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"Russian warship... go fuck yourself"
Wednesday, 30 December 2020
Kawasaki GPX750
Starting up, the engine screamed at 4000rpm on the choke, the plastic vibrating and the motor rattling away like the valves needed doing or the camchain tensioner was on the way out. Needed a good ten minutes to warm up and quiet down. If I tried to use full throttle before then it would just stutter away and make nasty noises. Probably down to the baffles burning out in the original silencers; the black downpipes also heavily spotted with rust the first time it rained - it wiped off with a rag! The fasteners did a similar trick, the bike needing a lot of tender loving care to keep up its appearance. That probably explained the look of relief on the past owner's face as I roared out of his driveway.
The bottom line on the GPX was 90 horses, 430Ibs and 150mph. What I call cheap speed! I felt a little perched upon the bike, the plastic not sculptured to make one feel part of the experience. The bars and pegs, though, were nicely placed for both town: work and speeding. The saddle was badly shaped - or worn out - my thighs lacerated after about half an hour. Sloping forwards, the braking had my groin thrown into the petrol tank until I learnt to grip the back of the tank fiercely.
The engine screamed fearsomely between 7000 and 11000 revs, zooming off so fast that I nearly sprained my ankle on the gear change keeping up. It didn't like running below 3000rpm, and only made a moderate amount of power up to seven grand. The first time I rode it, I was thinking it wasn't much to write home about (or even to the UMG) when it hit the power band and my whole perspective on life was radically changed. If I wasn't quick on the gear change the tacho needle would bury itself into the red. It may well be more civilized with intact baffles.
When the GPX was introduced sixteen inch front wheels were still popular, all kinds of theories offered in the press about their advantages. It was only when the Japs started fitting seventeen inchers that the journo's actually admitted that the new bikes they had so praised had in harsh reality been somewhat twitchy. There are two ways of looking at this - either you enjoy the fast turning nature of the bike or you complain about the bars shaking in your hands from time to time. Not having much choice in the matter, I decided on the former, found that a bit of optimism applied to forward motion worked wonders - though it sometimes felt like the front wheel was trying to fall out of the forks it never actually developed into a wild speed wobble, circa H1 mythology.
Good tyres help - I like Pirelli's best, which last 5500 miles front and 4750 rear. Acceptable. I wouldn't even think about running on bald tyres in the dry, let alone in the wet - there's just no built-in safety factor to compensate for dead rubber; even when everything's in its prime it feels right on the edge. After three months I noticed a rather serious weave at 140mph. Investigation revealed slightly worn Uni-Trak linkages. The shafts weren't quite seized in solidly, a few solid whacks with a sledgehammer freed them off nicely. They were totally free of grease, explaining the shot bearings. I also did the swinging arm bearings as I had it all apart. No grease there, either! Very naughty. If you leave it too long, it can turn very expensive with new shafts needed.
Some misguided designer fitted the rear caliper on the bottom of the swinging arm where it was perfectly positioned to pick up all the road crud. As I had the back end apart I thought I'd take a look as the back brake had always been poor. I shouldn't have bothered because the only way I could get the partially seized caliper apart was with some serious hammer work - so serious that I broke the casting. Breakers found the idea of their having a working replacement quite amusing but I persisted and was given something off a GPz600R that fitted on top of the swinging arm. A bit of lateral thinking sorted that. even if the brake was still a pile of manure compared even with a rear drum brake.
In contrast, the front discs never gave any trouble once I became used to the need to never to use more than two fingers on the lever. It was dead easy to lock up the front wheel, skid off the road and add to the accident statistics. Pads lasted over 6000 miles, relatively easy to fit. Whilst at the front end it's worth noting that the front mudguard was designed to allow the maximum amount of water over the rest of the machine. A definition of stupidity, that can't help the bike's finish.
Another piece of nastiness was trying to get at the cylinder head. Took about an hour to get the petrol tank and plastic off, only to find that one of the spark plugs was obscured by the plumbing. I'd deduced that the plugs needed doing when it started taking four minutes before it'd catch from cold - it's not the kind of job to do by the roadside. Dead easy to strip the plug's threads. The good thing about modern, water cooled motors is that their huge complexity does give them good resistance to neglect - I never quite convinced myself that it was necessary to check the valves or balance the carbs; the GPX didn't complain in any way that I noticed.
The only other bit of remedial maintenance needed was a bit of welding to the exhaust cans - if I'd left it any longer they would have fallen off. The engine made a wonderful snarl when it came on the cam that had milk bottles leaping up and down in applause. I always gave the neighbours a dose when I charged off to work at 5 o'clock in the morning. One of them's a cop, a nice bit of revenge!
After seven months I was used to the acceleration and handling, felt I'd had the best that the bike could offer and it was time to move on to something yet faster (ZX-10!), The GPX went for fifty percent more than I'd originally paid, which more than compensated for the work I'd put in. They are still on offer for reasonable sums; cheap speed personified!
Dick Williams
Morini 350
23 years old she was, with the doubled sided TLS drum front brake and a rather worn look. The guy reckoned it'd had a new timing belt and had been bored out to 370cc a few months previously. A lovely bellow out of the stainless steel 2-1 exhaust and it shot up the road much faster than my CB400N. £750 seemed fair enough.
Riding home, the front light flickered and the motor occasionally stuttered but make it back we did. There's always the thought that the prime bit of meat just acquired is going to blow up in your face. That took two days! What happened was that the timing belt broke at 9000 revs - I'd wondered what all the vibration was!
The valves managed to break up the pistons. It took three months to track down some used replacements - new stuff is available but only if you have a big bank balance. Apparently, there are different belts for different models, mix them up and the highly tuned, 42hp, V-twin motor breaks! There's no way to check this when buying - except revving the engine to 12000rpm, seeing if it breaks. This won't go down well with the owner, in all probability some kind of Morini fanatic.
The next 2300 miles were kind of fun. This is a lightweight motorcycle with a punchy (if vibratory) engine and a marvellously competent chassis that it's almost impossible to fall off! Make sure it has Pirelli tyres for grip and rear-sets for comfort. Although fast turning the engine was also able to slog out the torque and turn in some amazing fuel consumption numbers - 70mpg was dead easy, 90-95mpg not that difficult.
It has Heron cylinder heads - the combustion chamber in the pistons and the valves vertical. Works very well in such a small engine but eventually emission and noise controls neutered the engine - it's important to find one with a 2-1 matched with K and N's if you want to experience the motor at its best. Mine would pull 110mph, cruise at the ton if you could ignore the thrumming and didn't mind the headlamp bulbs exploding. 70-80mph cruising was much more relaxed, almost vibration free, though like most Italian steeds you're always aware of the motor working away.
Nor were consumables noticeable in the degree with which they wore out even if I had to keep an eagle eye on the engine's oil level. I was pretty pleased with the machine until the engine seized, sending the back wheel into a heavy slide. Pulling in the clutch didn't work and I only got out alive because of the brilliant chassis stability and light mass. I thought the cam belt had snapped again, but, no, this time the gearbox had broken up!
No idea about the real mileage, could have gone around the clock a couple of times. I'd revved the balls off it, as well, because it was so much fun. The engine may well have been reliable when newish. I'm now pondering fitting a Jap single into the chassis. Italian handling with Oriental reliability seems like the best of both worlds.
