A tired 1985 Yamaha FJ1100 for £1500. Cheap because insurance was silly for anyone under the age of 30. I was only 22 but what the hell, no need to stop for the cops on a 150mph motorcycle, was there? The vendor took me for a fantastic blast on the back which had me full of lust for the 550lbs of magical metal. 62000 miles on the clock and all the consumables just about on the way to being shot.
After I handed the money over, storm clouds obscured the sun and by the time I was on the open road the rain was so heavy that visibility was down to a few yards. The FJ slid all over the shop, more like a top heavy pig than a sophisticated piece of iron. The balding tyres just couldn’t cope with the river of water flowing down the road. I tried to keep the bike as upright as possible through corners, causing following cagers to curse on their horns at the 20mph cruising speed. Really, it felt so suicidal that I didn’t want to go any faster. Even when I fitted new tyres there was always a certain edginess on wet roads.
Not a good beginning, then. Finished off the first ride by dropping the bike on my driveway. Couldn't find the side stand, lost my footing and that was all it took for the sheer mass of the bike to crash down to the earth. My leg saved the bike from serious damage but kept me howling in pain for an hour or so. Next day the sun was shinning and the FJ ridden to the tyre dealers for a new set of Metzelers. I came back to find the chief hoodlum asking me if I knew if my discs were cracking up. I’m sure they had walloped the wheel on the ground but couldn't prove it. If I didn’t pay up for the tyres they would confiscate the Yamaha. Grumbling insults under my breath (they were a lot bigger than me) I rode back home, forced to rely on the rear brake and engine braking. Phone calls to breakers revealed that disc demise was all too common but persistence eventually won out and a set were sent down COD from, er, Scotland!
Better get some serious road work in, thought I. Head for France and then Spain. Loaded the FJ up with a pile of junk that had the rear shock down on its stops. I started gibbering when I realised that the mono-track bearings were as shot as the shock. Sod it, rip off most of the junk and ride it regardless. The handling was a bit weird but OK up to the ton when I could ignore the weaves. Blasting along at 140mph I needed the whole width of the lane to survive but I've ridden lots of seventies fours that were more frightening at lower speeds. It all depends on what you're used to and the FJ, even on worn suspension, would be pretty good compared to, say, a Kawasaki H1.
As soon as I was in France I went berserk. Don’t know quite what it was but within minutes of hitting the autoroute I was flat on the tank with the throttle to the stop. The half fairing gave jolly good protection and the indentation in the saddle helped hold me comfortably in place. French cagers were weaving all over the place, or maybe it was just the combination of grinding vibes and wallowing chassis that got to me. A couple of times had to slam on the anchors to avoid whacking into some car that was tottering along so slowly it seemed to be going backwards, though in all probability it was doing 90mph to my own 150mph!
Charging into Paris, full of adrenaline and that peculiar speed frenzy that comes from high speed motorcycling, the back end actually started clanging over the rough streets. It was impossible to pull over so I tried to accelerate through it. The bike became more like a fairground ride than a piece of high tech motorcycle, causing maximum applause from the cagers. By the time I found a hotel I was pretty wrecked and I’m sure in Blighty I would've been refused entrance.
Because the shock was shot I’d left my bag full of tools at home. Two weeks were spent lounging in Paris whilst a mad scrappie fixed the back end with new bearings and shafts. The used shock he fitted was off an artic or something equally hefty as I could bounce in the seat without any movement from the rear end. 150mph all the way back down the autoroute to Calais, no signs of the previous weaves. When I went to slow down for the exit, there was a bang from the gearbox and about a trillion revs on the tacho. I shut the throttle dead and stamped on the gear lever. The box caught in third and then tried to lock the back wheel up until I got the throttle and clutch working.
It wasn’t until I was back in England that I realised the top two ratios had disappeared. The bike could still be thrashed down the motorway at 90mph but an indication of the vibration was the way the mirrors tried to unfurl themselves. I was actually stopped by the cops but they couldn't be bothered giving me a ticket for speeding as I was only 15mph over the limit. They spent ten minutes trying to pull the back end apart so perhaps they'd clocked my antics on the ride down... the elephant-like appearance of one of them suggested a long memory.
By the time I reached home the chain was trying to break the chainguard off and the bike was locked into second gear. There was enough smoke out of the exhaust to please an MZ addict which I thought a bit odd as I'd almost drained the engine dry! Old Japanese motors can burn the oil like ancient British twins. It nearly did my head in when I realised the swinging arm had to come out to replace the chain! The swinging arm spindle was slightly bent and corroded. Great!
With the back end fixed up, a few months of high speed commuting followed. New engine oil allowed selection of a full complement of gears if I didn’t mind the noise of tearing metal and the need to wear ex-army boots. Fast commuting was a pretty weird trip - 120mph down the middle of crowded A-roads and the ton-fifty on the motorway whenever possible.
I couldn't believe the rate at which consumables died. Tyres in 3000 to 4000 miles, chains in about 5000 miles and a set of EBC front pads in a ridiculous 3300 miles. The latter from speeding up to corners at about twice the correct rate and then slamming on the anchors in desperation. The twin discs had plenty of power but lacked any kind of feedback, the first I knew of a locked wheel was the screaming tyre, which doubtless contributed to the early demise of the front rubber.
In its day, the wraparound, square section frame was highly rated but the FJ was still one overweight bastard when I wanted to speed through corners. There was so much grunt from the mill that it could have the bike going sideways when applied with too much enthusiasm in the bends. There was also a lack of ground clearance that stopped me getting the FJ right over on the edge of its tyres. I would swear my head off at the bike but it didn't make any difference. One, highly dangerous, technique was to lean off the bike whilst keeping it as upright as possible.
An almighty wobble would turn up if I got the balance slightly wrong and I’d end up sitting in dirty underwear at work for the rest of the day. Then there was the time one of the silencers fell off, rust finally overwhelming it. The bike had always been a bit loud, all part of its character to me but this was ridiculous. Sounded like a platoon of tanks was rumbling up the road. By the time I hit the breakers for a replacement, the other one was also hanging off. A fiendish matt black four into one was hammered on. Looked the business but put a 2000rpm flat spot deep in the midrange.
With 83500 miles on the clock I was about ready to sell. The brakes looked like they would need replacing soon, plus yet another round of consumables. The engine was very tough, all I'd done was keep it topped up with fresh oil. The chassis was competent rather than inspiring, too much weight to be really enjoyable. The power gave one hell of a kick but destroyed the chassis in short order when used in anger. Finish was OK, surviving with just the odd bucket of water thrown at it when I was feeling bored. Sold it for £1700 but wouldn't have another unless I was desperate for some high speed excesses.
N.K.