months and 7000 miles, with 38000 on the clock. The tyres were almost bald by then, turning the handling into a passable imitation of a Kawa H1 I once had the misfortune to own, only at substantially faster speeds. Town riding was still tolerable up to about 60mph, as long as the roads weren't wet when the rubber would slide all over the place.
Even more fun was had when all three calipers simultaneously decided to seize up as solid as my sphincter muscle when I realised I suddenly didn’t have any working brakes. The transmission sounded more than strained as I hurried down the box in search of engine braking, a hopping rear wheel doing a lot to lose both speed and what little hair was left on my head.
The total cost of fixing everything was so great that | had to hit the breakers for part worn bits. That was how I found out the front discs weren't original equipment but the breaker was willing to exchange the calipers I'd bought for ones that would fit on the forks.
The non-standard front end suggested the Kawasaki had been crashed at some time. Tearing off the petrol tank, I was relieved to find that the frame tubes were still straight, but mortified to see huge areas of rust on the underside of the tank. Being naturally curious, I gave the rusted metal a poke with my screwdriver, ended up with a lapful of fuel for my pains. After looking at three similarly afflicted tanks in breakers I finally found one that was rust free.
I was using the bike as much and as hard as I could. One thing that slowed me down a lot was the poor front light. It wasn’t safe doing more than 40mph on country roads at night, a bit pathetic on such a bruiser. With the somewhat marginal electrical system I didn't fancy chancing a more powerful lamp, I had the feeling that the whole bike would go up in flames.
45000 miles saw the engine needing a bit of attention in the form of a new camchain, a couple of valves shimmed and a carb balance. As this was the first maintenance the bike had received I couldn’t complain but it coincided with another round of consumable replacements, including the chain and sprockets. Heavy expense but I told myself that the level of kicks were well worth it and I didn't really need to pay the road tax or insurance, did I?
The standard exhaust system was looking a bit ratty, with a couple of holes appearing in the silencers. There was no way I could afford to replace that and I knew someone who'd fitted a four into one only to end up with four holed pistons. I practised my welding on the cans and it held off the demise - it always surprised me what you could get away with on old motorcycles.
About a 150 miles after I'd put on the new chain and sprockets there was a terrible grinding noise next to my left foot. Oh no, I thought, the gearbox bearings have gone. I pulled the clutch in, turned the engine off and thought it was a bit odd that the noise and lurching were still there as we free-wheeled off the road. A chain dragging along the ground gave the game away, the engine sprocket had come loose. I was lucky it hadn't torn the chain apart and holed the cases.
With 53000 miles up, the only other problem is some overheating if the bike's used in traffic for more than an hour, despite the large oil cooler. The gearbox goes solid and the engine doesn't rev above 5000 revs. It only happens in really hot weather so it’s not that common in the UK.
I'm keeping the Z1100R, it goes like the clappers and handles tolerably well. It's got bags of character, the problems and high running costs (expect 35 to 50mpg, by the way) I could do without but what else could I buy for that kind of money?
Despite being a hefty old brute for a trail bike at 460lbs, I soon found that the Tiger was an ideal DR hack. I'd bought the bike off a colleague who'd tried to ride the Triumph into the ground in six months and 30000 miles. Judging by the white sludge that was supposed to be engine oil he hadn't even bothered to change the lubricant. The protective layer of crud revealed a brill finish but one that was totally obscured again after the first bit of rain, the Tiger having the kind of minimal mudguards for which the Japs are infamous (at least there were gaiters on the front forks).
What made the Tiger a peach in the silly London traffic was a perfectly balanced feel that allowed feet up progress at a walking pace and a pair of Michelin tyres that gripped the greasy London roads with impeccable security. I was quite happy to roll up to some cage which had done something stupid and batter away on his roof whilst holding the Tiger in perfect balance, ready for a fast exit when the cowed cager became enraged by the flimsy roof bouncing on his head.
Luckily, Triumph saw fit to retain twin front discs that could carve off speed with predictable ease when cars did their usual silly tricks. I would've preferred a louder horn as it barely seemed to penetrate their consciousness. The rear disc was also a hot number, easily able to lock up the wheel and send the Tiger into a perfectly controllable rear wheel slide. I found myself slewing sideways to deliberately give cagers the fright of their lives, holding the bike balanced, with a foot down and giving the Tiger a vicious twitch back upright. It was one hell of a quick way of turning through ninety degrees and I only bounced off the sides of cars a few times.
The Tiger has a de-tuned Trident engine that develops even more low speed torque. If it loses its edge above 100mph, in town it’s a brilliant hit and run device which, dumped into third gear, few bikes can hope to keep in sight. I got so carried away with the pleasure of the acceleration, and the whine of the three into two exhaust, that | roared through a narrow gap in between two rows of cars, completely forgetting that I had two large panniers stuck out in the airstream. Cruuuuuuuunch! A massive tremor ran through the chassis as each pannier hit a car, the bars wobbling in my hands like the steering head bearings were disintegrating, but I held on, opening up the throttle as the panniers were torn off and the bike, suddenly freed, bounded forward with about 80mph on the clock.