Adam Simpson
Kawasaki GTR1000
Furthermore, except for one camchain tensioner, the engine is as it came out of the factory. I bought the bike off a mature owner who I knew personally. He was the kind of meticulous chap who spent 2500 miles running in the four cylinder mill. Kawasaki's do take more running in than other makes, with the obvious payback for those who put in the effort.
The bike had 7000 miles on the clock when it fell into my hands and was better than new. Stood there shining in the summer sun, gleaming plastic and the odd bit of glorious chrome. I'm on the hefty side, had to turn the suspension up to its higher settings when it didn't sag down on to the stops. Suspension is air adjustable at both ends, can be set up to suit most riding tastes and is still there after all this time - the quality shines through! It's very important to get the suspension right because the GTR isn't endowed with an excess of ground of clearance and will dig in if it's too soft, although it goes a bit harsh at its maximum settings.
Muscle's needed on the handlebars, especially at low speeds when it's dead easy to get it wrong and end up with 600-odd pounds of Kawasaki battering the rider into the ground. I'm long of leg, able to get both feet firmly on the ground - I wouldn't like to think about some short-arsed wimp losing it all on the GTR. The bike is very wide, both at the front and rear (I kept forgetting about the panniers) which with the heavy steering takes some adaptation in town. However, it's also very imposing and fitted with non-standard air-horns - put the GTR in the middle of the road, make a lot of noise in second gear, with the odd blast on the horn, and it's quite surprising how quickly the cars will part! Helped along by the bike having a pearl white paint job! I even had a bike cop give me a wave! Don't buy the grey one, though, because it merges with the tarmac at speed great for avoiding the cops but the cagers will run right over you!
I found an extra 3-4psi in the front tyre gave much quicker steering in town but it made the bike too twitchy above 50mph! On normal tyre pressures, the payback for the slow, heavy steering was surprisingly excellent directional stability at speed. It'd hold its line over rough going and sweep through long, fast curves without any weaving or wallowing. I had a few rides on the pillion when the bike was still owned by my friend, was astonished by how secure it felt - it's quite a good way of testing out bikes as a squirming back wheel or vibrating engine are immediately apparent.
The GTR's water-cooled four cylinder motor does vibrate at certain revs but I soon got used to it and the vibes haven't increased to any noticeable extent. The bike's smoothest range, when everything settled into the groove, was 90-110mph. Behind the fairing, 100mph felt more like 70mph and I often blitzed along at 120mph without thinking about it until I wondered why ail the cars were going backwards. There was a bit of turbulence off the screen that might annoy some riders but crouching forward slightly got me out of it.
The 110 horses were more than enough for me. Some have accused the engine of being revvy but I didn't really notice any lack of go in top gear roll-ons and it would run along with less than 2000 revs on the tacho without any hassles. Certainly, blasting through the gears would leave my heart rate pounding away and eat up the tarmac like there was no tomorrow. It was dead easy to slam up to corners 20-30mph too fast, which meant a workout on the triple discs they always seemed merely adequate against me avaliable speed and mass.
The brake calipers were an excess of hassle after 25000 miles, needing constant fettling. By 49000 miles I'd had enough and bought some nearly new stuff from the breakers off a later model. Much better, still there with only a few rebuilds. I got about 7000 miles out of front EBCs and almost twice that from the rear disc. For no clear reason, braking in the wet was predictable and safe. The only frightening moments on damp roads came when the tyres were down to 2mm (bad enough to make me head for the nearest tyre shop pronto) and when I messed up the gear change. Then, and only then, did the directness of the shaft drive intrude, making the back end hop and skip; giving the Uni-Trak rear end a workout. The latter needed new bushes every 50000 miles or so!
I was soon used to the slightly notchy gear change. I had a brief affair with a BMW R80, which was a horror story as far as shaft drive reaction went. I think it's the fact that the crank was aligned with the shaft rather than having it at a right-angle like on the Kawasaki. The latter's not as efficient but it seems to damp out most of the shaft's potential nastiness. Any minor irritants in the GT's driveline were more than made up for by the lack of maintenance compared with a chain. Once experienced, you don't want to go back.
I did change the shaft's oil every 20000 miles, which worked out as the service interval for the engine. The valves were still within limits, just, a couple needing a little tweak to get them back on the optimum clearance. Engine oil and filter were done every 5000 miles with no apparent effect on longevity. Really, you could probably do 50000 miles with just the oil changes and not blow this motor up. When the camchain tensioner went it did so with lots of clattering and rattling, much amplified by the plastic, so plenty of warning. From cold, that plastic made the engine sound like it was on its last legs but after five minutes of warming up all the nasty noises went away as the clearances tightened up.
The clutch also rattles a bit at low revs but that should go away as the revs rise - if it slips it's a sign that some hoodlum has ridden the bike in wheelie mode. Because many GTRs were bought by mature riders who looked after them they often fall into the hands of hoodlums looking for some cheap speed kicks - and suffer accordingly. Also long distance despatch riders are keen on the bike, buying something with 20000 miles on the clock and running it into the ground over the next 50000 miles. The finish does go off if they are neglected and thrashed, especially the wheels - if you find an old one still shining brightly then chances are that it has been well looked after.
I'd say anything with less than fifty thou on the clock is worth a look. Higher milers may well need a lot of work to the chassis (bearing life has varied between 26000 and 60000 miles) and brakes but the engine's good for lots more miles. 100000 miles all in a day's work for this well designed four. It does need a bit of muscle on the controls but once mastered it's a pretty safe bike to ride rapidly. I prefer it to BMWs, no dispute there. The latest Honda NTV650 with its decent fairing and relative lack of mass appeals, although I'd have to get used to the lack of power. I wouldn't pay up for a new one. The kind of money I can get for my high mileage GTR, there's nothing worth buying. Which means? I'll probably keep going, see if I can blast through the 200000 mile mark!
Gary Watkins
Tuesday, 29 December 2020
Bargain Hunting: Cheap Bikes
Sometimes you get lucky. Sell one bike at a nice profit one day, the next pick up a real peach of a deal. Sometimes it takes ages, both to sell an old dog and then find a replacement. It helps to continuously monitor all the likely places where good buys are going to turn up, keep pestering friends of friends and knocking on the doors of complete strangers just because they have an old bike abandoned in their front gardens - often they are happy just to have the eyesore removed free of charge. As long as there’s some oil in the engine, the rest of the decay’s usually superficial. Even if it isn't a bit of tactical surgery with the welding torch suffices.
It's useful to have a spare bike. Just a hack or some old dog, that has enough life left in it to get you around whilst waiting for the deal of a lifetime to turn up. They are out there if you have the time and patience to hunt them down. As the whole motorcycle scene winds down over the late Autumn, early winter, this is by far the best time to go bike hunting. Even if it means half freezing to death in some unlikely corner of our great land.
Always have some cash on you ready to grab the bargain at the first opportunity. Chances are if you don’t someone else will. It may sound trite in these days of even small companies giving out credit cards to their customers, but cash rules in the used bike market. Even dealers love it as there’s no need to pay VAT or income tax on their second hand stuff, which in turn means lower prices. Of course, if they really screw you on a deal you can always threaten to report them to the relevant authorities, though it's not impossible that you'll get a good kicking for your pains - there are some very dubious characters in the motorcycle game.
