Suzuki GSX600

I was really enjoying myself on my one year old (back in '93) Suzuki GSX600. I'd just done an hour’s 100mph cruising down the motorway with the only worry being the lack of information afforded by the nearly useless mirrors. Then it was a blast down some well known B-roads, throwing the 450Ib machine around like it was a mere 250 twin. The brakes, normally powerful but remote, had already been fixed with Goodridge hose, allowing me to lose speed with all the efficacy of hitting a brick wall. The GSX600 is supposed to be the poor man’s 600 but it didn’t mean I couldn’t have loads of fun - until the road turned bumpy.

I should’ve known better because I knew the road well, knew that there was a 400 yard patch of neglected swervery. Bumps, potholes, horse shit... you name it! But I was well away in a boy racer fantasy, something emphasized by hitting 135mph on one of the long straights. Given that the GSX only makes 85 horses at 11000rpm that was a pretty frantic business.

When the bike hit the rough patch we were already well leaned over. I only weigh ten stone, hadn't really found the suspension that soft, although the GSX series was reputed to have a bit of a mushy ride. The bumps had the suspension bottoming out just as I was hauling over to change direction. Then the undercarriage was scraping along the tarmac, the back wheel trying to hop off the road. The whole feeling was very disconcerting because |I’d gone from a ride of sublime confidence to feeling like I was riding on a donkey with a firework shoved up its backside.

With heroic - alright, desperate - reactions I pulled the Suzuki upright, slammed on the brakes and, er, closed my eyes as we plowed off the road into a hedge. I opened my eyes to find the GSX and myself firmly wedged and enveloped in a huge hedgerow. I had to climb up on the seat, turn around and do a Superman-type leap back on to the road.

The GSX refused to budge when I pulled on its back wheel. It took four of us, some hours later, to pull her out, and then only after hacking away a large amount of the ancient hedgerow (probably illegal but I was fucked if I was going to let it swallow up my only means of transport). The front wheel was bent and the whole paint scheme ruined, which was kind of OK as it wasn’t too attractive and a mate did the business in British Racing Green.

The GSX had only 7000 miles on the clock when this happened. Admittedly, I was trying to ride like I was on an RD350LC and the bike was running on barely legal OE Dunlops, which would do some funny things in the wet. The set of Avons that replaced them were brilliant (rear 5000, front 7500 miles) but obviously did little to help the springs over rough going, although under extremis the tyre skipping was much less pronounced.

This poor suspension shows that some corners have been cut to get the price down and that the GSX ain't up to the ultimate standard of the 600 class leader. For the vast majority of the time it’s very good and if you don't ride like a young hoodlum you won't find anything to complain about and may even come to the conclusion that it’s a brilliant bike. I modified my riding techniques a bit after the hedgerow experience and didn’t fall off again.

It was an earthing some six months later, with 15000 miles under its wheels, when the rear suspension’s bearings wore out. The steel wraparound frame might be strong but it wasn’t strong enough to damp out the back wheel wobbles and I went home at 5 to 10mph. There weren't any nipples for greasing the bearings (admittedly, this was the first time I looked) which meant everything was ruined and took a full weekend to sort out.

The GSX was supposed to be serviced every 3500 miles. I changed the lubricant every 2000 miles, the oil filter every 4000 miles, when I also balanced the carbs, but only handed the bike over to a dealer every 7000 miles to do the valves (£60). When I went to change the spark plugs | was annoyed by the hassle involved... an hour to get the stuff off, another half hour to replace it. Makes you yearn for 70’s superbikes. I'd replaced the spark plugs (and caps) because the bike was misfiring and cutting out in the wet.

Cynics might say that a bike with a reputation for blandness has to do something exciting to liven up its rider's day, but every time the cylinders chimed back in and the wheel snaked all over the place I felt my heart flutter and years taken off my life expectancy. The new plugs and caps helped but water was being thrown off the skimpy front guard, a mere five minutes in the wet covering the machine in slime.  Cans of WD40 combined with a better guard saw off the worst of the cutting out, although the odd misfire could still turn up. Test ride one of these bikes in the wet if at all possible as some bikes are OK, others pretty terminal.

I suspected the Suzuki's electrics, having previously gone crazy trying to fix a GS750 with a blown alternator and rectifier. Confirmed, to my mind, by the way the front and rear bulbs would blow. I could go for months without any hassles, then go through several sets of bulbs in a week. There was probably a loose wire somewhere but it was impossible to track down. At 21000 miles I put in a new rectifier/regulator after the battery burnt off all its acid in an afternoon. The GSX series are much better than the GS with regards to electrics but I’d be careful of high mileage examples.

The same can’t be said of the engine, which derived from the air/oil cooled GSXR750, is plenty tough enough and can withstand lots of neglect. The plastic, rather than absorbing the motor’s noise, amplifies every sound until it resembles a 60000 mile XS650 (to those innocent of such devices imagine enough knocks, rattles and taps to make earplugs compulsory). Don’t be put off by this as it’s not so noticeable from the saddle and bears no relation to engine condition. Interestingly, people who wheelie GSX600s tend to break wheels, chassis bearings and their own bones rather than the engine!

The GSX is supposed to be aimed towards sports-touring, and everything’s fine for the rider... when I took this cute little girl on the back, who was abnormally well tempered, she ended up, after 40 miles, screaming abuse, demanding to be taken to the nearest railway station. Taking a large biker was even nastier as he ended up half on the saddle and half on the grab rail, grumbling away about stupid Suzukis and my own failings as a biker, man, friend, etc. He ended up falling off the back after I slammed on the brakes and rolled the throttle hard in second. He had enough fat to avoid any indignity and didn’t hit me when I burst into laughter.

The GSX is cheap, fast and generally cheerful. It’s not perfect but it’s good enough for me. I’ve still got mine with 32000 miles on the clock and have adapted to its handling foibles.

L. B. D.

Kawasaki 250 Estrella

I wanted something interesting for doing the commute through London. I had about 1500 notes to play with, expected reliability, comfort and a bit of flash for my money. What I ended up with was a Kawasaki Estrella. A bike that looked like it came straight out of the fifties save for the disc brakes at each end. The silencer was straight off an old Triumph, the tank and panels something BSA's craftsmen might've knocked up on a good day. The separate seats had all the old codgers scratching their groins trying to work out what the hell it was. Mine came in British Racing Green and gloss white, which just added to the mental carnage.

If the device was very strange to look at it turned out to be very natural to sit on, though it helps not to be well endowed in the groin area as the single seat has some quite vicious curves. The first cause for celebration was the electric start and an ease of starting that equalled anything a modern bike could offer. The engine puffed into life, not particularly loud, but a nice enough chuff-chuff from the 249cc thumper.

The motor ain’t exactly high-tech, being air-cooled, having two valves but controlled by a single camshaft. Kawasaki claim 20hp at 7500 revs and 14.5ftlb of torque at 6000 revs. Yes, the bike was a sitting duck for de-restricted 125s but at least I wasn’t going to have any back problems down the line. As the Estrella weighed only 310lbs dry and had light steering with a good turning circle, I certainly had no problems doing the usual hustle through London traffic. The upright riding position allowed me to peer ahead, work out a superior line through the traffic.

I found the suspension pretty stiff and the front forks quite likely to twist if I hit the brake lever with a full fisted grip. I’m used to exerting maximum effort on the brakes of older bikes and the Kawasaki responded well to this kind of treatment with squealing tyres that had the peds running for cover and cagers jumping in their seats. I just grinned happily.

Over pot-holes the bike was shook about, rather like a rat being tossed around by a cat, but a firm grip on the bars limited the damage to some unruly pains in my back. Much more upsetting was riding in the rain when the Cheng Sins displayed a questionable understanding of how rubber was supposed to react to wet tarmac and left me with a boot down and a brain screaming that it didn’t want to die quite yet.

The seat height was a usefully low 30 inches, which felt lower still due to the way the saddle was cut away. Had a proper seat been fitted an inch or two more could’ve been lost. Whilst I was studying the seat I realised it resembled those found on old Harleys, which in turn revealed that the mudguards were inspired by the same source. Almost as if they'd used a computer to randomly generate parts from old bikes. The frame, on the other hand, was pure fifties BSA!

Still, it all worked together better than you'd expect and was often surrounded by amazed people wondering what the hell I was doing commuting on an ancient British classic, although the Kawasaki brand was pretty obvious on the tank. My nylon waterproofs and space age helmet didn’t go down too well in these circumstances. People go around with strange delusions.

Top speed was 80mph when the going went mad, although the bike really lost its pace at about 70mph. The engine was smooth enough to allow that speed to be held as a cruising speed. When buses or artics rolled past the wind blast they swept up shook the Kawasaki about so much that at first I thought the rear tyre had blown! Any attempt at high speed overtaking was fraught with risk because even a Metro driver could put his foot down as I came alongside, often leaving me on the wrong side of the road, awaiting my chance to play chicken with oncoming traffic.

This didn’t matter to me, as a through and through Londoner I very rarely left the capital. It made more sense to hit Heathrow for foreign climes than explore the extremities of the UK. A pair of Dunlop tyres were soon fitted, although the Cheng Sins had plenty of life left in them I didn’t think my own life expectancy would be high.

