Velocette 350 Viper

The Velo was one of those bikes that passed me right by. With none of the immediate charms of the big British twins, its subtle nature was completely ignored by just about every young hoodlum in the UK. The company eventually went the way of most of the British motorcycle industry; the utter failure to match whatever charms the breed could muster with modern technology par for the course.

These days their prices are even more ridiculous than most Brits; few left out and about on the road, most owned by porcine collectors waiting hopefully for the next big rise in prices. After a bit of phoning around old mates trying to relive their youth I came across someone who owned a 1960 350 Velo. He didn’t normally read the UMG, didn’t therefore realise the insanity of his generosity until he’d managed to read through half a dozen issues. By then I'd done 800 miles on the Viper, my only passing moment of guilt to agree to his anonymity. The anger of the owner’s club could be a terrible thing...

The first moment of note came with the starting. Big thumpers notorious for their whims. The Velo came with an automatic advance/retard mechanism, which should have made things a cinch. It took me a while to work out that the vicious kickbacks were a result of this sticking fully open. I limped around looking for a hammer whilst the owner fiddled, chortling away happily to himself. You've got to get the engine way past compression before lunging with the throttle dead. Five or six teeth rattling kicks sufficed - all this on supposedly new ignition components! I was a sweaty mess by then.

Engagement of first gear proved the next hurdle. An eccentric combination of clutch slip, throttle abuse and footwork finally made the gear crunch home. The owner winced as if someone had kicked him between the legs. Someone high on funny fags had fitted the Velo with the world’s tallest first gear and the nastiest clutch action this side of an ancient CZ. That was my excuse for stalling the bastard. Before the owner could pull me off I'd started the beast and roared off at max revs, with clutch abuse that would've been the envy of a TZR rider. The bugger had too much weight over the front wheel and too conservative geometry to do a 100 yard wheelie, but the thudding power had presence if not magnitude until the valves began to bounce at about 50mph. By then I was out of sight of the owner but not hearing, the weirdly shaped silencer, like something out of Star Trek, was as raucous and intrusive as a losing football side.

Initial impressions were of a ride as firm as intimated by its vintage throwback appearance but directional stability superior to a majority of eighties Japs and big drum brakes that tried to pull the forks out of their yokes and twisted the swinging arm in its minimal mountings. The Velo had pared down its metal to a minimum in the chassis, although the hilariously antiquated motor more than made up for that, with some vast structures and enigmatic clutch.

All up mass was around 370lbs and top speed little more than 90mph. 70mpg’s impressive for 1995 but back in the days of yore there were any number of faster bikes that were more economical, even big tuned twins could manage 60mpg. When viewed from the right-hand side the Viper looks quite butch, with its alloy casings, amusingly mounted magneto under the carb (drip, drip... big boom time) and cute fish-tail exhaust. The left-hand side is a terrible mess, with cheap and nasty steel pressings housing the primary and dynamo drives, very little of the butch looks that a long stroke single should emanate.

The engine revved quite well for a thumper, a lot more fluid than a BSA B31 or Norton ES2. If top speed turned out to be a bit derisory in these days of derestricted 125s hitting the ton, cruising speeds of up to 80mph were OK with little of the vibes associated with such excesses. The mudguards gave fine protection through a protracted wet spell that tested the potentially lethal old style Dunlops, but relative slowness of reaction of the big nineteen inch loops saved the plot from skidding off the road. In fact, the Velo felt safer on wet roads than most modern Japs.

Having just ruined a set of Battleaxs in 4000 miles on the Speed Triple it set me to wondering if we aren't all being ripped off. 17 and 16 inch wheels run through tyres at an incredible rate. A trait well know to anyone unfortunate enough to own an Ariel Leader (which had 16 inch wheels). The only reason for these small wheels is to compensate for the hefty masses of most fours, which compound problems with their high centre of gravities. Despite some bikes shedding lots of weight they have remained stuck with small wheels. Old British bikes had low centre of gravities and low mass, got away with slow turning nineteen inch wheels shod with thin tyres of relatively mediocre quality.