Cash works miracles. A few hundred quid fluttered in the face of the dealer or vendor at the right moment, causes the asking price to plummet faster than the beer levels at a stag night. Dealers more than private vendors put their asking prices way high. Partly in the hope that an idiot will come along, more usually so they can offer large trade-in deals when someone wants to change their motorcycle. I've bought bikes from dealers at half their advertised prices. A helpful hint’s to turn up with a well thumbed copy of the Used Motorcycle Guide, useful for putting the fear of god into salesmen. Not just for the prices, also quoting a likely fault on the machine goes down well (I don't think). One of the reasons why the trade refuse to advertise in it.
Couple the above with a little research, even if it's only reading the UMG in the bath! Forewarned is forearmed! However, the way the used market works means you have to be willing to consider any motorcycle if the price is right. Even if it means turning over a couple of bikes every year until the real motorcycle of your dreams is found. It’s better than trying to commit suicide on a push-bike or lolling around in front of the television (all together now, it’s better to catch VD than watch TV), even if dark glasses are needed to disguise ownership of a complete dog. So, it’s important to be open minded. I know it’s hard to take something like a Honda Superslug seriously but there are still examples of this, and many other awful devices, that have been used only moderately and are offered for small money. Faded they may be, but they make useful wheels until something better turns up, don't cost much to run and can be sold on at a useful profit. If the whole heap doesn't suddenly disintegrate when the built in obsolescence finally hits it... one very serious reason why it'd be foolish to pay top money for such things, however much other magazines or dealers might wail about them being a useful bit of tackle.
There’s a whole subculture that exists on the back of cheap bikes, likely to become even more predominant as the gap between the rich and poor becomes even greater. Of course, the police will have a field day because a lot of them, out of necessity, will be run on ruined consumables. Dealers will often do a quick make-over of such devices, flog them sold as seen for two to three times what the private market will bear.
The only time when a dealer won't negotiate is if new prices have already been slashed. Old models or bikes that aren't selling well, will often be shifted by their manufacturers by giving a deep discount on the RRP and by cutting dealers margins to the bone. But these new bikes, with as much as 30% off their listed price, offer great bargains even if you can’t screw an extra discount out of the dealer. In fact, they are offered cheaper than second hand stuff. Find them in the small display ads in the classified section of MCN and in some of the large adverts of the big dealers.
Don't expect too much out of the guarantee, as they are usually on offer on the other side of the country; the dealers happily offer free delivery, secure in the knowledge that they are unlikely to ever see the punter again. Consider yourself lucky if they actually get a thorough PDI.
Dealers are very variable in the way they react to punters, sometimes insisting that there’s no need to offer discounts on bikes that are selling as fast as they can get them; other times practically panting with excitement at the thought of a sale. They probably have sales targets to meet; the more they sell the bigger the percentage commission they make. If you don't get any joy, try another salesman on another day. The end of the month seems the best time.
The back street dealer selling used stuff, often acting as a breaker as well, is a whole other story. On the plus side, the bikes are a lot cheaper than the regular dealers (the ones that aren't complete dogs are often shifted through the larger dealers), but a majority of them are real goners. Thrashed into the ground, neglected something rotten, often crashed and usually on their last legs; the reality of their decay denied in adverts in which they are lavishly praised, as if the printed word can overcome their awful state. The same illusions applies to thousands of the grey imports that have flooded the market. For sure, there are plenty of really immaculate grey’s but they cost serious money.
Grey importers in the UK, almost uniquely in the world, take a particular delight in bringing in bent and bashed stuff, that’s straightened out on a dangerously mean budget; some of the race replica Jap cycles ending up as an accident looking for somewhere to happen. Decent spares for the imports can also be expensive and difficult to find. Having said all that, in the £2000 to £3000 price range there are some real bargains low mileage, immaculate bikes you just have to know what you’re doing. As always.
Other than buying new bikes, or newish imports, though, it's best to avoid dealers altogether if the most machine for the bucks needed. Private vendors are mostly concentrated in the classified section of MCN, but they also turn up in free-sheets, papers that allow free adverts, auto-trader style magazines and in newsagent (or motorcycle store) windows.
The latter turn up some great bargains. Recently, I've seen a DR400 for £75, a CD200 for £50 and a GS400 for £95. The DR ran but the tubular frame had almost rusted through at the back end. The CD was a total rat but rattled into life after ten kicks. The GS400 had a reasonable engine, lacked any rust but all the consumables were dead meat and the back wheel was breaking up.
Naturally, I bought all three! Other recent bargains include a sixties Suzuki T200 for £200 (really nice nick throughout), a GS550 Katana that had gone around the clock (at least once) but looked like new (thanks to several resprays) for £350 and an XS650 with a home-made fairing that left what was a pretty good bike firmly in rat status (at £600 and 89000 miles it was a bit too iffy for my liking but could have been a good deal if I wanted to take a chance).
These are the high end, I’ve been offered numerous step-thru, horrible stroker commuters and even the odd scooter. I often place adverts in papers or magazines where they are free - something general, like motorcycle wanted, anything considered. After all, I'm not paying for the telephone calls! These ads bring in a regular trickle of calls, mostly the kind of dross that really needs a match in the petrol tank, but some decent deals turn up and I live in hope of some little old lady saying there's this big Brit bike in her garage with a name that begins with V...
Alex Silver
Honda Fireblade
Repairs were easy. Fairing was plastic welded (thanks Graham of Plastec, Reading) - a permanent, invisible repair and almost anything can be restored, then sprayed. The rad was replaced by a good second hand one from Just Blades for £100 instead of the £350 from Mr Honda. A straight clip-on, brake lever and two indicators, and she was ready to run. Total cost £400 instead of £1500 for new!
So on August 8th, 9pm, I put on the tank-bag, bungeed on a rear bag and set off for Portsmouth. Seriously, it was my first ride on the bike and I was all set for France, Spain and Portugal. Would my 44 year old bones cope? The last bike with clip-ons I owned was 23 years ago - a Triton; God don't start on that!
Down the A34 south from Newbury (the dual carriageway bit), it was nicely dark and my first thoughts were, how do you dip these lights? It has a switch mounted above the indicator, which is awkward with clip-ons. Also the indicators don't self cancel. At that moment a Senator whizzed by at 120mph - should I play? No, let’s be sensible for once, so I maintained 80 to 90mph, just burbling along at 5000 revs.
Three minutes later, hee-haw, hee-haw. The jam sandwich flew by and nabbed him. Was it my lucky day! On to the boat, head down in a cabin (never reclining seats), I arrived refreshed with only 480 miles to my destination. The crossing, with bike nicely tied down by Brittany Ferries, is ace as you arrive in Brittany at a sensible time and more importantly you can have along sleep - unlike all the shorter crossings.