Foolishly, when I bought the bike I hadn't bothered to check the type of tyres, taking the dealer’s assurance of a new set of rubber at face value. Anyway, the tyres transformed the wet weather feel and emphasized the low centre of gravity of the Estrella - for all its strangeness of appearance the handling is very easy to get a handle on, after ten minutes most people will be quite happy twirling the bike through the traffic. I did find the clutch and five speed gearbox a touch on the rough side, a feeling that didn’t fade away under extended exposure - indeed, as the mileage rolled up the odd false neutral came in.

I had expected the worst from the chain. Singles give them a hard time, but I found a life of 8500 miles quite acceptable as the sprockets were still perfect. lt was easy to know when it needed an adjustment because the gear change became BMW clunky. All I did to the engine was change the oil every 1250 miles, after all it was a single!

Fuel varied greatly, from 35 to 70mpg! The latter was achieved by pottering around at moped speeds, the former by riding flat out. Overall, I managed about 60mpg, which gave a reasonable range of over 150 miles - much more, in reality, than that saddle would allow. One habit of the engine that’s worthy of note, is that ridden flat out oil consumption increases from zero to an empty sump in 150 miles (well it went down below the minimum level).

After about five months I became increasingly annoyed with the single seat and the pillion pad. Most women took one look at the latter and said no way. A replica BSA A10 saddle was ordered and after a weekend's head scratching was persuaded on to the Kawasaki. Immediately, the bike looked more normal and was about five times more comfortable. Girls were willing to leap on the back, but they had to be very small otherwise the performance did a complete disappearing act. Putting on a proper saddle’s well worthwhile.

Winter attacked the calipers, the alloy and chrome, although the paint remained immune. Solvol worked but was tedious. Brake pads lasted about 12500 miles but at that point it was a good idea to change the fluid, strip the calipers and clean out all the debris. When in good nick, the brakes worked nicely in the wet but when they were on the way out they became a bit too on/off for my taste.

With 16000 miles under its wheels the twin rear shocks turned into pogo-sticks. These were remote reservoir jobs, somewhat out of place on the Estrella. The box section swinging arm was also a bit strange but gave no cause for concern. The Kawasaki's fittings caused some concern but after visiting about half a dozen breakers, only being mauled once by a mule sized dog, I found a set of old Koni’s that went straight on. After a bit of adjustment they gave a much smoother, controlled ride. A bargain at £20.

A week after that the fork seals went and the handling became more like a starved donkey than a motorcycle. The local Kawasaki dealer refused to believe the bike existed despite the fact that it was sitting outside the showroom. I approached the nearest grey importer full of fear. “No problem, mate, you want a set of gaiters as well? We'll fit them for you for thirty quid this afternoon.” Never having taken forks apart before I acquiesced to everything and came back to find that the bike had also been cleaned up. It makes you wonder if we really need the importers and their rip-off dealers.

The lights and horn are pretty pathetic but OK within the confines of London where they just act as a warning to other drivers of my existence. The switches are OK although the dip switch took about six months to become used to. The mirrors were so useless that they were replaced with a pair I had in the garage. Minor irritants easily fixed, a trait the whole machine shares with fifties bikes in that it can easily be changed to suit the rider’s style.

The Estrella’s one of the most odd looking bikes on the road but I like its shape. The engine is easy going but not powerful, perfect for London but a bit lost on the motorway or even A-roads. The chassis is a throwback but works OK and never comes close to being dangerous. I’m going to fit drum brakes to mine, remove the Kawasaki stickers and really confuse the masses.

W. U.

Travel Tales: Spanish Spin

Well, everyone said what fun it would be. “Doesn't matter what bike you take, can't go wrong. It’s the only way to travel abroad. Stop dreaming and just do it.” I wasn’t sure. I'd been invited to Madrid for Easter and always wanted to see the processions but I’d been unemployed for months and was running out of money. In the end, I could live with being destitute a month earlier but I couldn't live with the idea of not going and then getting a job immediately afterwards.

I had a choice of Yam XJ750 or RD350F2. Which would you take on a touring holiday? Quite right. No contest, really, it had to be the RD. It was more fun, cheaper to run and didn't fall into Brittany Ferries’ over five years old prohibition. The downside was that it'd seized 1000 miles earlier and not yet been repaired, whilst the clutch had started to slip. I ordered new clutch plates and engine components happy that I still had a week before I left to do the work.

Monday saw me at my local motorcycle store. They didn’t have the engine bits but handed over the clutch plates. Fitting them was quite easy, only requiring draining the oil and lubricant, and removing the clutch cover. The only difficult bit’s when tightening the six bolts with springs underneath them... and the head comes off one of the bolts. That sickening feeling as a bolt goes from tightening up to suddenly loose. I assumed I’d stripped the thread so tried to tighten it to just less than the previous torque and there was suddenly a bolt head in my socket.

Tuesday I bought a bolt-extractor, mild steel crap, but after drilling a hole through the bolt I was able to pull it out and replace it. Simple jobs sometimes turn nasty! All back together, I went for a run to bed the new clutch in. It seemed to slip at times but this didn’t surprise me given the newness of the plates. Back home, I was going to bed when I noticed a trail of oil drops glinting in the moonlight. Examination showed them coming from the clutch cover, which was hanging off by half an inch, all the retaining bolts having worked loose.

Wednesday saw me at the motorcycle store buying an Allen bolt set for the clutch side. I did them up nice and tight, went for a test tide. The clutch was definitely slipping. Thursday, I asked the motorcycle store how long a clutch should take to bed in - about five miles, apparently. They suggested Redline racing springs, roughening the plates with emery cloth and asked me why I'd bought EBC plates instead of Yamaha. I bought the springs and did the work, noticing that all the bolts holding the clutch plates in were necked at the head. Instead of tightening them evenly I'd simply been pulling their heads off. They were replaced.

On the road, I felt it was better not to open her up because, after all, if the clutch did slip, there was nothing I could do about it now, so I'd rather not know. I hoped the engine parts would be there first thing in the morning. Strangely, they weren't. They arrived last thing in the afternoon. I couldn't face spending all evening fitting them so went for a drink instead. I tried to convince myself that the slipping clutch wouldn't become any worse and the engine had probably recovered from its seizure. If the worst came to the worst, at least I had breakdown insurance to fall back upon. What I didn’t think about was that I was about to ask the bike to do 2500 miles; a tenth of its total mileage to date.

Saturday was the day, off to Plymouth to catch the ferry to Santander. A balmy spring day, everything was fine. On the A1, I managed to make a queue of six cars move from the right-hand lane to the left, one by one, to let me past. Near Farnborough I pulled off the M3 to have a piss. Trying to get back on the motorway, I noticed the rev counter wasn't working. I found that none of the electrics were operating. The bike still ran so I carried on. The powervalve didn’t work (it needs electricity), leaving the RD with an MZ power curve! I pulled off at the next junction for Farnborough, where I bought a new battery, which seemed to do the trick.

After a dubious B&B in Plymouth I headed for the ferry, which doesn't go from the main docks but another place to the west. The engine was running badly again, stopping and starting, before reaching the ferry. The electrics failed again. I couldn't see how a new battery could fail so quickly unless it wasn’t charging at all but there was nothing I could do about it at that point.

The ferry to Santander takes 24 hours, I had plenty of time to wonder what was wrong with the RD. Due to a fishermens' dispute there was a row of fishing boats stopping us docking at Santander! I managed to persuade the crew to let me down on to the car deck, where I cleaned the powervalves and checked out the ignition switch, which sorted the immediate problems. It was ten o'clock in the evening rather than the morning when we were finally allowed to dock.

I'd just arrived in a foreign land, had no idea what the roads or traffic were like, and had 300 miles to do before I could go to bed. No point in hanging around so I followed the signs to Burgos. I wasn't quite sure I was going the right way because I seemed to be on very small roads but I soon came to a motorway, felt reassured. Until the motorway carried on to Bilbao and there was a little turn off to Burgos. After about five miles it became obvious that the little B grade road was actually the main road to Burgos. It was becoming very cold. I put on some more tee-shirts and all my waterproof gear, and settled down to a long night.

South of Santander, the road wriggles up into the mountains in a series of hairpin bends of the type bikers’ dream of. Or would be if the corners didn’t have streams running over them plus the odd mud slick. Several slides but nothing serious since I’m very cautious with cornering. The traffic was mainly very slow moving lorries, the kind of thing you can’t even sit behind in first without the engine complaining. Since I was very sympathetic to the engine, I always listened to its requests to go faster.

The road flattened out and I started to see large outcrops of pale rock sticking out of the ground by the side of the road. Then with shock and some disbelief I realised this was snow. It was very dark and cold but there was a full moon. I could see the mountains on either side out of the corner of my eyes.

I was supposed to be in Spain which is hotter than England perhaps I'd somehow been transported to Norway. The road started to become misty and a vast blackness opened up to my right. The mirror calm of the lake that fed the river Ebro stretched away further than I could see or wanted to look. My spirits fell lower since I thought I should already have passed this some time ago - I was going slower than I had thought.

I started thinking about petrol. I hadn't filled up when I left England and I probably couldn't make it to Burgos without fuel but so far I hadn't seen anywhere to buy any. Still that crisis was sixty miles in the future so I settled down to make some more progress. Some time later I saw a sign for some fuel, 5km away. This turned out to be a deserted pump in someone’s yard. The place was very dead. Still, there had to be other places, after all this was the main road.

