This old geezer pulled the ancient 250 Supa 5 out from his garage, gave it a kick and moved back proudly as the engine clattered into life and filled the street with noxious blue smoke. I felt like throwing up. It may have been the blend of weed he was smoking; more likely the decrepit appearance of the MZ. I had been forced to seek out some ultra cheap wheels to get the five miles back and forth to work. For fifty quid I could expect little better.
The ride home was much as expected. The front bulb threw out just about enough light to attract any passing moths but judging by the way car drivers tried to mow me down did not even serve to illuminate my presence let alone the road. The gearbox only worked intermittently, sometimes refusing to engage gears at others stepping out of gear. Similarly, what passed for a lubrication system spewed out dense clouds of smoke every time I tried to cane the bike in the gears.
The next morning the bugger refused to start. My sons proved useful for once, pushing myself and machine up the road until it agreed to fire up. I left the street before I could be blamed for the dense cloud of pollution. On the way to work the front drum stopped working. The rear was incredibly powerful, locking up the back wheel. The massive skids, with the back end twitching all over the place, stalled the engine, which needed at least twenty kicks to start. By the time I got to work I was so distraught all I wanted was to go back to bed.
And so it went for next couple of weeks. The cunning old codger had sold me a bike with all the consumables about ten miles from needing replacement. Each tide revealed another area of the bike that was in need of urgent attention. The most annoying, the points which varied their opening so vigorously that at the end of each day I had to set them up again. After about a month, the machine ground to a halt; the points had fallen apart.
This was the first time I was forced to push the Supa 5 home, but not the last. Being not above a bit of cunning myself, I bought another MZ 250 for £30, a non-runner, but with decent tyres, chain, etc. I spent many a winter weekend swapping over good bits for bad. It must have saved me a huge fortune in replacement pads.
For the next three months the Supa 5 ran along without too many problems. There was always some odd bit that needed minor attention, but nothing major. Top speed was around the 75mph mark, but this was accompanied by such violent vibration that I rarely scaled such dizzy heights. The vibration was furious enough to cause mudguards to crack and the carb to come loose. 65mph was a pleasant cruising speed that the battered suspension was able to handle.
Handling was OK on newish Michelins. The bike would occasionally behave in an unpredictable manner. Certain combinations of bumps, speed and angles of lean sending the chassis into a worrying frenzy. To be honest, I was not that impressed by the handling of my worn out MZ; it appeared no better than an equally aged CD175 I had used in the past. MZ fanatics scream about the virtuous handling of their machines, which might be true for newish or refurbished ones but certainly a vast overstatement when applied to my fifty quid hack.
Of course, in town where speed was limited by circumstances the little MZ could not be faulted in the way it allowed progress through the heaviest of traffic. The only problem was that the crankshaft mounted clutch became increasingly strident in its action. After ten minutes of overheating in traffic it resembled more an on-off switch than a means of progressively feeding power from the engine to the gearbox. This effect added to the sheer nastiness of the gearbox action to make town riding a stick it in second gear affair and hope for the best.
With the spring rains there came a series of electrical problems. They started with blowing bulbs and fuses, culminating in a fire in the battery compartment. The lead’s insulation had corroded away, allowing the inner core to short out on the frame. I didn’t find this out until I’d replaced almost every other wire on the bike. This should have annoyed me but the wiring was rotten anyway, bodged together with bits of insulation tape, whatever colour coding there might once have been long since lost to the use of household electrical wires...
After figuring out the wiring I was then faced with spark plugs that refused to last for more than five hundred miles. A stock was kept on the bike. The problem was massive oiling of the electrode, accompanied by such a dense cloud of smoke that I was often pulled over by the police and given a stern warning. Being nearer retirement than adolescence I did not take well to having some youth giving me lectures. I became so pissed off with these intrusions that I finally did the decent thing and lifted the head.
The decade’s worth of carbon build up was expected, the slaughtered piston rings were not. The spare engine had a better piston and reasonable set of rings, so in they went. I cleaned up the exhaust and cylinder head in a rare fit of enthusiasm for hard work. Starting became much easier, top speed improved to 80mph and vibration diminished noticeably. Fuel consumption stayed the same at a disappointing 40 to 50mpg depending on how I treated the wailing engine.
The next three and half months were fine. No major hassles save that the bald rear tyre kept picking up nails and aetiating miles from home. I consoled myself that there wasn’t a better way of getting fit than pushing MZs up and down country hills. Few motorcyclists bothered to stop, they occasionally slowed, took one look at the decrepit state of both myself and machine, decided the best thing was to get the hell out of there before they too were infected. I can’t say I blame them; it was pointless wearing decent clothes on a motorcycle!
I had noticed that the engine was becoming increasingly noisy. The normal rattles and grunts had been joined by a knocking sound that occasionally sent wild tremors through the whole machine. The top speed had gradually dropped back to about 70mph and fuel was no better than an appalling 35mpg. I had already taken the hint and started searching for a suitable replacement. This turned out to be a reasonable C90 for a hundred notes, but I kept that in the garage until the MZ finally wore out; I was interested to see just how doggedly persistent the East German machine would be.
When the neighbours handed over a petition I knew its end must be near. They were well annoyed at having their suburban idyll wrecked by a horrible communist machine that filled the area with noxious pollution, sent their TVs haywire and caused dogs to bark for about two hours after its arrival and departure. I assured them that it was only a matter of days before the old girl finally expired. And so it turned out.
I was coming back from work, the whole machine trembling with its imminent demise. I only had two gears left that worked after a fashion and top speed was a mere, mind blitzing 40mph. The clouds of smoke had become a talking point at work, even the managing director had been rumoured to have passed some fatuous comment, along the lines of finding the culprit and sacking him immediately. This probably wasn’t helped by the fact that the MZ had grazed his car when my attention was distracted. The cloud of smoke had provided a useful degree of anonymity and the time to weave through the traffic out of sight and retribution.
The poor old dear seized solid, the back end slewing around viciously. Even as I grabbed the clutch I realised it would be no use; the sound of grinding metal suggested that the gearbox had gone walkabouts. After providing an entertaining spectacle for various bored commuters, the bronco ride culminated with the machine running off the road and depositing me on my backside. The landing was soft, the layers of clothing taking most of the abuse.
Even the police, who had appeared out of nowhere, were sympathetic, helping me to my feet and digging the twisted MZ out of the ditch. I assured them that my sons would being a rescue vehicle once summoned on the telephone, and they went back to doing whatever the police do when not arresting people. I sold off the pile of MZ bits for £25 and took to the road on the Honda. I rather miss the old Iron Curtain hack, the C90 is as bland as it is efficient.
David Davies