The KC100 is a learner bike largely ignored for this purpose, the privilege being taken on by its larger, less reliable, 125 water-cooled brothers. However, I greatly enjoyed my time with it and derived great pleasure in watching MTX125s, RG125s and the like toppling over cones at the training school, due to their longer wheelbase, higher centre of gravity and helmsmen who concentrated more on who was looking at them than the actual riding - which may, perhaps, help explain the exorbitant insurance costs for us young ‘uns.
I bought the KC from a dealer for £200 in winter. The ignition timing was faulty - when it accelerated to 45mph it then slowed down. But this was immediately repaired free of charge. When I eventually rode off into the sunset for the first time it was into a particularly snow and slush laden one that at least allowed me to experience fast lane lunacy for the first time, though at an almost suicidal price. The bike screamed up to the dizzy precipice of 70mph but only for a few terrifying seconds to avoid a violent spontaneous combustion deep within the nether regions of the two stroke, disc valve, single cylinder motor.
Structurally, the cycle parts were tough apart from the centre stand which had fallen victim to metal fatigue and as a result, when ridden ferociously around bends and roundabouts, enough sparks were produced to ignite several more cylinders. It also survived several minor tumbles. The first occurred when displaying the bike's wheelie-ing prowess to a mate, who took ages to wrench himself from the ground after tolling around in hysterics watching me extract myself from a bush after the wheelie had gone out of control.
The second crash allowed revenge as the KC ploughed into the back of his Puch Maxi, writing off the entire back end, whilst we were trail riding in the middle of nowhere. The KC suffered a slightly bent indicator.
The mechanical nightmares were restricted to a carb which continually pissed out fuel and refused to idle, plus a rear wheel which was not only prone to locking up but also deflating and puncturing at the least convenient moments. The former was eventually cured by bending the float - the new Kawasaki float and needle being as bad as they claimed the pattern parts were, whilst the rear tyre was only replaced when it exploded. All in all, | got through four inner tubes, most puncturing when I levered the tyre back on the wheel.
Wheel lock-ups occurred especially when in the throes of downhill emergency stops, once when hoofing it down to Salisbury and again when returning from a motocross race - the KC wasn't taking part - which left me embedded on a roadside embankment on the extremely nasty bend near the Rock of Gibraltar pub.
Comfort-wise it was diabolical, unless you happen to be of garden gnome proportions. The footrests were too far forward, the handlebars too high and the seat little more than a hard plank, that hurt like a well placed kick after 40 miles. Appearance-wise it is hideous, even Goldwings look more like a motorcycle. The puny size is a virtue at purchase, when no-one else is interested, whilst the owner is likely to have used it as a cherished, dealer serviced commuter. Mine originated from an old man, with 9000 miles on it. Even I did not thrash it, cruising at 55mph when in retrospect sixty would have been easily attained at the loss of a quiet life and ones hearing.
I replaced the sprockets and chain at 12000 miles, putting on a rear sprocket with two extra teeth, which allowed wheelies around roundabouts when banked over - very hernia inducing. Eventually, I became so sick of its shape and colour that I transformed it into a classic - a vintage BSA look-a-like, or so, I thought. This cheap conversion involved a complete black respray, upturned handlebars and the seat replaced with a bicycle item - which, incidentally, swivelled when making rear observations.
This new look special improved street cred and top speed due to the improved aerodynamics. One of the bike’s greatest moments was when overtaking a mate on a CB100 around a country bend at top speed. We also raced a TS100 on a regular basis until it was crashed by a drunken acquaintance.
Touring was great fun. The chances of reaching the destination often seemed so slim that I felt like a heroic gladiator if I actually arrived. One journey it did not complete was to the bike show at the NEC. I came out with visions of racing at the TT after watching the video, but didn't get far thanks to a flat rear. Some kind soul gave me a kind of puncture repair sealer. This worked for ten miles, deflating on the motorway, forcing me to push it three miles to the nearest garage, 70 miles from home on a Sunday night.
An MZ rider stopped and tried to help but he chugged off after we couldn't work out a way to solve the problem. I kept pushing while swearing at myself for not giving into the RAC vultures as well at my new anti-scratch visor which had grooves in it nearly as deep as those on the rear tyre. Hordes of boy racers screamed past posing as much as their screaming exhausts allowed. At the garage I struggled to remove the rear wheel and gave up when the torn tube came into view.
A large camouflaged chap (hardened long haul despatch rider with huge appetite for tea) who was filling up the six gallon tank of his Z1300, fell victim to my subtle question - where could I find a garage selling inner tubes? He immediately offered to take me home which was great fun, especially when keeled over on wet bends (I assumed 700lbs of hot metal tended to flatten femurs).
On one particular dual carriageway tailback, three unsuspecting kids got the fright of their lives when we rolled past with pilot roaring his head off - hysterical the whole way back. I gave him cake, tea and a bottle of wine for his generosity and sense of humour.
In short, the engine was super tough, the drum brakes useless, handling acceptable, appearance puny (the number plate dwarfing the rest of the bike), whilst the tyres never wore they just perished. After passing the test I sold it for £230 and bought a 45000 mile Honda RS250, which has proved great fun on early morning back lane, helmet-less, burn-ups. But the paranoia of potential arrest takes so much of ones concentration that harsh bends may result in modified hedgerows.
Bruce Jones