Falling off motorcycles is not my favourite pastime. It seemed to happen rather too often on my old Yam XJ900; I'm not sure if I was to blame or the machine, probably it was split fifty fifty. The first time I slid off it was the council's fault. They had dug up the road and repaired it by throwing down a pile of gravel, hoping that the cars would pound it into the tarmac (25 years on and the twats still persist in this - when will they learn? 2019 Ed.).
At least that was the impression I gained as I hit this loose surface. I was packed between heavy traffic, the first I knew of the gravel was the wheels feeling like they were coming loose. The obvious solution to my panicked mind was to grab the front brake lever. The twin discs out front were a bit warped, and the calipers jerky. I'd grown used to the brakes, or thought I had, was suitably shocked when the front wheel locked up solid with never before experienced power.
On the gravel the front tyre, itself in a quite precarious state, didn't have a chance. Despite a battle with the bars I was soon sliding along the ground and the XJ was digging holes out of the surface. The cars behind beeped their horns, somehow managed to avoid mowing either the Yamaha or myself down. I was a bit bruised, there were some tears in my Barbours but no blood was drawn.
The Yam had bent bars, pedals and cracked indicators and front light. After a bit of kicking, cursing and whacking with a stone I was able to wobble home. There was no way I could ever hope to push it, that was for sure. I actually had a second XJ for spares that a friend had run into the ground over a 136000 mile period. It was the apparent longevity that had convinced me I should buy a relatively low mileage one, the speedo clocking up a mere 27000 miles and the DOHC engine sounding like new.
That theory had been blasted to hell when I found that at 34000 miles it needed a cylinder head refurbishment as well as a new camchain. The valvegear was so worn that I suspected that the clearances had never been touched since the Yam came out of its crate. The bits that I couldn't salvage from the old engine were secured from breakers - the XJ900 has been around long enough to have a plentiful supply of cheap bikes in breakers. Most of them there due to crashes rather than engine blow-ups.
The second crash came shortly after the engine rebuild, when I was savouring the new found turn of speed. Not that I’d been unimpressed with the previous state of tune, both plenty of guttural torque at low revs and.a jolly nice surge of power come 6000 revs. With the engine sorted, though, that surge had become more pronounced. There was a well wicked bit of acceleration in the first three gears that threatened to send the front wheel skywards without even abusing the clutch.
The gearbox was slow and unwieldy, befitting an engine with a rough hyvoid primary chain drive, and the transmission preferred to deliver a series of minor lurches rather than behave in a smooth, predictable manner. It was whilst concentrating on the box and throttle that the startling acceleration suddenly ate up what had been a large gap between myself and a cage which had decided to slam on its brakes.
This time my brakes were sluggish despite the desperate amount of effort I put in. The XJ wasn’t the fastest turning motorcycle in the world. By the time I'd grappled with the bars all I did was avoid going straight through the Cavalier. Instead I whacked a huge dent in his corner. Flying through the air I had time to think that it was about time I replaced the brakes, might as well buy a whole new front end... the crunch, when it came, involved my hitting the back of my head on the tarmac and losing consciousness. Being told afterwards that I’d rolled a hundred yards down the road. The NHS only let me out of the hospital after wrapping a massive neck brace around my neck... the doctor could barely restrain his rage when I asked if I could ride the bike with it on.
The XJ was in a sorry state. As well as a totalled front end the frame was bent around the headstock area. As | had plenty of time to wait until I was free of the brace, I tore all the stuff off the bent frame and put the bits in the good chassis, along with a complete one year old front end from the breaker. By the time I was finished with the job I had a 1984 machine that looked like new.
I'd learnt my lesson, knew I'd have to take it easy as the doctors had warned that another bashing of the spinal area might leave me a vegetable. For the first month I was riding around so mildly that I was getting 60mpg, an almost impossible economy as the XJ engine was not the most efficient of devices, 35 to 40mpg being much more normal.
Ridden slowly, apart from the nasty gearbox, the XJ was perfectly civilised as it wasn’t some highly tuned behemoth and the riding position was merely sensible rather than sporting. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that the Yam was one of the most comfortable bikes I've ever come across. The bar/peg relationship was nigh on perfect, only the slightest of strains intruding when past the ton, a speed likely to be accompanied by some quite heavy buzzing, therefore not one that could be held for any length of time.
I almost gave up motorcycling when I had my third crash whilst in this gentle, mortal state of riding. Only on reflection, when assured by the plod that it was entirely the car driver's fault, did I decide to stay with the bike. I was meandering down a country lane, all was well with the world, even the sun was shining. When some shithead in a Range Rover roared out of his concealed driveway as if he owned the whole country.
He caught the back end of the XJ, missing my leg by inches. Our 50mph’s worth of momentum carried us forward and sideways at the same time, just the appalling shudders from the initial collision threatened to dislocate my neck and | felt sick to the depths of my stomach. Even before my body was flung violently on to the tarmac.
I fell clear of the bike, which jumped up and down on the road in a frenzy of self-destruction. Staggering upright, thankful for the protection afforded by full leathers and body armour, | felt like I'd been given a going over by a Sumo wrestler. The shithead, meanwhile, was making frenzied gestures at the state of the front end of his car which had come unwrapped like a sardine can. It was lucky for him that his whole family had come out, if he’d been alone I would've given him a good slapping.
Damage to the Yam was amazingly slight given the way it'd had bounced on the tarmac, mostly saved by a pair of engine bars that'd ended up crushed. After dealing with the police, I was able to ride home, albeit slowly. More bits from breakers sorted out the damage. I was becoming so well known that the moment I stepped through the door he’d asked what I'd hit this time. He reckoned the XJ was jinked and recalled even wilder times with a Z1.
As riding slowly didn’t seem to help with my survival chances, I went back to a bit of the good old throttle magic. I suppose I should mention that my previous bike was a CG125, so the big four’s power was all the more startling, although since owning the XJ I've owned several other big fours so I can write about it with some perspective. The XJ was my first big bike and will retain a firm, if not entirely happy, place in my mind.
After the initial engine problems it ran to 56000 miles without any other expense except for regular maintenance and consumables. Up to 100mph it was a most impressive motor with bags of power and torque, hardly any vibes and a nice bullet-proof feel (I'd got used to the gearbox by then, very much a case of mind over matter).
100mph is a sensible speed for UK roads, but going beyond that made the engine feel like it was going to die an early death and the chassis as if it was about to fall apart. The whole bike just didn’t seem to be up to such excesses, but then neither was I and neither were my mates, who all wanted to keep their licences. Within those limitations I was pretty happy with the XJ, until the fourth crash. This one is hard to-explain as I don’t really know how it happened.
One minute I was rolling along in town at 30mph, the next thing I knew I was scraping the side off a car. I could've sworn that the bloody thing was a foot to my left. The cage was well within its lane so it wasn't that surprising that the driver was trying to tear the helmet off my head with the strap still attached. My head hurt so much | gave him a karate chop across his bared neck. He collapsed on to the ground, gurgling and spewing up.
The Yam had only suffered another bent crash bar, so I straightened it out and decided that the thing was indeed jinked; it'd have to go. Which it did to the first caller, who must've thought I was mad to sell it so cheaply, even after I related its history.
S.K.B.