It all started in January 1985. I'd been riding a poxy Honda CB100 until then, that I'd bought off an eighteen year old kid. I'd offered £100, which he refused, not surprisingly as it was a W reg, quiet and neat, but had a front end prang and the guard was crunched. After a few weeks his girlfriend was playing up so I offered £125, which was readily accepted.
This meant my mum's poxy Honda Express moped could be returned to her. It was really gross, top speed 25mph if there was a force nine gale behind it. I wanted a bike that I could trade-in for something decent and new. I'd phoned several dealers until one said he’d had an almost new XL 125. I wanted a trailie, not for going into fields or anything, I just thought they were neat at the time.
I went to see it. Brilliant, dead cool, looked bigger than any other 100 or 125. I sat on it and fell in love. I asked what they would give me for the CB and was well chuffed when they said £250. A good profit as I had spent nothing on it, only tax, insurance and petrol.
The day came to pick it up and my husband said he would ride it home for me as a trailie was different to an ordinary road bike and he'd had loads of experience with bikes, plus he’d once had an old SL125 Honda. | think he was quite pleased with it as he'd just sold his 250 Superdream to a complete dickhead, who drove it down the road and crashed it. We both picked the XL up in our dinner break, me in the car and him on the CB. It had snowed all day and I was bricking myself, hoping the XL wouldn't be dropped as I had it on HP.
It only had one previous owner, an old fart who thought he was sixteen again and then discovered that arthritis and winter didn't go together. The XL had sat all winter in his garage; a year's riding amounted to 506 miles! It had just had its 500 mile service. I parted with £795 for her, not bad as it was so new. The XL was still an “it" then, until we became better acquainted, then it would become “she.”
She was a great bike, didn't need a lot of maintenance and what did need doing, she could be lifted on to a milk crate outside the back door. In ’86 I was pregnant and she stayed in the shed except for the occasional jaunt to work and the shops. Only about a 1000 miles a year. Never thrashed, honest! In ’87 I was pregnant again, my husband used the bike for work. Everything went fine except for needing a shed and two locks to stop the locals stealing her - they had to be satisfied with stealing the petrol when it was parked up outside!
This meant my mum's poxy Honda Express moped could be returned to her. It was really gross, top speed 25mph if there was a force nine gale behind it. I wanted a bike that I could trade-in for something decent and new. I'd phoned several dealers until one said he’d had an almost new XL 125. I wanted a trailie, not for going into fields or anything, I just thought they were neat at the time.
I went to see it. Brilliant, dead cool, looked bigger than any other 100 or 125. I sat on it and fell in love. I asked what they would give me for the CB and was well chuffed when they said £250. A good profit as I had spent nothing on it, only tax, insurance and petrol.
The day came to pick it up and my husband said he would ride it home for me as a trailie was different to an ordinary road bike and he'd had loads of experience with bikes, plus he’d once had an old SL125 Honda. | think he was quite pleased with it as he'd just sold his 250 Superdream to a complete dickhead, who drove it down the road and crashed it. We both picked the XL up in our dinner break, me in the car and him on the CB. It had snowed all day and I was bricking myself, hoping the XL wouldn't be dropped as I had it on HP.
It only had one previous owner, an old fart who thought he was sixteen again and then discovered that arthritis and winter didn't go together. The XL had sat all winter in his garage; a year's riding amounted to 506 miles! It had just had its 500 mile service. I parted with £795 for her, not bad as it was so new. The XL was still an “it" then, until we became better acquainted, then it would become “she.”
She was a great bike, didn't need a lot of maintenance and what did need doing, she could be lifted on to a milk crate outside the back door. In ’86 I was pregnant and she stayed in the shed except for the occasional jaunt to work and the shops. Only about a 1000 miles a year. Never thrashed, honest! In ’87 I was pregnant again, my husband used the bike for work. Everything went fine except for needing a shed and two locks to stop the locals stealing her - they had to be satisfied with stealing the petrol when it was parked up outside!