The road winds down off the mountains in another series of hairpins, goes through a small village where there wasn't a single light on and certainly no garages. Then the road turns into a dirt track. At first I thought it was just some roadworks, then I thought I must've taken a wrong turning. The cars overtaking me, throwing up dust and stones into my face, convinced me this must actually be the main road. This went on for miles and miles before going back to smooth, black tarmac again. A nice bit of road, long straight bits with easy corners and no nasty surprises. The only problem was due to sensory deprivation, I began to believe I was actually in some kind of video game where I had to eat up the white lines in the middle of the road. I was still very worried about fuel.

In the last eighty miles I had seen nowhere to buy fuel and nowhere to sleep if I couldn't find fuel. Go down a major road in England and there’ll probably be a village every ten miles or so. Here there was nothing, no signs of life, not even farms. The critical point would be when the tank went on to reserve - after that there was thirty miles. Cursing the lack of civilisation, I cruised as gently as I could without loss of speed hoping I'd make it the 48km to Burgos before reaching reserve. I'd been going so slowly that I didn’t hit reserve until 135 miles as opposed to the more usual 110, and would make it with miles to spares.

Burgos is a large and beautiful city, once the capital of Spain, but unfortunately it lacks a certain something - a 24 hour filling station. I toured around the main roads until I was on the way out to Madrid but there was nothing doing. Realising that I was incredibly tired anyway, I gave up and headed back for the centre, which is where the cheap hotels should be. Except there weren't any. The centre was full of tiny streets with complicated traffic restrictions and prohibitions but since there was no-one around l ignored them. I ended up parked in front of the cathedral, going to the only hotel I’d found, the El Cid, which looked far too expensive. l asked for the cheapest room, which at £45 I couldn't afford. I was directed to a another hotel, at £25.

I dragged myself out of bed after too little sleep but at least I was in the right country rather than the wilderness of the night before. It was warm, the petrol stations were open and the countryside was brown. Just outside Burgos the two-stroke oil warning light came on, which was far too early but it was too much fun riding to worry about. I just put another litre in.

The road to Madrid was smooth, not too busy and the only worrying things were the contraflows. In England they are marked by hundreds of cones and mile long tailbacks. In Spain they’re not. The only sign is a dirty road surface that turns out to be no surface at all! The powervalve madness handled it every time! Apart from that, and the amazingly slow lorries, it was just cruising, resting my elbows on my knees so that I can relax everything except my neck, putting 7000rpm (90mph on the clock). When all the resonances in the engine work together, eliminating noise and vibration.

l arrived in Madrid in time for lunch, a traditional Spanish dish of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I'd had nothing to eat since leaving the ferry so I didn’t really care. The road down to Cordoba’s dual carriageway most of the way. The only problem with the bike was the powervalves that stuck open giving the RD a normal two-stroke power delivery with the usual power above 7000 and bugger all below. This was quite enjoyable really, especially in the twisty section in the Sierra Morena, lovely smooth knee scraping bends that I didn’t scrape my knees on because I don’t do that kind of thing. Part way through the journey the oil warning came on and I had to fill up. I assumed the oil pump cable had been displaced during the manic clutch job.

In Cordoba, at last, I could get the dusty leathers off and start the holiday. A wonderful meal and a lot to drink for next to nothing with my friends. The streets were packed with people, making it hard to get around and even harder to find the procession. When we finally found it, it was underwhelming to say the least; I'd seen village fetes that were more spectacular. Next day, I serviced the bike, fixing the oil pump cable and wrenching the powervalves around to clean them. Two stroke oil wasn’t cheap in Spain! Then we walked around the city, took in the cathedral and the Royal Palace before heading off to Seville.

Seville is a beautiful city but if you're in Cordoba you don't want to go there in the late afternoon. The road goes west, smooth and straight, but the sun is blinding. I had to close my eyes on the straight stretches and blink the tears away at other times. The accumulated aches and pains of four days riding were contorting my shoulders and I kept on having vicious stabbing pains in my neck. Not stopping at Seville, I went straight down the motorway to Jerez, one of the few toll roads in Spain. I was disgusted that bikes cost as much as cars! The destination was a town on the coast, Chipiona. It was dark but there was enough traffic about to guarantee something in front. Normally, changing down to third and whacking open the throttle would see off such obstructions but I had to stay behind my friend’s car. The powervalves hated going so slowly, as did my shoulders.

The next day we went out to the beach. I was hoping the sun would ease away the strain in my back but all I could do was think about the return journey in a couple of days. I came off the beach red as a berry, not from the sun since I was wearing factor 30 anti-nuclear blast sun cream, but from the fine sand which was sucked up by the strong Atlantic wind and blasted into my delicate skin. Stripping old paint off a frame - there’s no better place to do it.

The minor road into Seville was some of the best fun I’ve ever had on a bike. Twisty and grippy, no hint of a loose surface anywhere. Long straights punctuated by sharp series of bends. The tight corners had advisory speed limits posted up. Read as km/h they were the maximum speed for Spaniards; read as mph, they were the minimum speed for powervalves. It’s a lovely feeling going into a sharp blind corner knowing I’m not going to run out of road. The roads were really bumpy, too, not pot-holed just lumpy surfaced, which added to the fun. By the time I reached Seville all the hassles seemed worthwhile.

Next day I rode the roads again but my enjoyment was marred by an incident in one of the villages. Coming up to a crossing followed by a red light there was a family waiting. I decided to be polite by pulling up before the crossing, but when I braked the front wheel locked up. I didn’t come off but scattered the family off the crossing and went straight over the deserted junction. I went back to where I'd skidded but there was no obvious sign of oil or diesel. The surface must've had less grip than I'd assumed.

In the evening there was a real procession. Rows and rows of people in pointy hats carrying candies. Enormous gilded floats with Jesus or Mary on them. This was what I'd come to see. Pretty grand, but once you've seen two virgins you've seen them all. By the time I'd seen three of each I was ready to leave because the whole thing goes very slowly. Then the procession twitched like a writhing snake and a group came straight towards me. I could see people's eyes under their hoods - they were supposed to be doing penance for their sins and I couldn't help but wonder what dark secrets lay behind those masks. They all looked guilty as hell to me.

After food and a nightclub, it was time to ride back to the beach. The night was cool, there wasn't any traffic and I was gonna blitz those roads to hell... actually I was exhausted and my reactions were crap at that time in the morning. I was only doing about 70mph when the engine went Brrrrrupupuppph. I tried to work out whether or not to pull in the clutch, or whether braking would cause an accident, or whether I could save further damage to the engine. But I was too tired.

I coasted to a halt in the absolute silence that only comes after a seizure. Seizures on this bike had never been that much of a problem before. It had a history of them but had never left me stranded. Twice I'd carried on with just the remaining cylinder, without even stopping. The other two times I'd stopped to let it cool down and then carried on as normal. The last time it'd seized I hadn't even bothered to rebuild it. It'd sounded like a diesel for about 500 miles as the rings wore the melted piston off the bore, then it'd gone as before for several thousand miles.

Until now, that is. I let it cool down and tried to kick it over. The engine moved slightly then seized solid. I wasn’t going to make it home this time. I pushed the bike towards some lights which turned out to be a factory. After a lot of shouting at the guard (my Spanish was minimal) I was allowed to telephone the breakdown people. The breakdown people were in France but spoke English. It took two hours to unravel Spain’s international codes and derive a phone number on which they could phone me. Further fun was had trying to work out where I was, the middle of fucking nowhere not being much help.

Morning came, and so did the breakdown truck. Naturally, it was a car transporter and there was no way to carry a bike. After much chin scratching and gabbling, they leaned the bike against the cab and started securing it with chains. I wanted to say that the fairing wasn't really strong enough to do this but I didn’t know any of the words.

When the fairing started to crack, I pushed them off and removed it myself. The chosen method of fastening the bike was to put a steel hawser from the winch over the fuel tank and attach it to the side stand on the other side. Attached to the bed of the truck this would've been OK. Attached to the side stand it was going to flip the bike over. I could see this clearly but couldn't explain. I sat in the cab as we went back to Seville, watching my bike slowly slipping down until it was almost lying on its side with all the oil leaking out - I didn't care.

It was decided the Yam would be trailered back to Santander, which meant the end of my holiday as I'd have to accompany it. I was pissed off, ended up in a bar. When I went back to the garage they had changed their minds as no-one would work on the Easter weekend. They would pay for me to make my own way to Santander and send the bike back later. I took the train to Madrid and the day after took the coach to Santander, cheaper than paying petrol for the RD. Back in the UK a car hire was provided. I later found that the clutch problem was due to grooves in the clutch drum rather than plates or springs.

Rather traumatic but I still think that powervalve Yamahas are the business, even if all the bikers on the ferry laughed at my tale of woe. I should've fixed the top end before the trip (or at least taken the bits with me) but that’s just the way I am. Breakdown recovery is a pretty good idea under these circumstances.

M. Welbank

Learnin': Honda H100

In 1978 someone stole my Raleigh Wisp after a Motorhead concert. It was a sweet little moped, could do 25mph downhill with the wind behind it and was always burned off by bicycles. I bought it for £30 from a friend of my father and rode it in a billowing blue waterproof and white helmet, looking like a New Age Mary Poppins. It was my small passport to independence and its loss consigned me to the patient ranks of working women in bus queues. I swapped my boots and helmet for high heels, Dannimac and umbrella. I put such childish things behind me.