The Velo held its line, banked over easily without trauma and if it would slide a little over very greasy and wet road surfaces it could be pulled back with just a twitch of the bum muscles. Over a 100 mile run of favourite roads, invariably infested with pottering cages, my time was hardly down compared to the Speed Triple (which admittedly was barely able to get into its stride). All that on tyres, according to the owner, that last for over 15000 miles. Work out the benefits of progress for yourself!

The Velo was more or less stock but had been rebuilt a couple of times. There was 36000 miles on the clock but as the clock wasn’t original it meant sod all. The owner reckoned on at least 10000 miles with regular 500 mile fettling before something major went wrong and about 30000 miles for a major rebuild. Given the variable quality of modern parts this seems not unreasonable.

Weak points include the Miller dynamo (but the magneto keeps the engine running), the clutch and some of the top end assembly. The crankshaft quite sturdy, being supported by taper rollers and running a roller big-end bearing. The primary drive’s the usual half inch junk chain running in an oil bath that leaves the expected oil slick on enemies’ drives.

These primitive elements never intruded into my consciousness. The power flowed, the gearbox worked after the first crunch of the day (a sort of spiritual awakening for those suffering from hangovers and a cure for curious neighbours who act as if they’ve been shot) and the bike braked and handled much better than expected from any 35 year old machine. After the initial impression of being astride an old hag (something best left to transvestite editors of glossy mags) the Viper proceeded to charm me with its wilful ways.

At one point in my travels, while thudding up the crest of a steep hill, the whole road was blocked off by a bloody great van. With 40mph on the clock it seemed like a good time to say my prayers, but spying a track to the side of the road, I spun the Velo on to the gravel and shaved by the van. The front wheel threw up a spray of gravel, slid a little, but didn't lose it all. After my heart had recovered I was quite impressed with the ease with which it escaped injury without losing its composure. On the Speed Triple I would've been doing over the ton and flying through the air.

I know that bike’s brilliant in almost every way but even for someone not as mean as the Editor paying out for consumables all the time soon becomes a pain. The Velo owner reckons his bike doubles in value every five years, is fun to ride and doesn't cost much to renovate. Sob!

Johnny Malone

Fifty Quid Touch

In the garage lay a 125 Superdream, sitting there for over a year. A kindly lady cager had given the Honda a helpful push, resulting in mainly cosmetic damage but sufficient to get the bike written off.
The insurance coughed up but the bike hadn't been repaired. Basically sound, would even run, it was difficult to start. For fifty quid it was mine, a cheap way back into motorcycling after a 20 year absence, my last mount a Yamaha FS1E. Yes, I was one of those snotty kids who used to take the baffle out and scream everywhere in a dense fog of pollutants. Oh, happy days.

I should say that at this point the idea was a quick tidy up and sell on at a nice profit. This is what I told the wife, anyway. This to a degree was what happened. All the consumables were in good condition, my only purchase a used horn to get the bike through the MOT.

The poor starting was cured by tightening up the Jubilee clips on the rubber inlet manifolds. What I hadn’t bargained on was how much I enjoyed riding the high revving twin. Ten quid’s worth of paint and some new graphics had the bike looking very smart. I only managed to keep the 125 for a month as the wife kept dropping dark hints about my original intent; she wasn't very enthusiastic about my new toy. The bike was advertised and quickly sold to the first punter who turned up.

Bike-less again, weird things began to happen. Books and magazines on bikes became compulsive... for some strange reason I became obsessed with owning a Honda Monkey bike! I could recall seeing them on the road and laughing at them. A quick look through MCN showed them to be about but at silly prices.

I spent several weeks optimistically visiting local showrooms, breakers and scanning adverts in the hope of finding another bargain. The wife had been quite impressed by the easy profit, even admitted to feeling a pang of guilt when it was sold, so when I by chance turned up one in three cardboard boxes for fifty quid, she allowed me to persuade her to let me have it with something like good grace.

This particular example was registered in 1972, powered by Honda's C50 engine... and was a total mess but appeared complete. It was marketed as a fun/commuter bike of minuscule proportions with fold down bars and sealable fuel tank to allow it to be carried in the boot of a cage. I often thought of selling it as the ultimate Goldwing extra; a sort of lifeboat to be slung from the top box. Anyway, having been raised in the era of Meccano, it took a little less than 20 minutes to empty the boxes and have it loosely assembled.

