Things had come to a pretty pass. Despatching on a Yam SR500 with a tendency to leap about under me was bad enough. But the DR boss had started to act weird. Very weird. Well known in despatch circles, he was a typical loud mouthed nob, perfectly suited to his position in life. I was due for an interview with him, hoping to jack my rates up as despite the mad traffic and dubious SR I had been banging away the jobs like there was no tomorrow. I turned up about seven in the evening, having got back late from a long run up to Brum and back, suffering two punctures and a speeding ticket for my sins. Yes, an SR will cruise at 90mph down the motorway if you ignore the anguished vibes and wallowing chassis. The office was deserted by then. I wandered into his section and had the shock of my life.
He was togged up like a Soho hooker, short skirt, black stockings, high heels and all. As he was a hairy Mediterranean type, he looked totally ridiculous. Before I could burst into hysterical laughter, he had turned round, bent over the table and pulled down a flimsy pair of black knickers. God, what a sight! I ran out of there as fast as I could.
The bloody SR wouldn't start. Quite a common fault with the thing. I knew it wanted half an hours break after doing the 120 miles thrash from Birmingham, but I was afeared that the boss was so out of it he might rush out and rape me on the pavement. Despite his transexual inclinations he was built like the proverbial brick shit-house. It was obvious to me who would come out worst in any fight. The only way to light up the Yamaha’s fires, I knew from past experience, was a gut busting bump start.
The bike roared into life, careered to one side as I leapt on and only narrowly avoided denting the side of a Volvo. I was out of there as fast as the rumbling thumper would allow. Running around London on the Yamaha was fine, it was narrow, full of low speed punch and flickable enough to avoid the worst machinations of even mad taxi drivers. The only problem was that the front caliper was gummed up again, needing almost weekly attention to avoid serious diminution of a normally poor braking force. Rolling off the throttle and stamping through the gearbox was often a more effective way of losing speed than relying on the brakes.
Unlike most despatch machines, I kept the SR in reasonable cosmetic condition, having originally bought it before I went despatching and treated it to a gentle strip, clean and respraying session. I liked its general lines and had cleaned them up further with the addition of some neat alloy brackets for clocks, pegs and other bits. I had designed my own quick release rack and pannier set-up so when I wasn’t working, five minutes effort would revive the machine's classic lines. The Yamaha was still treated to a jet-wash at the end of each day and a quick wipe down. It was whilst doing this, after the experience with the boss, that I found there was a crack running through the front disc, a gentle tap was all that was needed to split it in two. Only one thing for it, not wanting to lever the wheel out right there and then. Out with the hammer and a few taps had reduced the disc to rubble. I felt a most curious sense of satisfaction after this act of essential vandalism.
I wasn’t too worried, I had a couple of spare bikes at home. I had aiready cannibalised the calipers from these machines but had not touched the discs themselves. In fact, I had converted the front room into a centrally heated workshop, amusing the neighbours no end by riding the bike straight into the house. I had even moved the TV in there so I could simultaneously work on the bike and watch the delights of Coronation Street, The Bill, etc.
Of course, the front spindle had decided to seize in position, only several manly taps from the sledgehammer persuaded it out. And two of the bolts holding on the remnants of the disc stripped their threads. Thank the Lord for Araldite. What should have been a ten to fifteen minute job was only completed after fours hours worth of swearing and the consumption of six bottles of Newcastle Brown.
The next morning, the boss, dressed properly in his more normal cheap and nasty suit, handed me my cards and outstanding money. In a threatening, most macho manner, he promised all kinds of retribution if I ever even hinted at what had happened the previous night. After seeing him dressed up so ridiculously, I couldn’t take his threats seriously. The large smirk on my face caused him to go berserk. He threw me out of the office, starting to pound the shit out of me, until about half a dozen despatchers managed to pull him off.