The trip through France via Rennes, Nantes, La Rochelle, Saintes, to Bordeaux was boring - the N roads are brilliant, the traffic moves over for big bikes... and SUN! Always fill up at hypermarkets as Frog petrol’s now £3.70 a gallon. If you plan a day crossing look for the Formula One hotels, to stay in a sterilised room that sleeps three for £17 a night and booking is via a hole in the wall machine, usually with English instructions. You can arrive covered in grime or wet through, sleep three in a bed, whatever, without snooty looks as after 10pm no-one is around - the computer has no morals so have a party.
The Honda proved faultless on its performance. Try 70mph in first, 105mph in second, 135mph in third - I bottled out after that. I saw150mph once, briefly, but found that the tank bag plus my slightly loose Shoei made warp speeds uncomfortable - besides who wants to play nowadays? Petrol consumption was light, average 50mpg plus, and I cruised at around 90 to 95mph. My wrists didn't suffer at that speed but the legs cramped and so did the bum, every 100 miles a stop was needed.
The bike was so light that it didn’t need any effort to ride it - the Yam was a slug in comparison but the gearbox had room for, improvement. I checked the chain, thinking it might be slack, but no - all OK. You never miss a gear, it's very positive but clunks in. I found that the easy way to enjoy the acceleration was to give it a blast through first, second and third then slow down to my cruising speed. Despite the weather, 28 degrees plus, the water temperature remained middling and I arrived at my stop near Lourdes at tea-time.
After a few days respite (back and bum recovered well) my friend arrived on his full power V-Max. He’d crossed from Stuttgart in 14 hours covering 800 miles in a day. He arrived in a brilliant thunderstorm, with lightning like only the mountains can produce. We left France south of Pau, and nearing Pamplona cut across country to join the main Madrid road south.
Spanish roads are superb, petrol's cheap and the currency’s one of the few in a worse state than sterling. I can’t recommend it too highly. OK, it may be our VAT that's paying for their road building program - that’s a good reason to go over and use them!
We stopped every 100 miles for muscular relief and to fill up the V-Max. It was doing really well on fuel (60mpg) but the tiny tank under the seat had only a small reserve so plenty of cafe stops to drink cooling liquids. Forget the crap handling reports - it corners fine if you don't bottle out and shut off; then it waggles. First night was at Tordesillas, a double room for £25 (£12.50 each) - why mess with a tent when you can snore and shower in comfort?
Next morning saw us along the last bit of Spain, across the high plain to Zamora, then a yellow road into Portugal. The border on a dam was unmanned, then the road changed. Portugal has two classes of road - main and crap! We foolishly planned the route via the crap ones, heading to Porto.
Clip-ons, bad roads and 90 degrees heat gave me a hard time. The Blade was OK, but despite softening the suspension it wasn't designed for 30mph roads made of rubble and cobbles. The countryside was quite pretty, mountainous and arid but with frequent burnt out areas where the forest fires had been.
Portugal’s a poor country. Rubbish disposal means dumping all at the roadside, so nice areas weren't. We burbled our way to Peso de Regua along the famous Douro valley, which is a hot version of Loch Ness. Flooded valley, very deep and it runs for miles. A three star hotel hove into view, the word Picina or something like that, so within ten minutes we were booked in, changed and splashing in the pool. A large Super Bock local lager went down a treat and we enjoyed the pool, getting rid of the dust of the day.
That night the famous local wine was tasted (they make Port out of it), a good meal enjoyed and in all the stay cost £25 each. At about 2am the Blade’s Spyball alarm went off, because it was bored, I think, and the remote pip from the 4th floor cut it out. Real poseur! Next morning, the V-Max’s rear pads were shagged, and after a lot of pointing a bike mechanic changed his pads for £20.
Then into Porto. Don’t bother. The city’s industrial and full of road works. So we headed north and stayed in a seaside resort (Povoa de Varzim) that strangely lacked hotels. Apparently the locals all have flats. Big problem on the beach - the local lasses keep their wobbly bits under cover but the Super Bock was still ice cold! Time was running out, so next day we headed north to the Spanish border and stopped for lunch at a cafe.
On returning to the bikes, disaster - no spark on the Blade! Luckily a local biker who spoke English, had a beer with us (actually several, thanks Jose), rang the local dealer who turned up with a breakdown vehicle some four hours later... of course, by then the bike had cooled down and started instantly! We all went to the dealers and the next morning they checked it over and found nothing wrong. I put it down to too much San Miguel.
We left Vigo, apparently home to the Spanish navy, covered in smoke from more forest fires and cruised to Cape Finisterre that was beautiful, quiet, cheap and had ideal roads. Like Devon hills only with some sunshine thrown in for free.
A mega fish meal, overnight stop in a fishing village pension and we hit the road. Getting faster, around La Coruna and on towards Santander. Brilliant roads, long winding sweepers... then we were passed by a K100 who knew the road. Great, we followed him for some 50 miles at 95-ish and had the best blast of the trip. That was from Baamonde to the coast at St Martin de Mondonedo, the E70/N634, so if you go that way do it!
The last day we travelled to Santander, around the bay to St Biarritz for a beach bronzy few hours then back up the incredibly boring, near motorway to Bordeaux. We decided to do the 100 miles in one hour, and would have succeeded had it not been the day of the holiday hordes returning. I survived the trip on the 900 - but anyone want to buy a Fireblade? Fine for local blasts and warp speeds but totally unsuitable for touring, rough roads or low speeds.
Barry Charman
Yamaha YB100
I bought a fringed leather jacket from the Sunday market, a brown Centurion Firebird, a pair of bike boots with buckles that chinked as I walked, the obligatory white fishermen’s socks turned over the tops of the boots and a sew-on Ogri patch. I was ready to hit the streets. Now all I needed to do was learn how to ride the damn thing.
Easily sorted by an hour in a pub car park with a mate who'd recently bought a 400 Superscream. He went home, my parents calmed down a bit and I took a longer ride into the countryside, alone at last on my machine. The YB was only a year old, just 80 miles run in. It took ages to complete running in at 30mph, but once done the bike would do 70 to 75mph if the winds and gradients were right.
I later crashed it on the way to a pub while racing a mate’s plastic pig. We kept taking different routes throughout the journey and seeing who could come out first, then diverting again and racing to the next meeting point. We separated one last time and I found myself on an unfamiliar road. Hit one of those bends that gets tighter and tighter, panicked, braked, put my feet down and... touchdown!
Half an hour later I stumbled into the pub car park, clutching my right shoulder and gasping for a drink. My mates saw the funny side. While the girls had been certain I'd been in an accident, the lads had decided I was lost. A couple took me home in a Plastic Pig while others took my bike... disappearing fast because they didn’t want to watch my dad's reaction!
The twisted rear mudguard and rack were straightened with an appropriately inserted pole. Only the rusted scrape on the engine bar showed there'd been an accident. As for my shoulder, it was only strained where another mate had previously broken my collar bone with a friendly judo throw. Later, I came off right in the middle of town on a Saturday afternoon, having jumped on the bike, started it up and ridden into a hedge before remembering about the steering lock. I also took off over a set of three hump-backed bridges, landed on the wrong side of the road and thanked God there was nothing coming the other way. I joined the BMF’s Star Rider Scheme, involving about six sessions at an RAF camp, going round cones and doing some road riding to achieve Part 1 and the BMF’s Star Rider Proficiency Certificate, then considered more difficult than the Part 2.