Missing parts consisted of the front brake lever and headstock ball bearings. Disassembled, the frame was rubbed down and resprayed with a couple of spray cans. Bearings bought from the local cycle shop and the whole package rebuilt. Then the problems began, a distinct lack of a spark traced to dead primary coil. A used set for a tenner and the little beast roared into life.

Roared literally as the exhaust had long parted with its baffles and was rotten as a pear. A little work with a brazing torch and exhaust putty subdued the noise to a more acceptable level. Off for the MOT, at an astounding 30mph, my embarrassment hidden behind a full- face helmet. To say that the handling matched the performance is about the greatest praise that could be offered.

Despite having conventional suspension it rattled and bucked over each imperfection, the small wheels tram-lining any flaw in the road. It didn’t so much corner as fall over. On arriving at the local breakers for the MOT, a mixed reception was received. Some laughed, some stood open mouthed but the majority were all over it like a rash. A buyer was quickly found but he wanted a larger engine having owned one before and wanting to recapture his youth. A C70 motor was obtained, which dropped straight in. I did wonder about upgrading the brakes to discs, but was reassured when the performance only increased to a heady 35mph. Quite terrifying! If the worst happened, the bike was so low that you could just stand up and let it roar off riderless into the distance!

Nothing turned up to replace the little beast for a couple of months. Then in September I was told of a Honda 750, model unknown, that the owner no longer used. A quick trip to his house revealed a non-running CB750KZ. He told me that the camchain had snapped then, once replaced, the crankshaft had gone. I was later to find out that these engines are notorious for bottom end problems. It'd been standing for 18 months and he wanted, yes, fifty quid.

It took three men to load the heap into a van. The seized front discs were freed by opening the bleed nipples but without a front brake the bike became downright dangerous. 550Ibs of metal flopping about caused hernias all round. After being attacked by a Volvo on the way home, we then had to contend with rolling the Honda backwards down a plank... on a hill. Undreamt of agonies as the front wheel bounced on to the road from halfway down the plank. Having strained every imaginable muscle, she stood proud but tatty in the garden, where she remained untouched for the next week.

Having regained the use of my body, I put the battery on charge and began a closer inspection of my purchase. The seat was torn, the tank stained by petrol, but the frame was only lightly rusted in a few places - quickly attacked with a wire brush and Hammerite. The chrome was easily reclaimed with Solvol. Although one-piece the chain’s tight spots were worked out with a bit of muscle. The tyres had plenty of meat left. The previous owner had thoughtfully replaced the original exhaust with a Marshall Deeptone which had seen little use. So far so good.

Reconnecting the battery, the ignition and oil lights flashed into life. Mustering my courage, with the killswitch off, I spun the starter. I was rewarded by the engine spinning gently and a dubious knock from the bottom end. I had hoped that the diagnosis was wrong as bottom ends are rare and far exceeded my budget when available.

I pulled off the ignition housing to see if any play was perceptible whilst pulling out a ciggie to calm down my nerves. I bent down to the exposed crank, striking my lighter at the same time. I remember the bang, saw the flash and found myself sitting on the grass laughing maniacally, surrounded by smoke, the stench of singed hair filling the air. The bloody sump was full of oil, alright, but heavily laced with petrol that had seeped through the carbs and down the bores. I didn’t need a shave that day.

Nothing for it but an engine strip. The clock read 24k, the bores, pistons and rings were perfect but there was enough play on number two’s big end to drive a truck through, well almost. The journal was sprayed up with white-metal then machined and a new big-end bearing installed - the old one was fitted back to front, cutting off the oil supply!

After rebuilding and placing in the frame the bugger refused to start despite a new battery. Neat petrol down the bores proved effective and she burst into life with a cacophony that sent cats running and started dogs howling. Alas, the beast was only firing on two cylinders. The ignition module was dead, a used CB900 replacement fitted. She roared into life again, refusing to tickover below 3000rpm and rattling like bolts in a tin pail. With some trepidation I wheeled the bike out for a test ride. The engine jerked, spluttered and refused to go above 5000 revs but it didn’t seize and I was satisfied with that. Running in loosened up the motor, starting became less hit and miss but tickover remained elusive.