Once clear of the scene, I pulled over, tipped-my lid off and threw up the contents of my stomach (a sludge-like curry, if you must know). Both rear indicators had been ripped out, but that was no great loss as I never hung around long enough for cagers behind to worry over which way | was going. The position of the silencers, jutting out from the sides of the seat, made fitment of panniers a troublesome affair. I decided it'd be safer to fit a massive top box over the back of the seat.
Wheelies were another joy on the Tiger. There was so much grunt that it really only needed a slight pull on the bars and moving of my weight slightly backwards, rather than massive abuse of the clutch and throttle. You could, naturally, do that as well and pull wheelies the length of the High Street. More importantly, it allowed the bike to speed up to minor obstacles like pavements, roundabouts and pedestrian precincts.
Get the wheel off the ground by a foot and ride straight through with only a minor bit of thumping from the rear shock, which at this mileage had to have the damping and springing turned up to their highest setting to stop the Tiger turning into a high speed pogo stick! ae The long travel suspension and excess ground clearance meant easy meat was made of the average DR’s round, with pot-holes absorbed and bricks, thrown by irate cagers or disillusioned youths, ridden over as if they did not exist. The only thing the bike didn’t like was the odd section of cobblestones that constituted useful short cuts to my mind, but to the startled peds seemed to be some sort of sanctified pedestrian walkway. The tyres slithered over the dubious surface and I felt inclined to put a foot down or even back off the throttle a notch. I tried to avoid the latter as it'd probably result in a well deserved smack in the mouth.
Part of the Tiger's charm was that it absorbed all kinds of road shocks, that would normally have me staggering off to the nearest casualty ward (anything to get my hands on these nurses, anything...) and that it gave out zilch vibes from its three cylinder DOHC mill, thanks to the engine balancer. The upright riding position was so comfortable that even my wrecked body could sustain a full day's worth of despatching without ending up looking like a seventy year old wreck. Had excess use of the gearbox been necessary I might've complained but for the vast majority of the time I used third, with the odd change down to second when the bike had to be twirled through a particularly tough section of coalesced cars. The gearbox was on a par with a five year old Honda, probably because of the lack of regular oil changes. The engine proved pretty tough, even with 40000 miles up the rattles didn’t sound terminal despite the valves, carb and camchain tensioner never being touched by human hand. Gone are the days when British bikes were a vibratory laugh that would barely get you across town without going into a self-destruct act.
The only hassle I had was a starter motor that suddenly refused to work. I took it apart and gave the clutch mechanism a few taps with my best hammer to good effect. Before that was done I had to spend a few days bump-starting the beast, there being a distinct lack of a kickstart. The Tiger's trail pretensions means it's got a high seat, which whilst great for peering over the top of Transit vans makes running and leaping aboard all the more difficult. Dragging discs made the bike feel more like 700Ibs than 460lbs, but | huffed and puffed alongside until a bit of speed was gained, then jumped aboard the machine and dropped the clutch. Luckily, it started very easily. Unluckily, it was a bit top heavy at low speeds and if my coordination was anything other than perfect, which given my need for drugs it usually was, we'd end up in a tangled heap. I was usually quick enough to make sure I ended atop the Tiger.
This so pissed me off that I usually left the engine running with a shackle lock around the forks to make sure no-one who was able to see what it was beneath the grime could half-inch my most valuable asset. One time, running late, I leapt aboard, all ready to roar off into a traffic gap when the bike jarred to a dead stop as the lock halted us so suddenly that we fell over into passing traffic. Some cage nearly took my head off and I saw stars for a while. The noise it made I thought the forks had snapped but the Tiger was quite robust and shook off my foolishness!
Another major assault on my person occurred when the wantonly neglected rear disc locked on solidly. The back wheel waggled all over the road, causing cagers to grasp their chests in agony at the sight of a completely out of control Triumph about to crash into them, whilst pedestrians, already edgy on the back of predatory police and truculent terrorists, scattered before me as the back wheel tried to take huge chunks out of the kerb. Somehow | avoided hitting anything.
The rear disc glowed boldly hot whilst the caliper needed brutal bovver from my boot after I’d released its locating bolts. It suddenly flew off at an improbable velocity, right into the shin of some gross traffic warden whilst the brake fluid splattered over my trousers. A mile later, after roaring off before the warden could regain the vertical (figuring the caliper was, anyway, a write off) I had to pull over to see what was burning a hole in my leg. The ragged remains of my Levis bore testament to the acidity of the fluid and I only saved my skin by rushing into McDonalds and sticking my leg in the sink after barging my way through various reprobates who had taken over the toilet. Another caliper was acquired from the breakers and a whole weekend devoted to cleaning up the Triumph.
40000 miles worth of abuse had barely scratched the surface of the Tiger's ruggedness and it polished up so well that I off-loaded the bike at almost a grand’s profit. It’s an ideal DR bike if you like to ride on the fast and furious side and it’s probably quite nifty as a tourer but I never got around to taking it out of the city. If I hadn’t needed a quick infusion of cash I'd probably have kept it for a long time.
