“Only had two owners.” The dealer smiled at me. “Last one was a policeman’s son.” Common sense should've told me a cop’s offspring wasn't to be trusted in charge of a bike as much as, say, a Buddhist monk. But hell, it was 450 notes and my newly earned licence was urging me to get something between my legs. So the Honda Superdream 250 it was.
At first I was so impressed! It accelerated up hills! An electric starter! A street-wise leather tank cover! Needless to say, these feelings of affection didn't last very long. Three weeks later I was laying down on the road, staring up at a coach-load of people with their noses pressed against the windows. I'd just overtaken them and promptly fallen off.
“Fine,” I muttered at the driver, glad of the anonymity granted by my helmet. “No problem, I feel great.” The Superdream had decided to go wide on the bend, and being totally inexperienced with the weight, I wasn’t about to stop it. I had a broken wrist. The bike was luckier. £8 for a new clutch lever and £5 for a crappy plastic mirror sorted it out. The headlight seemed to light up passing fields rather than the road, though. Unfortunately, whilst recovering with my wrist in plaster some cretin stole the drive chain (and left the rest of the bike - cheek!). £18 for a replacement.
After this, perhaps ignominious start to our relationship, the Dream and I got on well. The bike didn’t expect me to ride it hard and I didn’t expect it to start in the morning... it was a working relationship of sorts. After riding around for three months with few problems, the engine broke.
Hey, don’t ask me what went wrong with it. A light switch looks technical to me, so an engine was totally beyond my capabilities. The man at the local motorcycle shop just coughed through the blue smoke and said something about a rebore. He mentioned some long number after a pound sign, but I didn't catch the exact figure. I was already running away.
A trip to the local breakers secured another engine, for the princely sum of £60. I tried to ignore the family of snails living around the casing. It looked as though it had spent most of its life in a pond. One day, and the invaluable help of a friend that knew the front end from the back, and hey presto. I took the old engine back to the breakers, who bought it off me for £40, and complained that if he’d known the one he'd sold me was working he would have asked more. Nice chap. But you don’t tend to argue with a man that can tuck a Goldwing under each arm.
Over the next twelve months the bike was stored outside, used daily and deteriorated to the point where people would stop, point and laugh. But it still went. The solenoid packed up but a screwdriver across the contacts started the bike. The chain needed adjusting almost weekly, but it was a cheap one, made apparently of liquorice.
I soon learnt how to bump-start the bike as the electrics were completely shot. I managed to perfect it to the point where I just needed to sit astride the beast, put it in first and push forward six inches. Worked every time. Another severe disadvantage manifested itself one night while I was riding along a twisty back lane at about 60mph. I touched the main beam button, resulting in complete, all surrounding blackness.
Everything went out. All I could see was the moon. “Drat,” I said to myself. “Bother. What confounded bad luck.” Or something along those lines. Keeping cooler than James Bond, I kept riding in what I hoped was a straight line and wiggled the button again. Fortunately, the lights came back on. Needless to say, I never used that switch again. Or, for that matter, the underwear I had been wearing.
The Dream was fine for commuting but anything over 30 miles had me broken in half. I made the mistake of going on holiday one summer, my girlfriend as pillion, tent, bags, kitchen sink and travelling 180 miles in one day. I felt like I'd never walk upright again, bent over in agony and looking like Piltdown Man. If you have to ride a Superdream regularly, over distance, find a good doctor... and a girl who’s into S & M and likes a lot of pain.
I came out one morning to find I’d forgotten where I'd parked the bugger. After 15 minutes of searching local streets, I came to the inescapable truth. Someone had stolen it. How far did they get? Seven miles, when they dumped it. That says the lot really. Had to rewire the bugger after that.
I had to respray it as well. The thieves had cut off the leather tank cover, which incidentally rots the tank faster than you can say Holy Shit I’m Covered In Petrol. Looked godawful underneath. I resprayed it, very poorly I might add. How was I to know you should use primer? Am I a painter and decorator? No! Anyway, it seemed to deter further thefts as it looked too silly to even steal.
But it just kept going. It was almost a competition. I would neglect it completely and it would still go. The brakes were very poor, fuel consumption around 50mpg. The performance? Riding pleasure? I’ve always been of the opinion that if you haven't got something nice to say, you shouldn't say anything. So I won't. Top speed? I felt privileged to throttle 80mph out of it; children on rollerskates regularly overtook me. I did over 10000 miles on it - seemed like a lot more.
But cheap? Let’s talk cheap for a moment. Breakers are full of bits of Superdreams. Broken, twisted, rusting pieces. A perfect match for my broken, twisted, rusting Superdream. I felt hard done by if I had to shell out more than a fiver to sort out a problem.
One sound piece of advice, though - if you buy one, rip off all the indicators. The plastic’s more brittle than cold chocolate. I actually managed to mangle an indicator backing into a parking spot on a lamp post (weird place to park - Ed), knocked it clean off. The bike fell over several times and you could.guarantee a pile of useless plastic dangling from wires when you picked it up.
I kept it for two years, even managed to sell if for £200. I took the buyer for a ride, on pulling up there was the worst burning smell you could imagine. Oh god, I thought, what now? But it was only the tax disc holder welding itself to the exhaust pipe. Phew.
He bought it, and sadly stacked it a week later. Too wide on a bend, I'd bet. I always wondered if the same coach driver stopped to ask him if he was OK. Crappy as it was, I missed the bike. It always got me from A to B, was dead cheap to run. I guess over the years I’d come to rely on it, as it never actually let me down.
It was also considerably lighter when it came to bumping than the GS550E that replaced it. There are few Superdreams left, these days, and most of ’em look dreadful. But if you want a bike you can run for toffee, consider it... and then buy something else!
Paul Taylor