In 1993 the worm was beginning to turn. At 38 I had a respectable husband, a responsible job and was accustomed to stepping from the passenger seat of a reliable small car. Some demon of delayed adolescence, aided and abetted by a new friend, who'd been a biker man and boy, found its way into my head. Why should I be driven everywhere? What sort of person was I if I was totally dependent on other people to take me from place to place? Wouldn't it be nice to have a bike again!

| saw her in a pot-holed yard: KOT8Y, to be known as Katy - a small black Honda with red speed stripes [last seen in 1999 - 2021 Ed.] turning her bars pathetically towards me, and showing some dimples in her number plate. Husband and friend negotiated laconically with the dealer. I had the sense to realise that I was totally at sea in a man’s world. If I wanted the bike at a good price I had better swallow my feminism, shut up and play the bored bimbo. We got the bike at a very good price. In fact, we came away with two bikes. My husband treated himself to an ex-despatch Maggot, and with silly grins on our faces we set off to buy leathers. You can't walk in black leather, you can only strut. It felt good. Very good!

Things had changed a lot since I wobbled out on to the open road on the Wisp. That was in the good old days before CBT, when men were men, women were women, and squashed learner bikers in the hedgerow were just kids having fun. I was appalled at the number of skills I needed before I could even take Katy out, and scared to death at the amount of power she seemed to have at even the smallest turn of the throttle. I had to take this mean machine through figures of eight, around U-bends, and in and out of lines of bollards.

The bollard exercise intrigued me - I mean when exactly would one use this strange skill? Is it even legal on the open road? Is this why one sees cone hotline numbers advertised at major roadworks, so that aficionados can leave messages for each other on their prowess? “Hey guys, Mitch managed to slalom fifty of the bastards before the police caught him...” Was this some obscure national sport of which I'd hitherto been unaware?

Also I had forgotten how to balance. I could turn the bike right with no problems but left was another country, separated by a glass wall - leaning even a fraction was a pure nightmare. I take my helmet off to the hard working and dedicated instructors at the East Dorset Motorcycle Training Scheme. It took me two attempts to get through the CBT, approximately nine months to complete a six session training course, and three attempts to pass my test. At times their faces wore the bright, desperate smiles of nursery school teachers who are hanging on to the ragged fringes of sanity by a thread and have just thought of a new place to insert the Lego bricks...

I discovered that Katy was a bit of a whippet around town - fast, devoted, reasonably reliable and endlessly forgiving of my inexpert gear crunching and unscheduled braking. She only dumped me once and that was hardly her fault as I'd been rammed up the backside by a blind Metro trying to drive over me on to a roundabout. Like me, she took a lot of warming up on cold mornings. I became adept at the one-legged Morris dance necessary to kick some guts into a cold two-stroke. I’m sure this is a contributing factor to my sciatica problems, but don’t dare admit it to the doctor who would think I was barking mad. She was abstemious in her drinking habits - £5 worth of petrol would easily see me through a fortnight, and the oil tank always seemed half full.

At thirty she purred, at forty she growled and at fifty she sang in a high rusty soprano. I hope I can do the same when my turn comes. The only thing that let her down was the electrics. Having a 6V system’s practically worse than useless. I had to hope that the traffic behind me was either clairvoyant or gifted with the eyesight of a hawk to make out the feeble indicators. Thank God the brake light worked, and I had mastered the art of hand signals. Not all the signals I used were actively recommended in the Highway Code, but, hell, it's dog eat dog out there and with shades and helmet no-one could recognise me.

| would undergo a complete metamorphosis every evening in the ladies’ loo at the office. Off came the smart clothes, on went the leathers and boots. The persona of the caring, responsible welfare advisor who mopped tears and sorted out problems for a living was unceremoniously dumped in a rucksack with the remnants of my lunch. On went the shades and the grin. I could ride past my colleagues in the car park without being acknowledged. In fact, there would be a distinct drawing aside of skirts as I went past. What’s the strange link between black leather and thuggery in the minds of the public? I was becoming a middle-aged tearaway in training for senile delinquency.

A brief word about women and motorcycles. Why are there so few of us? Why do petrol station attendants always assume we're male until we take our helmets off. What's the point of calling me a dickhead? Yes, I do understand the gesture, having returned it while simultaneously cornering and changing gear! A proud moment! How come only lorry drivers can tell the sex of a biker at fifty paces? Do they have X-ray vision or just an extraordinarily hopeful libido? Why can’t I get leather jeans that fit both my hips and waist? That's enough feminism for now. Suffice to say that although it’s fun to drift along as a pillion, nothing beats the feeling of absolute control when you're upfront in charge of the business end of the machine.

Absolute control and Katy didn’t always go together. I mentioned that it took me three times to pass my test. I can’t blame Katy for all the faults - she was carrying a very nervous rider - but I do feel it was a bit mean for the brakes to pack up just as I was attempting the emergency stop - I've seen better slaloms but not many!

Also, she took some coaxing on dual carriageways. It's all very well showing off in heavy traffic by overtaking lines of cars at a steady thirty, but I would’ve appreciated more acceleration in the higher gears. Even a gentle hill would have her grumbling in fourth and snarling angrily when I changed down. She also had a wicked habit of slipping back to neutral from second gear, and doing her best to stand still while screaming abuse at me. This caused a fair bit of white-knuckle roundabout work and didn’t do much for biker-motorist relations. The gears generally were like stirring treacle. I soon gave up trying to figure out which one I was in, and simply listened to the engine instead.

The day of my third and final test she pulled her meanest trick of all. With half an hour to go, all four indicators steadfastly refused to work. I knew how to change the spark plug. I knew how to check the tyres, check the chain, charge the battery, change the oil... I even knew the difference between a camshaft and a crankshaft but electrics were my weak point, which comes from being married to an electrical engineer.

One takes certain things for granted. With the help of a biker friend I did the only possible thing, took the indicators off. I suppose it’s a bit like threatening a stallion with the gelding irons! Katy then behaved perfectly, perhaps wondering what else I would hack off if it failed again. I'd taken a large screwdriver with me. If I passed it was to remove the L-plates. If I failed I was going to commit murder followed by Hari-kiri. Perhaps the examiner saw the glint in my eye. All I know is it felt pretty good to be dancing on those L-plates.

I'm trying to sell Katy now to a young friend of mine. He’s only 22 and has the recklessness to give the bike the workout it deserves. Me? I’ve got another bike. A real one, a Yamaha XS400 with a low slung seat and a full throated meaty roar from her gorgeous twin cylinders. She’s big, she’s heavy, she won't take any crap from anyone or anything. We're still circling round each other, the bitch and I. Like female mud wrestlers sizing up each other. She has the looks and the brawn. I only hope I prove to have the brain to rise to the challenge - it's going to be an interesting,relationship.

E. Andreoli

Honda GB500

Now, I know what I like. I was walking past a North London dealer’s when I spied the immaculate Honda GB500. My heart sank, bound to be more than I could afford. 1988, a mere 6700 miles, immaculate, a grey import from dear old Japan where such devices were mere pose tools for weekend riders. How much for hard cash, enquired I. £1250. It looked so good that I thought he was going to demand two thou.

The next morning I was there with the cash in my hand. The bike’s full name was GB500 Tourist Trophy, basically an XBR500 engine and frame with some retro cycle parts added. Apart from the large single disc brake it could pass itself off as a sixties British motorcycle. Why on earth we got the XBR instead of the GB is beyond comprehension. There’s also a similar 400 version, and a 250 that uses the old DOHC CBX250 engine.

The ride and riding position’s also sixties inspired with taut, almost harsh, suspension and low bars that encourage a natural stance, redolent of a Norton 650SS I once had the pleasure of owning - it wasn’t that much of a pleasure, actually, because the engine had seen too many rebuilds, providing many a momentous roadside episode.

Anyone who's ever ridden an old Norton twin won't find anything to complain about with regards to the Honda’s big thumper vibes. There is, naturally, a balancer, which provides surprising smoothness between 2500 and 5500rpm. Thereafter, the vibes churn in but never come close to the teeth destroying chaos of, say, a BSA B44 (a machine so nasty, when a little worn, that it ultimately becomes both heart breaking and soul destroying - believe me, I’ve been there). The Honda tops out at about eight grand, by then the power’s falling off fast and the vibes are buzzing the bars and pegs. The exhaust wasn't loud but the valve gear sounded frantic. Much better to change up at around 6000 when in a hurry or 4000 revs when relaxed, but by no means slow, plodding’s on the agenda.

Top gear in the five speed box was very tall, giving relaxed 75 to 80mph cruising but a lack of acceleration thereafter. At 75mph very little throttle was needed, but rolling it open merely added 5mph to the speedo and deepened the exhaust note, a rather pleasant resonance that singularly failed to send dogs into a frenzy. Having had one mutt commit suicide under the front wheel of my CB750 four I was pleased with that - the poor old CB had rolled down the road, destroying most of its chassis. I survived long enough to get into a fight with the owner of the dead dog! We had both had the love of our lives destroyed!

The gearbox was good, the power flow linear, a certain amount of madness on the throttle and gear change encouraged the GB up to 90mph. After that it was like hitting a brick wall, only a very long downhill section getting the ton on the clock. The riding position was fine for combating such a wind blast and stability was inspiring.

The dynamics of the engine, though, peak at 75mph in top when torque and power combine to give maximum efficiency. At 75mph it'd turn in about 55mpg, at 80mph it was down to 45mpg and at 90mph had gone completely west at 35mpg. Ridden mildly 60mpg was possible but 50mpg seemed much more common in my experience. To my mind, freeing up the exhaust and air intake would liberate the motor from the horrors of restrictive noise and emission laws but for my kind of riding the bike’s perfectly adequate.