The carbs were stripped on numerous occasions and my attempts at balancing them were pitiful. By the time 500 miles were done everything seemed to settle down. Performance was only mediocre... then it dawned on me that it wasn’t running on all four cylinders. Prat! A new plug turned it into a whole different machine. A total transformation was evident the first time I used the throttle in anger. Scared myself stupid.

115mph with more to come! More attention to the cosmetics and a lowered seat - I'd dropped it twice at a standstill as I’m on the short side and the KZ is top heavy. Unfortunately, the wife was on the back one time it fell over - that proved to her that I shouldn't be let loose on such a dangerous device. I’m back in the cage, now!

Sparky

Loose Lines: Budget Biking [Issue 66, April 1996]

It’s still possible to run a motorcycle on loose change without ending up on something horrible like a C50. I know a couple of people who've ridden these around the Continent and survived to tell the tale (usually in the UMG). However, there are far more amusing cycles available for hundreds rather than thousands of pounds; although I have to admit, albeit reluctantly, that I’m involved in a project involving a derivative of the C90 engine.

The last time I slung a leg over a step-thru I ended up in a ditch... well, we were three up, I was a touch drunk and the lights didn't seem to work on a country road so dark I was convinced the end had come. My vast experience and relative sobriety meant it was my tender paws at the controls. I was all for dumping the heap and hobbling home but the owner had other ideas.

A lot of time and energy was wasted getting it out of the ditch. Relegated to the tail end of the pillion, I managed to step off before it careered off the road again. The major problem was then diagnosed, or rather revealed because the owner knew exactly the state to which the hack had degenerated, as shot linkages in the front suspension but even then I wasn’t allowed to put a lighted match in the petrol tank. Spoilsports, some people.

Anyway, that was enough to put me off such devices for a while and decide they didn’t need to be indulged in the cheap biking category. Perhaps their major advantage’s cheap insurance. That particular hurdle (the last thing anyone wants to do is line the pockets of parasitical bastards in grey suits by hundreds if not thousands for insurance) can be overcome by buying something over fifteen years old that qualifies for classic insurance.

There may be some mileage restrictions but that's easily overcome (if you need to ask how you shouldn't be reading the UMG) and the cost is usually under a hundred notes for third party. This is nothing more than a legal necessity, don’t bother claiming, do your own repairs. Otherwise, the rates will start rising up to the absurd levels of standard insurance (by the way, my last ramblings on insurance were described as the rantings of a mad seventeen year old - flattery, dear reader, will get you nowhere).

I can’t condone riding without insurance because I know one thing leads to another (don’t ask me how, though, my licence still bears the scars). No insurance means no tax which means no point doing an MOT... the next thing you know you'll be syphoning off petrol from cars and sticking cagers up for the tyre money.

It only takes one pull from the cops to throw the book at you, when their vast computer links makes the old scam of giving a false name and address more likely to end up with a knee in the balls than sudden freedom; fleeing the country the only option left, which might not, these days of increasing numbers of stupid laws, be such a bad idea...

As it happens, the seventies was a great time for ballsy motorcycles and the minimal insurance rates makes them almost a compulsory buy. OK, a lot of them have been thrashed to death, thrown off the road a few times and ended up rebuilt by rank amateurs. But a surprising number survived that era, either by being rebuilt a few times or stored away at the back of the garage whilst kids and cars beckoned. Reincarnated as serious cycles that can be run with a minimum of hassle and dosh.

This is where the Japanese engineering finesse that saw off the British motorcycle industry helps. It's easy to forget, in these days of righteous retros, what a lot of mechanical misfits the Brit industry turned out and that they failed because, basically, they were unreliable, unpredictable and unable to adapt to modern engineering.

A rebuilt Japanese engine (there are always exceptions, mind) should run for tens of thousands of miles with none of the roadside horrors so tied up with the old British bike experience. In fact, modern additions like electronic ignition and better quality oil (one area where you shouldn't try to save money) mean they often run even more reliably than in the seventies.

Most problems coming when naff pattern parts replace major engine components. Even something as simple as a cheapo camchain can lead to a written off engine in a remarkably short time, especially the types with a split link. Hondas are especially renown for this trick, a standard pitch camchain used in many of the smaller models meaning that the CD’s split-link type can be used on models where the endless type was originally specified. Alas, there’s no easy way of checking components for originality when looking a bike over; it's all down to luck! At best an intimate knowledge of a certain model might turn up an increase in vibes at certain revs, but even then it’s expecting too much for a uniform performance from twenty year old motorcycles.