Needless to say, the only LC125 rider in our group wrapped his bike around a lamp post. The rest of us passed with flying colours. a It took a while for my Part 2 test to come through. Meanwhile, I took my first long bike trip, 150 miles to Donington’s Monsters Of Rock festival. My mates were going in a Triumph Spitfire but when I met them in another pub car park, they'd brought a bunch of bikers on a CB400, GS550 and GS750.
I really believed my little YB kept up well with the big bikes, but now older and wiser I know how much they had hung back. lt wasn't so bad when we were all held up by caravans, combines and weekend drivers, but when we hit the dual carriageways they could really have gone for it. However, the 750 rider hung back, shouting at me to lay as flat as possible, so I put my chest on the tank, belly on the seat and legs straight out behind me with my feet on the indicators. A 70mph, two-stroke flying trapeze act without safety nets or anyone to catch me... if only I could have seen those caravan drivers’ faces when I rattled past them like Superman in full flight.
We all arrived together, camped, drank ourselves silly and rocked the weekend away. I'd never experienced anything like it! Far out and wasted. Come Sunday, my new buddies left without me and the Spitfire, so we made our own way back. The YB made the 300 mile trip at full throttle with absolutely no problems. I was as happy as a sand-boy.
When I came to take my Part 2, my indicators weren't working. Too late to do anything about it. I went through with the test, which entailed riding round the block in one direction, then riding back the other way while the examiner ran through various alleys to monitor my progress or flag me down for the emergency stop. At the end of it all he congratulated me on passing, then advised me to keep up with my hand signals because he could hardly see my indicators. “That's the problem with 6V electrics,” he said...
By winter I'd met a girl who rode a CB125 but lived 25 miles across country. I fell off my bike on black ice while trying to find her house but had more lessons in winter riding to come. I often rode through wind, rain, sleet and snow to get there. Trouble was, my headlight was so poor that I often couldn't see any trouble until I was in it. One evening the roads were sodden with newly melted snow. I’d see a glint of headlight on water and just slow in time not to get a crotch full of water while fording the puddle. But then I hit one without end that just got deeper and deeper and, while I desperately searched the darkness for any sign of land, the bike conked out.
I waded half a mile through freezing water, then spent 15 minutes restarting the bike. It spluttered, coughed, choked and retched for the next couple of miles while I held the throttle on full and kangaroo hopped down the road. The road steadily smoothed as the YB's little heartbeat got the circulation back to rights. Then, just on 55mph, some bends came up and I couldn't release the throttle. The cable was frozen fully open! I screamed like I've never screamed before and took the slippery bends while still accelerating, before I thought to turn the ignition off. I arrived at the girl’s house sodden from head to toe, shaking with nerves and near frostbite, and hardly able to speak, I was so cold.
I discovered that not all winter riding is bad. It’s the agony of thawing out after a cold ride that tells you how alive you are. Forget sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll. Summer came, I got a 400/4 and my girlfriend crashed my YB while fetching the Sunday paper. She claimed the throttle cable broke halfway through a bend and sent her down the road. I suffered for it because my penance was to carry her everywhere until her knee healed.
I owned the YB for about four years - even when I'd progressed to bigger bikes, it was a handy little hustler when all else was broken down or untaxed. It developed a tremendous rattle and erratic timing, all symptoms of worn main bearings, so I flogged it to a dealer for £25. Other than that, the only problem I ever had with the YB was dirt in the carb. I only changed the back tyre twice and only replaced the final drive chain once when it snapped. Yamaha have produced YB100s for years.
OK, so you might buy a super fast 125 race replica but, really, why spend all that dosh when you just want to take the test and get a big race-replica, off-roader, custom, etc. You’d be far better off with something naff, like the YB, because they're cheap, easy to maintain and can do 75mph, which on a bike that small is as hair raising as 150mph on a big replica.
lan Spinney
Monday, 28 December 2020
Yamaha 250 Zeal
From the saddle, such minor styling quirks aren't too intrusive. The Zeal could be a touch narrower around the back of the tank and have some more knee room, but bars and pegs are sensibly touring orientated rather than senselessly replica inspired. The bike feels much bulkier than it is in reality. A mere 320lbs for a water-cooled DOHC four is close to miraculous, although all of the other Jap companies have similar offerings, this being the most competitive sector in Japan.
The Yamaha further benefits from its lowly slung motor, which is also relatively narrow. Once on the move the bike’s easier to flick around than a 250 Superdream with much less of a top heavy feel. The bike feels so neutrally balanced that it immediately inspires throttle madness. No learning curve here!
The engine’s also easier going than shorter stroke offerings from rival manufacturers and has the kind of silky smoothness that comes from top quality design and engineering. The Japanese really know how to pare the reciprocating masses down to the bare minimum, which gives less stress and vibration right throughout the engine.
Although not full of massive torque below 7000 revs, it wasn't as flat as expected and would pull reasonably in third or fourth gear. The gearbox was the weakest part of the bike (with 8500 miles on the clock), having a mild dose of clunking and clicking if used at less than 10,000 revs (thereafter slickness was superb!).
Stock engines are limited to 40 horses at 12000 revs but there are illegally modified ignition boxes that let it peak out at about 50 horses at 14000rpm! Luckily, this mod didn’t ruin the low end friendliness, just gave the motor an extra kick. The stocker peaked at 110mph in neutral conditions but modified more than a 120mph was put on the clock. You understand that in Japan they lock you away for a long time for such antisocial indulgences - it’s much better to get hold of the fastest possible version, so you can get away more easily.
The Zeal runs relatively primitive suspension, mere twin shocks out back. Bumpy roads taken at high speed have it shuffling around a little, more down to a lack of damping finesse that particularly poorly sprung suspension. The front end goes down on the stops when braking becomes harsh, though the disc brakes are quite sensitive, easy enough to gauge the necessary pressure even in the wet. It's just that some of the Jap cagers go certifiably insane once placed behind the wheel of some blandly inadequate auto. They react to a badly ridden, speeding projectile wobbling around on two wheels by trundling into its path, full on the horn with spastic gestures of total disbelief at my antics. They were worse than Belgians!
The Yam was also a bit limited in the way it would hustle through the cages when locked up on the brakes. Sometimes the thing went way out of line, a borderline case that suggested loss of control was just about to go down. I found, for instance, a CB-1 rather more amenable to highway insanity. To be fair to the Yamaha, I only had a brief tenure and a tightened up front end would doubtless have removed all my complaints.
Fuel was another area that didn’t impress. OK, I thrashed the balls off the thing but the equivalent of 35mpg was worse than most autos. I can only guess that all the frictional forces involved in moving four pistons and associated bearings undermined its high technology and advanced design elements. Ridden mildly, better than 50mpg is probably possible but that’s rather a large misuse of this kind of machine, though the Japs seem to do more mild posing than hard riding.
Rust hadn't got a hold after a year’s abuse, though bits of the engine alloy had a fur of white corrosion. The only element of real wear was the rubber, down to about 3mm on OE tyres, but these were way ahead of the old Jap rubber and still keen at keeping a grip on slippery tarmac.