The GB, being compact and light (350Ibs), looks tiny next to most Jap fours. This feeds through to the road, the Honda being steered with minor inputs and muscular effort. Large bumps or pot-holes threatened to snap off my wrists and break my spine, but the GB held its line, although it would occasionally twitch as if in protest at council neglect and incompetence. My path was often defined by avoiding the larger holes and I was once pulled over by a cop who complained that I was snaking all over the shop like I had a blown tyre.

The brakes were a strange mix. The rear drum was brilliant, powerful and sensitive at the same time, so good it made me wonder why anyone ever went to the trouble of fitting rear discs. The front disc was much more seventies inspired than eighties, with a lack of feel, dubious wet weather action and emitted strange noises in an entirely random manner. The loud squeal made ancient peds jump out of their shoes! As the miles rolled up, the front disc became less and less inspiring.

Like the XBR, the disc goes thin, warps and tries to destroy itself. The thought of the disc exploding into a trillion bits of shrapnel had me using the engine braking and back brake unless circumstances turned desperate. I found a better disc in the breakers after a month of increasing paranoia and after fitting this was relieved to find that braking was much improved. The pads and shoes didn’t seem to wear at all, a reflection of my smooth, conservative riding style.

The one area where the reality of riding a big thumper impinged was the drive chain. A new chain and sprocket kit lasted only 4500 miles, needed constant care and attention, and my attempt at running beyond this mileage just ruined the smoothness of the gear change. Considering that I’ve never done a wheelie or spun the back wheel in my entire life, this only goes to show how destructive are single cylinder pulses. The swinging arm mount’s right next to the engine, although the swinging arm’s rather long and the engine sprocket small - old British singles used 19 to 21 tooth engine sprockets, the bigger the sprocket the less stress on the chain, something the Japs have never managed to recognize. Even the B44, with a very cheap Reynolds chain, would do more than 4500 miles.

In the overall GB experience the chain and disc problems were minor irritants. Rather more disconcerting was when the 15000 mile mark was crossed. The dreaded camchain rattle. XBR engines are supposed to be good for 40000 miles before needing serious attention, so this was a great disappointment. After a shouting match with the dealer over his proposed charges I decided to take a look myself. Turned out to be a sticking tensioner rather than a knackered camchain. I was relieved to hear the gentle rustle of the motor once I'd freed it.

I never used the kickstart to fire up the motor, having had more than enough of this primitive procedure on past British bikes. Once you've been launched through the air, strained your ankle and split open your shin, the joys of being a real man begin to fade. The electric start shocked the engine into life on the kind of nasty winter morning that freezes the air in your lungs. The engine would occasionally stall whilst ticking over at junctions, for no discernible reason, but came to life at the briefest caress of the starter button.

Rather more worrying, in an English winter, was the finish. The paint was OK except on the frame where it peeled off. The alloy was crap, going off in the most minor of rainstorms. It kept Solvol shareholders happy. Corrosion afflicted the wheels, especially the spokes which threatened to rust through - I would guess that a 30000 miler would need the wheels rebuilt. I always parked the bike in the house and polished it daily!

Although the vibes didn’t really affect the rider, the indicators would twirl around and even the front light would end up illuminating the mudguard - not amusing when running along in the dark at 70mph. The front light was adequate for the performance, but I always had to carry a couple of rear bulbs as they liked to blow.

The GB500 ain’t perfect, then. Neither is it fast, although the speed’s adequate for most of the time. I’ve now got the mileage up to nearly 20000 miles and ride the bike as if it was a second skin. For my mild needs the GB’s perfect, all the pleasures of a British single with few of the usual hassles.

J. Wilding

MZ ETZ251

As the wall had not yet come down it was a genuine MZ ETZ251 I bought in July 1989. Having too many interests, it meant that I could not go mad when buying a motorcycle. Also, I objected to paying over the odds for insurance, road tax, etc. Especially as the MZ is suitable for commuting, weekend riding and touring. This I know because it was my third MZ.

My introduction to the marque was a TS150. Not a bad little bike, especially as it took two of us on a grand tour of Europe. A TS250 followed, which also managed the European tour. I managed to skip the ETZ250 and bought the new 251 just as they came on to the market. The big differences between it and the TS250 were the disc brake and oil pump. Performance was the same.

One reason for buying new is that I have visions of buying a bike owned by someone who treats a motorcycle much as | do. To me, a bike is for getting around on, not as the pride and joy with only tender loving care in mind. Naturally, the bike has the necessary servicing and repairs, but not much else. When I bought the bike new my concerns did not stretch to the dealer, they had sold MZs for years and it was the second bike that I bought from them.

MZs being a bit old in design, need careful running in. So the tightness of a new bike was as expected. Because purchase took place at the end of the holidays it was not used a great deal. Over the winter the runs were all local. Even so, it seemed at times to be a bit tight, but then MZs always feel and sound a bit funny. In all other respects the bike was running well.

Come Easter, which was early in 1990, I set off for a weekend camp at Hay-on-Wye. I was toddling along nicely on a cold damp morning. In retrospect the engine didn't seem too happy, but then it was an MZ. It was a straight, long hill. I was doing about fifty after overtaking a van. Next thing, I was wrestling with the heap and ended up sliding down the road. Fortunately, I suffered only a bruised toe and elbow. One of the MZ plastic panniers had broken off, the screen was smashed and the peg slightly bent. Otherwise, it was OK. I picked myself up, the van driver stopped but went on his way when I assured him that all was OK. The screen went into the ditch, the pannier held in place with a strap. I returned home.

As it was still under guarantee I took it back to the dealer. Obviously, it had seized, so required a cylinder re-bore and a new piston. These were all sorted and I duly got the bike back. It didn’t seem much different, but I put this down to the new piston. A little later I was on my way to another camping weekend when the bike seized again. This time I was ready and avoided falling off. For the rest of the weekend I took things easy.

Anyhow, I decided to mug up on the causes of seizure in two strokes - overheating caused by mistiming seemed to be the probable cause. Now, I had never bothered with timing on previous MZs, so it was with some trepidation that the dial test indicator was inserted and a bulb connected across the points. After three attempts I knew I was doing it correctly. Still, the timing was miles out. 2.5mm BTDC’s the setting, but the actual reading was around 10mm BTDC. Naturally, I suspected a dodgy set of points.

Well, I set the timing spot on. When I started the bike the transformation was obvious - the damn thing had never been set from new. If nothing else, it shows the sort of abuse that MZs can withstand. It also taught me a great deal about a certain type of dealer. Now the bike ran fine, felt fine and - surprise, surprise - ticked over. Besides replacing the points once, and setting them very occasionally, it wasn’t touched for 20000 miles. Once resolved, no more major problems occurred. Minor ones, of course, happened, usually occurring at the worst of times.

One summer a member of the MZ Riders' Club organised a tour around Scotland. Basically a series of pre-booked sites that we rode between, singly and in groups however one wanted to go. It was around 300 miles from home, the start, which naturally was done over the back roads. Skirting Edinburgh was the only occasion I had to deal with heavy main roads. The tour went well until the top of Scotland. Durness is the nearest village to Cape Wrath, one of our stops. A bar near to the site meant it'd been a good evening, so I was a bit late off the next morning. I had just left the site when it happened, the chain broke.

When the chain breaks on an MZ it usually takes the plastic chain case with it. And it did. Luckily, there was one rider left who'd experienced the same thing a few years before and always had a spare chain. Fitting it was fun but fairly easy. Obviously, with the extra load I was carrying the chain had snapped. Later I bought a new chain for the guy, plus another one and chain guard for myself.

It was the following year when touring the West Country that the next occasion for concern arose. Suddenly, the bike wouldn't go. Then it would start, run a few hundred yards and then stop again. Typically, it was drizzling. Everything checked out, even the plug sparked. I couldn't work it out so put in the spare plug - that solved it, the old one was breaking down in the combustion chamber. Later in the year, again two-up, on a damp day the same thing happened. Carrying a spare plug’s essential with an MZ.

Really, that is it as far as problems were concerned. A two-up holiday trip to Ireland was uneventful as far as the bike was concerned. For anyone interested, forget what you might think about Ireland. Southern Ireland is a great place for bikers who want to tour, but not speed. Campsites are fine and the cafes in every town must be the best in Europe - yes, they are that good.

Now, as the fifth birthday comes up, 20000 miles have appeared on the dial. In reality, nearer 21000 miles. It might not be a lot by some standards, but as I live near work, commuting mileage was low. At the end of last year we moved out into the sticks, the eight mile commute becoming a fifty mile trek. A couple of rides in the winter confirmed my decision to let the train take the strain. With a new house needing sorting, a few weekend rides kept the bike in running order. It always started - choke on, two kicks and off the motor would go. Even after three or four weeks of inactivity.

With the arrival of spring, and more importantly the end of icy roads, I decided to use the bike for work. From where I now live, it’s possible to travel halfway into the city via country lanes. These are much more enjoyable than the main road route. Riding down the white-line, passing static and slow moving cagers, becomes rather boring after a time, especially when it has to be all the way.