The chassis is easier to get a handle on, one area where lack of originality is to be applauded. Japanese suspension, brakes and chassis bearings were, back then, generally crap, the sooner they're swapped for something more modern the better. The lights and horn were laughable junk, some of the electrical systems questionable. I say this as someone who spent his youth riding doubtful tackle down dark country lanes until my vision went so bleary that I ended up testing my off-road skills.

There are limitations to acceptable chassis mods. Those into the Easy Rider scene should be referred to the nearest loony bin (if there are any left) and even those devotees of the cafe racer should be viewed with deep suspicion; they're probably desperate to find some money to cure their back problems.

On the other hand, hardly anyone wants to buy dubiously modded tackle so they’re cheap and easily converted back to a more sensible spec. If the engine’s OK and the price is low it’s worth going for. Don’t even be too put off by the Used Guide, there are still many bikes from this era that have been moderately used by mature owners and still have loads of life in them. It does take a little luck and a lot of effort to hunt them down,

From the seventies certain bikes stand out as useful, fast(ish) hacks which have yet to appeal to those obsessed with turning mediocre motorcycles into classics. The British motorcycle scene has long been ruined by people either trying to relive their youth or make a quick buck on bikes they hope will become collectible. Even the recession, or the range of brand new Triumphs, failed to dampen their ardour.

Of Honda’s myriad models the CB200, CB350K4, CB500/4 and CB550 stand out as plausible possibilities, available for under 500 notes and unlikely to turn up any major expenses (that can’t be handled with a visit to the breaker). Most of the decent Suzukis have already risen too high in price, leaving somewhat doubtful devices as the GT185, SP370, GS400 and GS850GT, any of the really good models of that era at reasonable prices being too close to rats to bear scrutiny. Yamaha offer such luminaries as the RD350, XS400, XS500, SR500 and, for the desperate, the XS750. Kawasakis are even rarer but the Z400 and Z500 offer some limited possibilities.

There are loads more potential bikes, not just Japanese, but as the divergence between “classic” and normal insurance increases both demand and prices are likely to rise. Get in there while you can - I, natch, already have!

Bill Fowler

Suzuki GT750

One of the saddest things in the world is being in love with someone who doesn't give a shit. I feel that just about sums up the way the Suzuki GT750 has reacted to my tender ministrations. Despite spending hundreds, maybe even thousands, of pounds on engine and chassis rebuilds the bitch has always reacted as if I've neglected it something rotten and should merely be grateful for being on the same planet.

It all started three years ago when the local hoodlum - there always seems to be one in every borough - decided it was time to sell his ‘76 race spec GT750. For some obscure reason he reckoned I would be the ideal purchaser after I'd commented favourably on the banshee wail out of the three spannies. I demurred, not being in favour of clip-ons halfway down the forks nor even of 2000rpm power bands.

‘Don't worry about that, mate,’ said he. ‘I’ve got all the stock parts in the shed.’ He spoke as he rode, so fast that all the words merged together and a moment's inattention rendered them a stream of babble. His hands shook like he was in the throes of an epileptic fit and his pupils were tiny pin-pricks. ‘Keep ‘er for the weekend, see what you think.’

I dutifully explored the parameters of a race replica with a heavily tuned three cylinder stroker mill and truth to tell was more scared than impressed. Something to do with the effect of shot swinging arm bearings on my 125mph velocity - just as well that the motorway was both wide and deserted.

‘Don't worry about that, mate, you'll soon get used to it. All those seventies Japs were the same,’ he babbled. ‘Look, I want the bike to go to a good home so I'll let you have it for £500 with all the spares thrown in. I’ve got a shed full of stuff back home.’ It was the five hundred quid that got my attention, good GT750s going for around a grand. All it'd take was a bit of spanner wielding to get her back to stock and I'd double my money.

The deal was done, a Transit load of bits delivered and the GT employed for the drag into work. I say drag, as the only way the Suzuki would successfully run was if I was trying to break the standing quarter record. There was no knowing what mileage the 15 year old engine had done, but it was large enough to have worn out the gearbox selectors. Judging by the way the engine flew into the red when a false neutral was hit it was just as well that there were no valves to tangle but I guess piston speeds must've approached warp two.