The only time I almost came a cropper was down to the lack of adhesion on my own boots (which looked like I'd walked around the world in them). Touching down on a slippery bit of road, whose camber was running away from the bike, my foot shot away and only after a massive bit of juggling did I stop us both sliding away. Had the bike been top heavier I would've been a goner.
Another amusing moment was when some thick cager tried to reverse into my forward path. Hit the brakes in a frenzy and jerk the jumping Yamaha into a gap between two cars. Unfortunately, one of the drivers was a psychopath built like a Sumo wrestler. Armed with a baseball bat, he shuffled out of his cage, threatening to flatten my lid if I didn’t get out of his way pronto.
My poor old heart nearly had a seizure, but I managed a rear wheel skid combined with chronic clutch slip to do a disappearing act. Luckily, he was too fat to run after me. I tried for a wheelie but ended up with a series of jerks that threatened to take out the clutch if not the back wheel’s cush drive.
The Yam soon calmed down again, but I found Tokyo traffic always left me on edge. At the end of each ride I had shaking hands and a madly fluttering heart, from a combination of the sheer, almost impenetrable density of the traffic and the insane antics of the terminally frustrated drivers.
On almost every ride I saw an accident. Usually dented cages but occasionally a flattened motorcycle... manufacturers of commuter bikes should be on to a huge earner as the whole world becomes clogged up with excessive cages - the small bikes are the only way left to weave and wallow through the traffic.
The Yamaha Zeal wouldn't be my first choice for serious commuting as it’s lacking in frugally and despite being small and light for a 250 four, it’s still a bit on the hefty side compared with step-thrus, commuter bikes and scooters. Where it excels is as a flash set of wheels with an interesting line in top end acceleration, easy handling and fairly versatile.
It all comes down to how cheap they are, really nice used ones going for £1800 to £2000 in Japan (which translates to £3500 in the UK). For that kind of money there are better buys in the import market but if the looks get to you then it's worth going for. There were also quite a few crashed and bashed Zeals on offer, best to check them over carefully if they turn up cheap in the UK.
Mike Prescotte
Travel Tales: Frog Frenzy - South of France on a CB400/4
Our two mates had only been gone three days when I received a phone call one evening.
“Wot you up to?” “Not a lot,” I replied.
“Well, why don’t you and Charlie come down and join us, there’s stacks of room in the tent.” Des carried on to complain that he and Shaun had not at first realised the implications of booking a holiday through the Women’s Travel Service but now that they did, we were being urged to come and share the experience. The following morning Charlie and I decided we just had to go for it.
My trusty 400/4 was pulled out of the garage and subjected to the sort of scrutiny it had last received when I bought it. The bike had always run very well but for this trip, two up, fully loaded, and the best part of 2000 miles to cover, I felt luck would need some practical assistance. Close examination revealed that the bike needed little more than an oil and brake fluid change, a new oil filter, drive chain and most serious (as in expensive) a new back tyre.
A visit into town and the local travel agent, secured a booking on the Plymouth to Roscoff ferry, leaving that evening. From the travel agent's it was a short walk to the local motorcycle shop, where the new chain and tyre were bought. The afternoon spent servicing the bike and fitting the new bits.
An hour to load up the bike and we were away by six in the evening, bound for Plymouth. After a farewell drink with the girlfriend, we came back to find some idiot had knocked the Honda over. In the gloom of the street-lights all I could find wrong was that one of the rear indicators was hanging off. Quickly solved with a roll of black insulation tape.
It was only when I leapt on the bike that I realised the clutch lever had sheared in two. I tossed a coin, the choice between spending the night in town and replacing the lever in the morning, or riding on to the ferry and hoping they had Honda dealers in France. The latter won and we lurched down to the ferry.
The village of Roscoff at six o’clock in the grey half light of morning didn't inspire the confidence needed to find a new clutch lever. The 20 mile ride to the nearest town of any size, Morlaix, took over an hour. Luck then shone down on us, entering the town there was a large Honda dealership. We parked the bike outside and got the gas stove out to make a cup of tea and wait for them to open. A few minutes past nine o’clock we had one new clutch lever and were on our way again.
We decided on a two day trip to the campsite at Hyere. Common sense dictated that the bike would not average more than 400 to 450 miles a day with the load it was carrying, plus the fact that we wouldn't be using the motorways.
The first day, the bike ran perfectly. In the evening a small village campsite was found for the night. The following day dawned sunny, and a little warmer, so we set off early and covered a 100 miles before stopping at a cafe for breakfast. During the rest of the morning) we began to notice an increasing number of large touring and race bikes on the road, mostly coming towards us. Soon, they turned into a near constant stream of oncoming bikes.
After a couple of hours we stopped for petrol and I noticed Charlie rubbing his shoulder - he was sore from waving at all the bikers we'd passed! As we left the petrol station, | noticed for the first time the signpost for France’s premier motorcycle race track - Racing Paul Ricard, 12 miles. We rode on. Some fifty miles further on, I was suddenly aware of a rapid, regular pinging noise coming from the ba¢ of the bike. Charlie had noticed I too but the bike behaved perfectly.
Another 50 miles further on, the noise disappeared. Concerned, I pulled off the road to check the bike over but nothing was found amiss. Then I noticed that our tent, strapped on to the back of the bike, was hanging off. Looking back up the road, I saw all 24 sections of the aluminium tent poles scattered over the last 200 metres. French drivers were treated to the sight of two British motorcyclists dodging the traffic as we tried to rescue the poles.
We arrived in Hyere just as dusk was falling. Riding around in the heat of the evening we must’ve appeared slightly out of place as we were still dressed up in our cold weather gear. Finding the campsite proved rather difficult until stopping at a bar for a cold beer we found Des and Shaun (complete with that night’s female companions) and then the party really began.
The following days are a blur of beaches, beer, partying, sun and stunning girls. The 400/4 was used daily to transport all four of us down to the beach, some half a kilometre away. Not recommended, as a further broken indicator will testify. The time went fast until waking one morning, Charlie told me that our ferry had sailed the night before and that time had run out for both of us! That night we held one last party where we cooked a large meal and invited all the girls we had met, insulted, forgotten and chased during the holiday.
The next morning was difficult. Getting up about ten we began slowly loading the bike. A couple of hours later and we were ready to leave. Easier said that done, as it took a further three hours to say our goodbyes and to drag ourselves back on to the road. We drove out through Hyere and turned up the Rhone valley just as the Minstral wind began to blow from the north.
The bike struggled to reach 50mph going up the valley, as I played musical tunes with the gearbox. Holding the revs over 7000 kept the bike moving forward but if allowed to fall below then the speed fell off fast into the strong headwind. Neck muscles were aching whilst the sand and dust got everywhere, but still the 400/4 kept going without missing a beat.
It was only 200 miles up to Lyons but after only half that distance we had to stop for a rest and roadside chips with mayo. We arrived outside Lyons as it got dark and the wind thankfully dropped away to nothing. We filled up with petrol, headed north west, through the city and up into the mountains, where the temperature fell rapidly and the dark became absolute.