For the last few weeks the mileage has built up. There was a small problem with the kickstart slipping. Only resolved by replacing the whole mechanism with one out of a scrapped bike. Why it slipped was not obvious, the whole unit looked the same as the replacement. During this exercise I suspect I managed to break the oil pump. It's attached to the same cover as the kickstart mechanism. When replacing the cover the pump failed to line up with the drive slot, and the whack I gave it to get it on broke the pump casing. Typically, that’s the only Japanese bit on the bike and it could not withstand the usual MZ treatment. The pump still worked. A dose of Araldite had reduced the leak to an acceptable level until a decision was made on the solution - to fit a new pump or convert the bike to pre-mix.

I'd, anyway, decided to buy anew bike. One choice was an MZ 500 but the price was a bit steep. A re-manufactured Honda CB400N was decided upon, which means I can keep the MZ. Being the last of the genuine East German MZs it might actually be worth something. As it is, the fork seal’s just gone and the caliper is sticking. The 251 will need a bit of a rebuild when I get the Honda but I think it’s worth the effort.

David Usher

Speeding: Honda CBR400RR

A grey import, ‘92 CBR400 for £3000, which had already had one UK owner and done 12000 miles. Seemed like a lot of dosh to me but he eventually accepted 2500 notes. 60 horses and 360lbs added up to instant fun. Save that the gear change was typical eighties Honda, with a graunchy, loose feel, but the power flowed in from as little as 2500rpm before going hard between 8500 and 15000 revs. The gearchange worked better under the kind of power that sent the front wheel light.

Despite the bike being set up for Japan, I found that acceleration in top from 70mph was more than adequate for seeing off the vast majority of cagers. For high speed cruising the riding position was much more comfortable than it looked. I could quite happily scream along between 90 and 110mph for an hour or two. The howl out of the exhaust was rather invigorating, especially at 15000 revs in the lower gears!

However, it was a very sensitive bike that required me to relax, almost just using my mind rather than muscle to change directions. As I'd come from a top heavy Superdream that needed a lot of violence to control this was something of a culture shock. Some massive suicidal twitches were experienced until I realised what was going down.

Once used to this, I found the thing could be flicked through corners at an incredible rate. Bends were taken at ever increasing velocities until I seemed horizontal and my mind was turned lightheaded with the vicious flow of blood. It had taken me three days to get into this mode. On day four I was turned over by the cops after transforming my favourite country lanes into the Isle of Man. Doing 125mph down a bumpy single track road hadn't gone down too well, the cop complaining he'd almost driven off the road trying to keep up. They only caught me when I stopped to turn around to repeat the whole experience. I was in tears at the thought of losing my licence and much to my amazement they let me off with a warning!

I did notice a bit of head shaking over the bumpy road surface but it didn’t seem to threaten to build up into a speed wobble. More down to the firm front end than anything else, I think. With brakes that would throw me over the bars if I used three fingers on the lever, firm springing and damping were necessary. So there I was... on a crazy bit of machinery that just cried out to be revved to death but totally paranoid about being pulled over for a second time. Hmmm, holiday time beckoned, rumble down to Germany and do the autobahn blues.

Why can’t we have unrestricted roads over here? Would you believe I was pulled out of a pack of cagers, all of us ticking along at 90Mph, on the way to Dover. I couldn't believe it, swallowing my anger I pleaded with them that I was just going with the traffic and hadn't realised that we were doing 90mph, They were more interested in checking out the bike's details to see if I was a thief, Luckily, I'd actually registered the bike and the tax was still valid. I was let off with another warning. Don't give the cops any lip as they come down real hard. I pretend that I’m about to burst into tears which seems to make their day!

Dover, Ostend, Belgium and finally Germany! I couldn't wait to hit the autobahn. Brilliant, 135mph on the clock, the motor still silky smooth and that fantastic howl out of the exhaust. The riding position let me do five hours of madness without going into a screaming fit. The minimal seat was actually amazingly comfortable with a useful bum-pad to brace myself against. Honda have managed to perfect the ergonomics of the race replica.

Towards the end of the first day in Germany the bike began to weave and wobble above the ton. I slowed down which left me as a traffic hazard until I could turn off. The problem was obvious, a bald pair of Yoko's. They'd had 2-3mm when I set out 1200 miles previously! I found a hotel for the night in Hamburg and spent the morning having a pair of tyres fitted (about £200). Tyre life turned out to be around 3500 miles, although fuel was reasonable at 40 to 45mpg. Hmmm!

This ruined my holiday as I'd planned to do about 10000 miles in three weeks but the cost of three or four sets of tyres would have been ridiculous. I ended up hauling arse along brief stretches of German motorway then holing up in different cities for the night, doing about 3000 miles in total. Still, I had a lot of fun stringing the CBR400 out at maximum speeds.

Back in the UK I decided that not cleaning the number plate would be a useful aid to keeping my licence pristine. Any endorsements would’ve made even third party insurance ridiculous. As the nights drew in I was relieved to find that the front light was very powerful and spent many an interesting evening howling through the countryside. In the dark, I seemed cut off from reality, in a world where the only thing that mattered was the bit of road in front and my mastery of the Honda.

The small mirrors gave a good view behind and I could pick up car lights from way back. As I was riding fast and hard, anything that stayed with me was assumed to be a plod vehicle, causing me to back off pronto. If I'd been doing desperate speeds, I'd run off the road when a curve cut the car off and switch the lights off. One time a cop car shot past in a blaze of glory. I wasn’t sure if he’d seen me so scooted off in the other direction with only the moon for illumination. The great escape proved that paranoia works.

The motor ran best around 10000 revs, where it was very smooth, had a nice power punch in hand and equated to just over 90mph. Ideal for our motorways when the cops were in a reasonable mood. When 18000 miles were on the clock the gear change became really nasty. Slipping out of gear and sometimes locking up solid.

The water-cooled, sixteen valve engine was far too complex for me to work on. I approached one of the grey importers who reckoned he could get the new selectors within ten days and it’d cost about £350 for labour and parts. Two weeks later the bike was ready for collection and I handed over the agreed sum. The box was brilliant... well, it engaged with a minimum of rumbling and didn’t slip out of gear. The dealer had even checked the valves for free (they were OK) and balanced the carbs.

A month after that all the bulbs started blowing and the battery was going flat. Could I fit a CBR600 regulator? Apparently not, the 400 has a very powerful generator that stresses the whole electrical system - considering the rev range it works in this wasn’t surprising. £175 I was quoted for shipping a new one over from Japan but spent fifty quid on a used one from a crashed CBR400. Still extortionate, grey imports are fine until something goes wrong. Luckily, the battery was still usable.

The finish was beginning to go off as 23000 miles were approached. Some hairline cracks in the upper fairing didn't inspire and the wheel's were losing their black finish in favour of white corrosion. The British winter also caused the back caliper to gum up and the sensitive steering combined with the wild brakes didn’t leave me grinning on icy roads. The Superdream was pulled out for December and January, the difference in power and handling left me confused and desperate for a few days.

Brake pads lasted about 6000 miles but by 25000 miles all three calipers needed a strip down and rebuild. The grey importer had the bits in stock but along with new pads, nearly two hundred notes were blown. I could turn my Superdream into an immaculate steed for that. The discs were also looking a touch thin, with some squealing from the front end. God knows what they would cost to replace.

Spring arrived, and I went for many a crazed ride, really enjoying the way the bike performed yet inflicted none of the pains of the typical race replica. 30000 miles came up and there was some banging in the silencer. I could find no obvious holes so it was down to the dealer for a valve and carb job at £100. Apparently, I'd managed to have the valves done just before they were going to burn out due to excessive tightness.

These bikes really should have a perfect flow of power, if they don’t something's on the way out. The gear change and gummed up calipers are two other obvious things to check out but the general standard of build quality is very high, as the 600 was derived from this motor.

Come May the CBR400 was sold privately for £2750. I was depressed for days after, knocking around on the rat Superdream, but the Honda was just too expensive to run and, perhaps, with 33000 miles on the clock, starting to come to the end of its useful life. Something that likes to rev to 15000 ain't going to last 100000 miles. If you can afford the running costs then a low mileage example has to be a blast.

Dean Oldham

Suzuki GS250T

Four years without a bike! The last one an SR500 with a holed piston that was sold for a massive fifty quid. I needed the thrill of taking a 30 mph bend at 60mph, much to the disgust of an irate gardener whose neatly cut hedge I removed and dragged behind for two miles. I required the challenge of roaring along a country lane, late at night, failing to notice the road suddenly turning, then perfectly bisecting a ploughed field at 65mph without falling off. I craved the threat of being thrown off by a stupid cow because it decided to do an illegal U-turn across a main road without looking. Put simply, I missed the fun of riding a motorcycle.

One dry and pleasant evening the seed of hope was cast. I heard the throb of a twin cylinder four stroke engine pull up outside the house. I peeked out of the window, the rider dismounted to reveal a small, clean red Suzuki GS250T, and knocked at my front door. My brother-in-law calling to show off his new toy. I grabbed his keys and helmet before he had a chance to speak. The riding position was comfortable and the handling was reasonably linear. Pulling power and top end were nothing to write about compared with many bikes I'd previously ridden, so I won't.

Despite only being a mild 250, after such a long absence, the grin factor was huge. I returned the bike to its rightful owner. I didn’t want to push my luck, no tax or insurance - bit silly on my part. Before he left the owner promised me first refusal on the Suzi if he decided to sell. I waited patiently for several months. “You can have it for two hundred and eighty pounds.” Less eighty pounds he owed me for an Amstrad computer. He settled for an old disco unit and four monthly payments of £25. The joys of a having a large family and no work. So, I had my wheels, insurance by instalments and robbing the mortgage money for road tax - you must always get your priorities right. I was finally back on the road. Hedge owners and farmers beware.