For once, the SR started first kick, allowing me to flee just in time to escape his further attentions, having, in a screaming frenzy that overcame evens the Yam’s straight through exhaust, thrown off the DRs. Riding through London without the frenzied need to deliver parcels, was edifying until I was overcome with depression at the loss of three to four hundred notes a week. There was no way the boss would offer a useful reference; despite despatching for the past two years I had only worked for him.
The Yamaha had proved surprisingly reliable, despite the tales of poor engine life that were related by fellow DRs. 52000 miles had been done, on a machine that already had 21300 miles on the clock. Now, with 73450 miles under its still shiny wheels, the bore and piston were still original even if it was on its third camchain and tensioner and second camshaft. Apart from soft alloy causing threads to strip, the engine was absurdly easy to work on. Rarely had I needed to go beyond my own supply of parts from the two non-runners I'd acquired (£75and £110 each).
Running costs were thus low, aided by an average fuel economy of 62mpg and still negligible oi] consumption between 500 mile changes. The latter probably the main reason for the exceptional longevity of the motor. Having resprayed the chassis myself, there were few problems there except, as mentioned before, for the godawful front disc caliper. I will admit, that the front forks were also a bit soggy, a fact that often led me to play with the idea of replacing the whole front end with something newer and better... but I always found some more amusing way of off-loading my money.
Depressed by the glories of the great capital, I decided to take up a long standing offer to visit an old mate up north. Or bloody Manchester to be more precise. I changed the oil, tightened up a few bolts that had loosened off under the deluge of vibration and kicked the tyres a few times. A large bag was strapped on the pillion perch and I was ready for the off.
The Yamaha’s age becomes much more apparent once on the open road. I already knew that it didn’t like motorways at all, even cruising at 90mph left the SR a sitting target for bored reps in huge Sierras. A useful by-product of the vibration produced under such abuse was that it was so fierce that good circulation of the blood was ensured, helping to stop me freezing to death, all too great a problem on a bike with no fairing and quite high bars.
The gentle wallow on straight motorways became much weirder on fast A or B roads. Even at a mundane 40 to 50mph, throwing the bike through a series of bends was akin to experiencing a blow out, with bars dancing about and wheels skipping around all over the place. Ignoring most of the madness revealed that the bike could be gunned through corners only by flipping the SR up as soon as possible. Snapping off the throttle when the thing started to run wide was only viable if you were in a hurry to visit hospital.
All the more surprising, then, that | enjoyed myself immensely on the run. The sudden freedom from despatching, a thoroughly horrible way of making a living if the truth be told, helped to raise my spirits. Ideas ran around my head as the cool country air braced my body - now would be an ideal time to do the grand tour... ride down through Europe, head across deserts and maybe end up in Africa. The SR grumbled away to itself, sent tremors through the bars and pegs, and occasionally shook its head in horror at the kinds of speed I was trying to extract from the beast. On one fast straight I overcame the laws of motion, putting 102mph on the clock. I had to quickly back off the throttle and jam on what was left of the brakes. | just managed to make it around a vicious left-hander, taking up both lanes of the road. Oh well!
The Yamaha had always been a tiring bike to ride for long periods of time. The seat was soft enough to go down on to the frame rails after an hour’s riding. Any attempt at sustained high speed cruising resulted in excruciating pains in the neck, arms and shoulders. The vibes were ridiculous, only some ancient off a fifties British twin would be able to absorb them without losing fillings. The suspension was so shot that my body took a real pounding. However, after two years of hard riding my body had more or less adapted to these deficiencies. If I couldn't exactly leap about like a spring chicken, I was at least still able to walk without a John Wayne stagger.
in Manchester, my mate decided that he was all for making the great trip. I looked his newish GPz305 over with something approaching envy, it felt very smooth by SR standards and was ridiculously easy to ride. I doubted that it would last anywhere near as long as the 500, but perhaps that is just sour grapes on my part. By the time this is in print I will be out of the country, somewhere along the route of my great adventure, aboard the thumping SR. I realise the Yamaha will fail somewhere down the line and I'll have to hike back, but what the hell, the old beast deserves a part in the venture, having given sublime service in the past years.
A.M.