Every year we followed the same routine for the MOT - back end dropped, swinging arm greased and packed, the bearings checked. By the nineties, she needed new fork gaiters and an exhaust, although the replacement attracted rust at an horrendous rate! Never failed an MOT in ten years. After the tenth MOT, the bike was nicked, despite the shed being alarmed - the thieves had come in the house and fused the electrics. I cried and cried! They even cut the phone line! I wanted to murder the thieves but the police weren't too concerned.
Not the end of the story. 5.00am, I walked around the estate and saw plenty of activity around one house. Also a tyre track of a trailie bike up the hill in the mud. My bike, I would know it anywhere tyre tracks as well. No-one else, around there, has a bike like mine. The following Wednesday, I heard her being started up. Bastards coming out to play. I knew it was her from thé throaty exhaust noise. A friend’s house was nearby and he came out to help. When the bike came up the hill he jumped out and knocked the pillion off it, the pilot screaming off up the street.
She was an “it” again. I looked at her, nothing left, she was a shit heap. The guy thrown off the bike was walking towards me. I grabbed him by the neck, wanting to smash his face in. I was screaming at him and pushing him about. I think he was stoned or at least on another planet... a car screamed around the corner, with two of his cronies who dragged him in and tore off.
The police turned up, told me it was a stupid thing to do, should have left it to them. Pigs might fly faster than they would get the bike back! Later, two thugs turned up, asking me how much I would pay for the return of the bike. I told them to fuck off, the bike was in such a state that I didn’t want to see it again. In the night, they came back on the bike and did donuts outside the house.
The following Monday the police came, asked if I had any photos because they had found something. They wheeled her back from around the corner and asked if I had somewhere safe to keep her? They must be joking, I reckon the thugs would have come back later and set fire to the shed.
The bike was in such a state that I was so sorrowful that I thought my heart was going to burst! I couldn't even look at her. Nothing left, every piece that could be taken off was sawn through, the engine pissed out oil, the new gaiters were ripped to shreds and the new tyre on the back was as bald as a badger’s arse. The new exhaust was sawn through, what was left covered in mud, grass and crud.
The insurance assessor came, took one took and said, total loss. Which was exactly how I felt. The scrap man came to take her away. This nightmare lasted one week but it seemed like forever. Three months later I got some money from the insurance company and I was becoming itchy for a new bike, a bigger one! A Yam XJ550. I’m happy now.
Lynn Butler
Not the end of the story. 5.00am, I walked around the estate and saw plenty of activity around one house. Also a tyre track of a trailie bike up the hill in the mud. My bike, I would know it anywhere tyre tracks as well. No-one else, around there, has a bike like mine. The following Wednesday, I heard her being started up. Bastards coming out to play. I knew it was her from thé throaty exhaust noise. A friend’s house was nearby and he came out to help. When the bike came up the hill he jumped out and knocked the pillion off it, the pilot screaming off up the street.
She was an “it” again. I looked at her, nothing left, she was a shit heap. The guy thrown off the bike was walking towards me. I grabbed him by the neck, wanting to smash his face in. I was screaming at him and pushing him about. I think he was stoned or at least on another planet... a car screamed around the corner, with two of his cronies who dragged him in and tore off.
The police turned up, told me it was a stupid thing to do, should have left it to them. Pigs might fly faster than they would get the bike back! Later, two thugs turned up, asking me how much I would pay for the return of the bike. I told them to fuck off, the bike was in such a state that I didn’t want to see it again. In the night, they came back on the bike and did donuts outside the house.
The following Monday the police came, asked if I had any photos because they had found something. They wheeled her back from around the corner and asked if I had somewhere safe to keep her? They must be joking, I reckon the thugs would have come back later and set fire to the shed.
The bike was in such a state that I was so sorrowful that I thought my heart was going to burst! I couldn't even look at her. Nothing left, every piece that could be taken off was sawn through, the engine pissed out oil, the new gaiters were ripped to shreds and the new tyre on the back was as bald as a badger’s arse. The new exhaust was sawn through, what was left covered in mud, grass and crud.
The insurance assessor came, took one took and said, total loss. Which was exactly how I felt. The scrap man came to take her away. This nightmare lasted one week but it seemed like forever. Three months later I got some money from the insurance company and I was becoming itchy for a new bike, a bigger one! A Yam XJ550. I’m happy now.
Lynn Butler