Being a Japanese custom, the GS looks a little strange until parked next to a Harley when it looks bloody ridiculous. I’d also heard a rumour that GS250T bikes and their riders tend to get lobbed into dykes by Hells Angels. I found this to be untrue, they just point and laugh loudly. I could handle the derision. I was mobile and that’s what counts.

As I mentioned before, the bike handled well, it even managed a top speed of 86mph on a good day. According to the UMG, top whack was eighty, so I was reasonably impressed. Carrying a pillion was another story. If the passenger weighed eight stone or less it was OK. Over the eight stone limit made the bike handle like a GL500 Silver Wing with a flat rear tyre at 80mph. Believe me, I know what I’m taking about. Due to custom bars, the riding position’s extreme sit-up-and-beg. Fine solo, but, two-up, severe backache for both rider and pillion. Oh well, most bikes have some faults.

Suddenly, the bike started to turn heads when I rode it. Had the GS suddenly become a status symbol? No, it had developed a two inch long hole in the Motad silencer. Sounded just like a real motorcycle, although the GS250T transfers on the panels gave the game away. Three hours later the transfers and graphics on the engine covers had been erased. Great fun popping into town, parking in the square and watching the old gits who used to ride Bantams attempting to guess the cubic capacity.

The pretence of a large bike was short-lived, the MOT was fast approaching and the knackered exhaust would fail with a little help from the follicularly challenged rear tyre. Time to rob the mortgage money. Ninety bloody quid for a two into one! I was shocked, the last exhaust I purchased was a universal silencer for £20 brand new. I was not impressed.

Within 24 hours of the bad news I learnt of a GS250 in bits. I bought this and fitted a perfectly legal Motad from out of the pile of parts. A quick trip to the local dealer secured a rear Cheng Shin. Someone told me that Cheng Shin was Japanese for Shitty Grip. Could be true but I’ve yet come off. The bike passed its MOT and I had a shed full of spare parts.

Summer metamorphosed into Autumn and then early winter. A short journey to the in-laws, left the bike outside when it rained and came out to find it refused to start. No kick start so the small battery was soon flat. I was driven home in the car with a dead battery. Trickle charge (high charging rates halves battery life) and two rainy days later I managed to start the bike. Within two days it happened again. Once more the battery went back on charge but to no avail. The battery was dead: I was skint, the bike sat outside the house, catching corrosive rain, sleet and snow over many weeks.

Christmas and New Year had passed, spring was coming closer. Time to fix the bike, sell it whilst there was still six months tax and MOT. I picked up a new Jap battery for sixteen notes. Battery installed, I pressed the button - nothing. I cleaned all the earth points, then came the big black cloud shaped like a Volvo, rain stopped play for a fortnight.

Finally, when the weather broke, using my limited mechanical skills and equipment, I located the problem - the starter motor. Only two screws to remove for access. Unfortunately to take it out the camchain tensioner has to be removed. I hate Japanese bike designers, I bet they never do home maintenance. I replaced the starter with the spare one from the pile of bits, hit the button and she spluttered into life. Not bad for someone who knows little and only had the Haynes manual for help.

Suddenly, the engine powered up to five grand on the tacho. I punched the choke off and she dived to one and a half before next door’s dog pissed himself. The engine shot up to six thou. I hit the kill switch before half the neighbourhood descended on me with pickaxe handles. After a few adjustment and squirting some oil in likely places, she started and ticked over at 1500rpm. Time for a test ride.

Five minutes later I returned. The damn thing was now idling at 4000 revs. I was not a happy chap. Over the next couple of weeks, weather permitting, I tried everything I could think of - new fuel, more adjustments, clean air filter and carb strip and clean; all to no avail. Time to call on the professionals, in this case the best mechanic in the area. After weeks of hair pulling, nightmares and a near nervous breakdown, he solved the problem - a combination of carb settings, two different resistance plug caps (both incorrect) and a crack in the top of the engine. The mechanic looked pained when I told him he'd have any future business and a month later he’d moved out of the area!

Since this little set back I have picked up another GS in boxes for fifty quid. You can never have too many spares. I decided to build one good bike out of all the spares, in the front room of the house. I ended up with a mean looking 250 with a light metallic blue Hammerite frame and a denim clad tank. Unfortunately, the forks and clutch were knackered. I was so impressed with the special, though, I decided to replicate its colour scheme on the roadworthy machine. I used all the decent parts from the second machine that I’d spent all my time cleaning, polishing and painting. Only problem was a dirty mark on the denim clad petrol tank, which turned out to be a petrol leak. I had to revert to the original dark red tank and panels, a contrast against the blue that made me look like a particularly deranged West Ham fan!

Several days later I hit the road with the revised machine. The large custom bars replaced with small standard bars from a GP100. The instruments and idiots stripped out of their stupid plastic surround and remounted. Front headlight brackets replaced with alloy. GS spoked wheels replaced with GSX mags, with a Dunlop trials tyre on the bigger back wheel. The tank and panels were painstakingly covered in rock cuttings from magazines, edged in black and lacquered. The effect quite eyecatching. Then I took it for a 30 mile test ride the grin factor increased dramatically.

Not only does the GS turn heads, she performs as well. The narrower, lower bars helps with feedback from the road as well as letting me get my head down. Less tall gearing, by using the spare bike’s sprockets, has helped throttle response. The icing on the cake came when a Triumph 900 turned up on the country roads near my home. If I'd chested the tank, she’d have hit 95mph, she reached 89mph with me upright. After six miles I was still with him until he turned off!

lan Peter Welch

CZ125: The Good Life

The CZ 125 is a good motorcycle. Pause, to let the hysterical laughter die down. OK, say it another way.
The CZ 125 has a good engine ruined by crap electrics and a good chassis hidden under ugly cycle parts. The latter is just the result of dumb communists not knowing any better. The former is cutting corners to make sense of subsidised prices and probably plain old ignorance as to Western standards.

CZ 125s are amongst the cheapest bikes on the road. Because of the electrical problems it’s even possible to pick up a three or four year old with less than 10000 miles on the clock for a couple of hundred quid. This makes the electrical nastiness a positive point in the bike’s favour if you know what you're doing.

The whole wiring circuit needs to be torn out and all the electrical components replaced with Japanese stuff. I did try a 12V conversion but that just burnt out the generator (the one thing that can't be replaced), so you're stuck with 6V. Direct earth connections to everything helps keep the lights working, although they have a disconcerting habit of flickering at tickover when waiting at junctions. I usually throw the indicators away as they suffer periodic epileptic fits.

Of course, you may enjoy living dangerously. In which case savour live wires coming loose, shorting out the whole electrical system. The combination of a fire and a dead engine will prove endlessly amusing to bored car drivers. I know, it happened to me once and some concerned citizen rushed over to dump the contents of an aerosol fire extinguisher over my genuine army surplus gear, which was worth more than the CZ.

New bikes aren't so bad, although running the rear light's wires under the back guard with no protection from the wheel proves many a moment of amusement for bemused commuters. The latest bikes have been restyled but they went for a flash look rather than a functional one. At £1150 new it’s not a cheap option these days.

Not that there’s any need to buy a new CZ. The name of the game being sensible mods to bring the best out of the beast. Once the electrics are sorted, the timing can be set (quite awkward until you get the hang of it), decent stroker oil added (the cheap stuff oils the plugs and needs 2000 mile de-cokes) and replace the gearbox selectors as they are a weak spot in the motor that'll break when you least expect it.

That leaves the chassis. The forks, fitted with gaiters, are long lasting, reasonably sprung and damped. They are a bit spindly but with a bike that will only do 70mph under extreme abuse they never become too nervous. The rear shocks are OK when new but a couple of years will have them bottoming out. Desperate poverty’s a viable excuse for ignoring the back end’s weaves as it never really goes out of hand. Spend an hour in the breakers finding something that'll fit. For strange reasons I like to run on an inch longer than stock as it makes for quicker steering without threatening to throw the CZ into wobbles.

I'd say that with a little effort the CZ 125 can be made to handle better than most Japanese commuters. The frame and geometry are certainly up to the job. I prefer wide ape-hanger style bars for the extra leverage, the bike always feeling more than its 250lbs.

The drum brakes are something else. The hubs are full width but they are not large. Rapid stopping can be achieved a few times a day with a full right-hand grip you have to pull until it feels like your hand’s about to fall off. A desperate stamp on the rear brake lever helps. That’s in the dry, in the wet lag comes in that’s worthy of a seventies disc. Drums are supposed to be very gentle in the wet but that theory’s ruined by the poor fit of the brake plate to the drum, allowing the ingress of water. Shoes last a long time and it’s possible to learn to look ahead. Possible but not really advisable if part of the daily trudge involves going through Central London.

An MZ front end with Brembo disc can be fitted if you have a spare week and access to a milling machine... the transformation was well worth the effort but required instant dumping of the East European tyres in favour of a set of cheap Conti's. The communist rubber was sliding away every time I touched the brake lever.

Having fixed the chassis that just left me with the cosmetics of the five year old machine to sort. Finish wasn't bad by commuter standards but the shape of the tank, seat and panels caused peds to throw up, kids to chuck bricks and my mates to piss themselves with laughter. Some idiot had hand painted everything in slime green, which helped not one bit, although the factory itself was not above coming out with some awful colour schemes, probably buying up surplus stock left over from the days when British Leyland produced junk like the Morris Marina.