By midnight, I could feel Charlie falling asleep on the pillion and my backside was the only thing not suffering frostbite! We decided to stop, finding a break in the hedge went into a field. By the light of the headlight we set up the tent and collapsed into sleep. Early the following morning I was awoken by Charlie shaking my shoulder, urging me to get up and look outside. Doing so, I found that in the dark we had managed to pitch our tent in the middle of a farmyard. Not waiting to see if the farmer was friendly, we packed up again and set off.
The warmth of the south had now gone and the sky was a uniform grey. Periodically the heavens opened, a generous soaking. However, by midday things were looking good with only 250 miles to Roscoff. Gradually, though, I began to notice a lack of throttle response, the engine not pulling as strongly as normal. Things rapidly got worse as the fuel consumption rose and the bike refused to exceed 50mph without coughing and spluttering back to 40mph.
Forced to stop for petrol, we checked the fuel system which was free-flowing and all four plugs were, despite being covered in oil, sparking brightly. With hindsight it wouldn't have taken long to discover the root cause of the our problems but in our haste to catch the ferry we pressed on. Every 50 miles we stopped to clean the spark plugs. Despite refusing to go over 50mph, we eventually arrived in Roscoff and after some desperate pleading were allowed on the eleven o'clock ferry.
The 70 mile ride from Plymouth to Falmouth took over three hours on near deserted roads. We were both well knackered by the time we got home. After a rest I set to the bike - all the sand had clogged up the air filter, the resulting vacuum sucking oil back into the filter holder (via the engine breather). When I opened up the filter holder, I found the soggy remains of the filter soaking in a sea of oil. It was amazing that the engine had kept running.
lan Perrott
Yamaha XT350
It’s usually the camshafts that go on these simple thumpers but mine were OK, though the camchain looked a bit ropey. The piston was close to egg-shaped and the rings were jagged enough to use for cleaning teeth. Oh God, I just knew the 39000 mile engine was going to be big trouble even when reassembled with new or newish parts. Dead meat.
MCN classifieds (what would we do without them?) provided a couple of examples but they sounded too old to be of much use. Then I saw an advert in the private classifieds, for a 92 model being broken after a crash. It was only a 120 miles away... thanks Dave, for the wacky Transit van ride, but I don’t think it was really necessary to drive straight across a roundabout just for the kicks. I think he was getting his revenge for the time I took him pillion on my GT250X7... oh, happy days!
The motor sounded good, the deal done and a drunken drive home ensued. I couldn't wait to fit the new engine - the 4am blast off on an open pipe merely confirmed my status as the lowest of the low in our once pleasant neighbourhood.
The XT shifted indecently well (the motor had only done 6000 miles) up to 80mph, then went all sultry and quiet. The aerodynamics were similar to a bloody big artic and the power, even in derestricted form (pull the carb out and cut out a bit of rubber in the manifold), no better than a good seventies 250 (around 30 horses). 90mph would occasionally come up on the clock but it was a big struggle.
Especially as the chassis was worn out. It wasn't a speed wobbler, or anything, just weaved and wallowed all over the shop above 60mph. The suspension creaked and groaned when the road turned rough. Shocks went straight through the chassis into my bum and my arms were in a constant wrestling match. It was like the machine was screaming at me, RIDE SLOWLY!
So, I rode slowly for a while. Bloody boring it was, too. In the interests of experimentation, I decided to amuse myself by taking to the local woods. This was full of hoodilums on mountain-bikes who were not too amused to find an ill-ridden trailster in their ranks, The balding tyres slid and slithered all over the place, the suspension bottomed out over the smallest of bumps and the odd bit of water thrown up (usually when I inadvertently rode into the stream) cut the motor dead. The latter was serious, as it gave all the people I'd insulted the excuse they needed to beat the shit out of me. It wasn’t that bad as I was older and bigger than most of them and always carried a large tyre iron (to deal with stupid cagers). I had to laugh at some kid who turned up looking like a refugee from a mud wrestling contest, he claimed all the shit was from my back wheel as I flew past him! Luckily, the engine caught halfway through his unlikely tale.
Riding the Yam on the dirt was a bit like sex with a fat women. You knew the basics were supposed to be good but it was damn hard getting into them. The major failing was the rubber, but it also had problems jumping over fallen trees or off small hills...I guess my technique was a bit lacking (my short lived sexual affairs indicate this might not be my only failing but I keep telling them that practice makes perfect) but the way the bike slapped down on its belly was spine dislocating and arm wrenching.
After a couple of weeks of dirty self-indulgence I came to the conclusion that the only effect of off-road work was to rapidly destroy my pride and joy. The new chain and sprockets were reduced to rubble (though they are short-lived at the best of times), the battery had cracked up, various bits of plastic were bent and the lights gave up working. The predominant colour of the chassis was rust!
After stalking various motorcycle emporiums I came up with a newish set of consumables, forks, shock and the odd bit of chassis plastic. New chassis bearings were lovingly fitted... like hell, they were! After three days of thumb numbing, shoulder wrenching and hammer breaking, finally the old bearings popped out. I was so peeved that I ruined one set of swinging arm bearings in my haste to finish off the job.
After all that effort, it was still slow and handled like a porker. My off-road adventures had twisted the frame! The old suspension was so bad that I hadn’t noticed. I once saw 100mph on the clock despite this - it was just like stringing some seventies 250 along - head in the clock, arms in the air, feet on the pillion rests, wavering chassis and enough vibration to turn my extremities dead... heart attack country.
Looking for a better frame (no, I don't give up easily), I came across a really nice XT350 that had been stolen and recovered. Perfect chassis, some urchin had revved the motor until it'd died an untimely death. For 400 notes it was too good a deal to miss. A perfect motorcycle was the result. What a difference a day makes!
The suspension was able to absorb really wicked pot-holes without any trauma. She held a straight line at 95mph that I could have only previously dreamt about. Off-road work? Don’t be bloody silly, I’m not going to get my lovely little machine all muddy. This was much more like it. A neat, trustworthy machine emerged out of all the hassle.
17000 miles later I was screaming and tearing what was left of my hair out. Winter, the Cotswolds, an urgent trip to my parents; cold and desperation setting in with 50 miles to go... the motor seized up solid. The major disadvantage of a single is that when one piston goes that’s it, no back up. No telephone, houses, cars or people in sight. Ice cold rain began to fall in a biblical torrent and my language turned hellish foul.
I removed the chain and pushed the XT for six miles until a small town emerged from the waterfall of a disgruntled God relieving himself. I collapsed in the pub, was only revived by a wanton landlady assaulting me with her huge breasts. When my vision cleared she had a frightening resemblance to one of the glossy mob who like to dress up in women’s clothes. I passed out again.
To cut a long and fearful story short (this is a family magazine, etc), the XT had blown its big-end as well as melting the piston to the cylinder. It was my fault... I hadn't changed the oil for 7000 miles and had taken to mono-wheeling around town at max revs in second gear. A glorious sight, dear reader, that left the local cops gobsmacked!
What did I do next? Yep, another trip around the breakers, looking over desperate dogs and malignant mongrels (and that was just the guys running the shops). I ended up rebuilding the motor with used bits - everything else was too far gone or too expensive.
You might’ve guessed that I’m not the world’s best mechanic and that bunging together used bits from diverse if not dubious sources ain't the best starting point.