CZ have actually produced some neat tear-drop tanks in the past which went well with a BMW R80 seat. The guards were cut down, some strange bits of tin around the panels were thrown away and the whole lot sprayed gloss black on the theory that anything that didn’t look right would fade into the background. It must've been good, the laughter stopped and I could ring-a-ding-ding through town without causing a sensation.

CZ exhausts are not as long as those fitted to MZs, they stop just short of the rear mudguard rather than acting as a warning to blind car drivers. My theory is that the long exhausts are due to the poor quality of stroker oil in Eastern Europe, meaning the massive doses of pollution have to come out as far away from the rider as possible. The CZ has a primitive if reliable petroil system, which means every time you fill up with petrol oil has to be added. A bottle of lubricant must be carried at all times. Emission laws must eventually outlaw such quaintness, especially if they check emissions at MOT time.

All this might seem a lot of effort but it was done gradually over a few months, the total cost, including that of the CZ, was less than £300. As 18000 miles, and three years, of trouble free riding followed this renovation it was pretty good value by any standards.

The biggest cost by far was fuel, which hovered around 40 to 45mpg. Admittedly I rode hard on the throttle for most of the time, but even my dad, who rides in a way that defines an old codger, couldn't better 50mpg when he borrowed the bike. I played around with the silencer, air box and carb - rather than improving economy I ended up with either a coked up spark plug (replace every 500 miles, by the way) or an exhaust downpipe that glowed red hot in the dark. It's just a crap combustion chamber design!

The back tyre was another expense, lasting a pathetic 5000 to 7000 miles. Outrageous given the 10hp output. The chain and front tyre were much longer lived. I scrounged parts from breakers most of the time. I did a decoke every six months and fitted a new set of points every year, which ensured a first or second kick even in the depths of winter.

I had no qualms about riding through winter. I came off a couple of times on ice and snow, but it was low speed work that damaged neither the CZ, which was basically solidly built, nor myself who was protected by leathers, waterproofs, boots and gloves. My resemblance to the Michelin man was more than passing but in the cold and rain I didn’t give a damn.

The CZ ended its life when the main bearings, gearbox and piston went west. The seized up engine didn’t respond to my desperate grab for the clutch and I was slung off. The CZ hit an ancient brick wall that didn’t collapse. There wasn't £25's worth of bike left! I walked away with a slight limp and a happy grin.

Jay Farr

Yamaha XS500

Rebel, rebel, rebel, I muttered to myself, as I mono-wheeled down the High Street. Cool, cool, cool! I put the front wheel back down in time to stop for the lights. That’s always a good idea. I flipped the visor up and grinned inanely at a group of school girls. They giggled from the groin upwards, which did wild things to my own groin, but didn’t rush forward when I patted the pillion perch. If you don’t try you don’t get anywhere. The lights changed, I took the DOHC vertical twin to 11000 revs, dropped the clutch and jerked on the bars. I'm sure some of those girls must’ve come in their knickers at the sight of the fearsome wheelie. I nearly dropped something myself when the back mudguard scraped along the ground. The whole bike wavered until I killed the throttle.

The XS500 was an unusual iron for this kind of madness but I’d got lucky by coming across the only one owner, low mileage example in the country. The elderly owner was almost in tears after reading the bike’s description in the UMG, twenty years' worth of self delusion shattered in five minutes. One of the other guides is even worse but it’s such crap I would only carry it around in a brown paper bag. The poor old geezer reckoned he’d better not sell if it was about to blow up but I reassured him that there might, just, be a year’s life left in it and forced a hundred notes on him. I could’ve probably got it for fifty but you have to draw the line somewhere, don’t you?

My mates were not impressed with my new steed until I hammered the throttle to the stop and left them standing. The engine might have crap alloy, a complex chain driven balancer system and naff pistons, but until it goes the motor revs divinely and the bike howls up to 110mph in a way that leaves most modern 500s for dead. My mate on a GS500E was besides himself with horror at the way I could burn him off. I told him to take his engine deep into red but he just reckoned all he’d receive for his trouble was loads of vibes, the power non-existent at such revs. He ignored my exhortations to de-gut the silencer and throw the air filter away.

After loitering outside the local school I managed to persuade a young girl on the back (don't get too excited I’m only 17) and I gave her the goods. The ton on the dual carriageway, a 100 yard wheelie, near horizontal in the curves, etc. etc. She hung on as if she was in the throes of a fit and couldn't walk when I stopped for a breather at the top of a mountain. She was all over me, whispering something about the vibes getting to her; an unexpected bonus of XS500 ownership. I celebrated her excitement in the usual way and it became a regular outing, which later expanded to include some other bikers and more girls. The joys of youth.

Handling was good, the suspension taut because it'd been modified, though why the old geezer went to that trouble I don’t know. The only thing it didn’t like was going into corners on the brakes. You might as well have just stayed upright and ridden off the road. The twin discs, fitted with Dunlopads, were fierce in the dry when a manly grip was applied but could be sensitive in the wet with a gentler caress. There was a whiff of sulphur under heavy, emergency braking. The forks would shudder, the tyre scream and | had to hold the tank with a cast iron grip. If there was a girl on the pillion, she became imprinted on my back!

Although I thought the front discs were good, I wasn’t overjoyed when they started making odd noises. I couldn't see anything wrong with them, thought it was maybe the forks that were on the way out, until a mate pointed out a few tiny cracks around the bolts where they were attached to the wheel hub. Finding good XS500 discs in breakers was like looking for a virgin amongst Glasgow's hookers. I placed an ad in MCN, had four phone calls, one of which turned out to be 20 miles away. A mad supersonic journey on the back of a GPz600 left me muttering like an imbecile. The view from the back had left me convinced I was going to die. The discs were OK, mine for a fiver. Did I want a box of engine bits for a tenner? Why not.

I'd poked at the engine a bit, mostly trying to cure clutch slip, probably resulting from my juvenile need to do wheelies, which had become precarious two-up. The bolts holding on the clutch cover were solidly seized in. Large hammer and chisel were applied to the heads. Bruised fingers, bent bolts and broken heads resulted. In the end I managed to pull the cover off with about half the bolts broken off and embedded in the crankcase. Mole grips and an unlikely length of alloy tube persuaded most of them out.

All the stories about rotten Japanese alloy are true on a twenty year old XSS00. What should've been a ten minute job turned into a four day horror story. An M&P heavy-duty clutch kit was fitted along with an Allen bolt set. That was the end of the clutch slip but the lever action was bout twice as heavy, a real pain in town. The gearbox was a bit noisy but false neutrals were very rare. I’ve come across inferior boxes on three year old superbikes.

Whilst poking around the exhaust I managed to put a large hole through the wafer thin metal. Removal of the exhaust system nearly ruined the cylinder head as the bolts wouldn’t come out and the exhaust ended up in about twenty pieces due to the rust spreading like a cancer. A Motad 2-1 meant for an XS400 was persuaded on or a bit of cutting and welding.

A big mistake. The XS has quite finicky carburation, reacted to the exhaust by developing a large, 3000 to 6000rpm, hole in the power delivery. The sudden appearance of power at six grand gave the impression of improved performance but in reality this was a total illusion, top speed down to the ton. I tried a long BMW silencer instead of the Motad can which helped reinstate the top speed and diminished the hole in the power band.

The stock air filter was full of crap, and was viciously attacked with my favourite screwdriver (an old Stanley that never slipped). Now, the power only disappeared between 3500 and 5000 revs. Not brilliant but, it could easily be circumvented by use of the gearbox. I didn’t much like riding below six grand, anyway, as the power, even with the stock exhaust, was in restricted 125 country.

I continued to ride the XS like a YPVS rather than a valuable classic. The bike had bitten back by shedding its front guard, which mangled the front wheel, almost throwing me down the road. The series of lurches were only steadied by fighting the tarmac with both feet. The pillion thought I was just pissing about and didn't realise our closeness to death until she clocked my white face and shaking body.

The petrol tank did a trick common to bikes of this era, rusting through until I ended up with an engine drenched in gas. The resulting fire, as I was freewheeling along, nearly blew my mind, but I ran off the road, jumped off the XS and left the Yamaha to its own devices. The fire died out, but not before burning out all the electrics and leaving my polished alloy coal black. The four mile push home wasn't much fun either.

A late model tank was quickly found for twenty notes. The rest was just hard graft and stealing wires from abandoned autos. The coal finish was left alone, as it at least protected the alloy and looked cool from a hundred yards away. I hadn't had any electrical problems, found the lights and switches okay, and hadn't even had to top up the battery.

Every dog has its day and the XS exacted its revenge for my wanton neglect at a mere 29000 miles. The balancer chain snapped. It's supposed to be adjusted every few thousand miles but one look at the procedure had persuaded me I'd do more damage than good if I mucked around with the thing. When an XS balancer chain explodes, not just breaks, lots of metal goes all around the sump. It’s the quickest way known to man to ruin an engine. It went when I was doing about 60mph and no amount of clutch action saved me from a dose of tarmac.

But I’m still here, even if the XS500's history. The Yam’s a bit of an unpredictable bitch, liable to blow up at any moment and spit the rider off on to the tarmac. A lot of the time, though, it’s a rather excellent motorcycle. I might well buy another if the occasion arose.

Keith Lynch