Still, it started up quickly, didn't rattle alarmingly and didn't vibrate across the garage. A top speed of 80mph and around 40mpg (against a normal 65mpg) indicated that engine longevity wasn’t going to be astounding. She had to go, so go she did.
I lost about £200 over a year’s joy riding, so it wasn't that bad a deal. After three or four years, they do lose their shine and the depreciation on a new one’s astounding! Older ones are often close to rats, not worth paying serious money for. There are some good buys out there... I just bought a 9000 miler for £750!
N.J.L.
Honda CB160
The heap ran, but only just. £995 the advert had advised, plus a lot of stuff about its future as a classic. As a long time devotee of the UMG I thought fifty quid was about right. Especially as a test ride wasn't allowed. It needed new tyres and a chain! The MOT was eleven months old. The owner looked decent enough and his name was in the logbook. I wanted something from the sixties with a bit of style that I could mildly mod to suit my tastes.
The bigger twins were even more expensive and a touch too powerful for my liking - well, I had commuted to work on a Raleigh moped (the one with the engine on the back wheel). I didn’t buy it then because I needed to think about the deal and didn't think anyone was going to come along in a hurry with that kind of money for such an old dog.
Two weeks later I phoned up with a £200 offer. No! Three weeks later the owner phoned me and said I could have it for £600. No! A week later I offered £250. No! Finally we settled on £375. We both thought we'd been ripped off so it must’ve been about right. The truth of the matter, I later found out, was that the guy had bought an immaculate example plus my bike for spares. He'd sold the former for £1500 (at a loss) and tried to make up the money on my bike. Oh well!
There was lots to do on the cosmetic side. Patching, welding, cleaning, polishing... many a happy weekend and evening in my workshop followed. It was better than watching TV, chatting the same old stuff with the wife or playing with the brats. I did no-one else any harm and got a lot of joy out of renovating the hack.
The engine was left alone, save for new oil, spark plugs and cleaning up the points. The clock read 39000 miles and that sort of matched the condition of the machine, given that it'd been stored away for a while. The most difficult job was patching up the silencers, they were almost rotted all the way through. A couple of nights with the welding torch and a tin of heat resistant matt black paint sufficed.
Overall effect was of a four or five year old Jap - worn, sure, but a long way from a real rat. Total cost under 500 notes, so not that bad a deal - as long as the engine kept going for a few thousand miles. It was a reluctant starter, finicky on the choke, probably down to worn carbs, needed a good five minutes to warm up before taking off. Because the only alternative to a stalled engine was lots of rev, I began to worry that the oil wouldn't reach the cams and I'd have a shot engine in no time at all. An old Honda hassle.
Performance was as good as most learners. Acceleration was quite nippy, certainly annoyed the cagers who thought it was just some old vintage relic that you had to pedal. Nice to blow their egos! I didn't put more than 70mph on the clock, though the engine felt willing to keep going. There was quite a buzz in the foot-pegs by then and the engine screamed away merrily.
It felt like a real fight with the elements! Helped along by the usual weird riding position from that era. Flat bars that would've made a Vincent owner proud but foot pegs far enough forward for the mismatch to throw up some agonizing pains in my thighs after a mere five minutes at 70mph. The bike felt tiny compared to modern machines, cramped being an all too apt description.
Rather than spend money on rear-sets (if such things were still available) I fitted cow-horn handle bars and a new, nylon lined, set of cables. That was better, though the poor aerodynamics now meant that all the power disappeared with 70mph on the clock. Never mind, I didn't really want to go much above 60mph!
Handling didn't inspire greater speeds. It may, though I doubt it, have been an ace little handler when brand spanking new, but the worn, mushy, suspension was in no condition to take on the neglected surfaces of modern roads. I wouldn't go so far as to say it was actually dangerous - there was too little mass and power for that to happen. Disconcerting and annoying, a more pertinent description.
Perhaps the worst element was the lack of comfort. The failure of the suspension to absorb almost all the bumps meant that massive forces were fed through my arms and spine (the seat padding was almost non-existent). Bruised and battered after a couple of hours on the road, I began to wonder if classic bikes were such a great idea - they never mention this in the classic glossies!
The answer, of course, was to throw some more money at it. As with all easy solutions this wasn’t possible... the wife would've had a fit, already eyeing the vintage relic, attendant oil leaks, window rattling noise and dubious appearance with horror. So I suffered in the hope that some suitable suspension and a seat might turn up somewhere down the line. It wasn't just the wife, though, I also had my doubts about the potential longevity of the motor.
As it happens that wasn't a cause for concern. 6500 miles with nothing more than regular servicing - carbs every 750 miles, tappets every 500 miles and oil every 1000 miles, with points and plugs whenever it didn’t start (every fortnight on average).
The lights were dubious. The bulbs blew but sometimes I didn't even notice - they were that bad! The main fuse blew, and that I did notice because everything went rather dead. Stalled motorcycle in the middle of the usual heavy, going on crazy, traffic. Dead meat time, I would've been better off as a veggie in Texas. There was no apparent cause, I guessed at either the regulator or rectifier (or both, why not at this kind of age?) breaking down. Wiring rotting away could also have been the cause. The last time I touched a bike's electrics in a major way I ended up crying my eyes out. No, no, no...
It wasn't the electrics that finally did for me but a cage. Or maybe it was just the fade very quickly TLS front drum. A moot point. If I'd had triple discs and the ability to stop on a dime I wouldn't have hit the side of a car that zoomed out of a hidden driveway as if trying for a GP start. The cager was gobsmacked at the damage to the side of his Merc and not in the least concerned that I'd been thrown over the bars to land on my head. Hard enough to crack my cheap helmet. If I hadn't been wearing a lid I might've heard the car coming - maybe!
The damage wasn't as bad as you'd expect. Bent forks and front wheel. They were crap, anyway, so when it turned out the cager didn't have any insurance (he was a used car dealer of some sort) and he’d pay me £200 in used tenners to forget the incident I thought it was my lucky day.
£60 bought a CB175 front end that was persuaded on in the usual way - hammer and chisel, of course. This was also crap but not to the same degree. I could guess that it'd been real good when new, 50000 miles ago. Now it was just sloppy and vague, with a fading front brake.
I should’ve bought something newer, I know, but such an obvious lack of original equipment as a disc brake would’ve taken hundreds off the value of the bike. It’s a silly, modern world that we live in. The more I rode the bike the more I reflected on this fact...
The CB160 is a bit of Honda history, from a time when their OHC twins were leading edge machinery. Time hasn't been kind to them, just inflated their value to silly levels. A brand new one on today’s road would still be a bit lost; an aged, worn example is more of an accident waiting to happen than an enjoyable motorcycle experience. Do something sensible, like upgrade the suspension and brakes, all it does is take lots of money off its value.
The old Brits have suffered from this nonsense for a long time but at least they can be rebuilt to a decent spec and have excellent handling. The Honda was reliable and I could see how they took the market by storm back in the sixties. But today? It had to go before it killed me.
I started off at £995 and after six weeks accepted £475... old Japs are hard to sell, no doubt about it. There just ain't the same kind of market for them as the British twins. No street credibility. I still think fifty quid’s about right for a runner.
John Winsdor
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