There were some other malicious traits as well. The twin discs out front may or may not have been stock - I suspect that they were but they were evil and extreme in the wet. I was never sure if they were going to instantly lock up the front wheel or refuse to work altogether. They always juddered because the discs were a little warped but they seemed too thin to risk having machined. This fragile front end was complemented by a rear drum that simply didn't work. Removal of the back wheel revealed this was because there were no shoes in it!

On most bikes there’s a useful bit of engine braking, on the GT it was like slamming into a brick wall. So efficacious that the chain threatened to leap off the sprockets and if maintained for more than a couple of seconds all three spark plugs would oil up to a degree that required a plug swap. Slowing down, then, meant lots of throttle blipping and argy-bargy on the gear change.

Together with vague and sometimes frightening handling, these traits turned me into a nervous wreck after a couple of weeks of impossible spinal contortions. When I started going through the cache of spares I found that anything that wasn’t worn out was rusted through. I had a great big heap of scrap cluttering up my garage and a malevolent cycle sitting in the front garden.

It was shortly after this realisation that a strange and terrifying thing began to happen for no reason I could put a finger on, other than the terrific wail out of the exhaust system and the relief of fitting a proper pair of handlebars (as the clamps hadn’t been removed). Yes, I fell headlong in love with the GT750, the kind of outrageous passion a middle-aged man feels for a teenage girl glowing with the first flush of sexuality.

I was determined, though, to put the bike back into a more useful stock form. This quest was intensified when after two months the pistons started to rattle and the engine almost refused to run at any revs. Being perverted, I wanted to keep the spannies, so the hunt for used barrels and pistons was on - my engine had such very large holes taken out of the ports it was a wonder it’d run for so long. GT750s are getting a bit long in the tooth, these days, but after two weeks of frantic phone calls I had the bits in my hands. I'd also found a lot of cycle parts, spending about three hundred quid in all. A bit excessive but at least the GT would more or less be back to stock.

After a lot of hassle with the carb jets I was once again on the road. The stock engine was a lot more responsive and easy running but lacked the hard edged feel of the earlier effort. I was soon suffering withdrawal symptoms! Consolation came in the form of improved economy (35 compared to 25mpg), being able to get to work without a plug swap and an end to the almost compulsory police chases that were resultant from mono-wheeling down the High Street.

New swinging arm bearings, a pair of Koni shocks and a set of Metzeler tyres were a sufficient shock to the system to transform the wobbles and vagueness into a semblance of civility and predictability, That only left the brakes, the rear end easily sorted with a new pair of shoes and the front rather more expensively cured with a whole GS750 front end, which went on with surprising ease and really did make the bike much nicer.

Having finally got the GT750 into a state where it could be safely introduced to my friends, I was a bit horrified to find clouds of steam billowing out of the radiator. This turned out not to be due to any fault in the cooling system but because the ignition timing had slipped, resulting in an engine that wanted to go molten. The pistons were added to my collection of paperweights and old race engine items bodged in with a new set of rings.

One thing I had noted with the rebuilt motor was an increase in vibes between 4000 and 6000rpm. With the race pistons, which were cut back and made from better alloy, and therefore a lot lighter than stock, the vibes were noticeably diminished. It may just be that the crankshaft was originally balanced to suit these pistons, but I think having markedly less reciprocating mass must make a difference.

There are all kinds of stories about stroker crankshafts wearing out in a big way but one of the few verifiable facts about the GT was that 4000 miles before I bought it the crankshaft had been rebuilt. GT750 cranks are usually good for at least 20000 miles, as long as an eye is kept on the oil level which can do a disappearing act in a remarkably short time when the motor is caned relentlessly. I've got it down to a pint in 50 miles, although twice that is more normal. Yes, the infamous stroker haze of pollutants is present for most of the time.

I wasn’t sure how long my engine bodge was going to last but I needn't have worried because the gearbox went first. As mentioned, it'd always been a bit nasty but this time some teeth spat off the cogs, causing an intense grinding sensation to rumble through the chassis. I was only thankful that the damage was contained within the gearbox itself. It took six months to find used gearbox bits that weren't equally knackered. I took the opportunity to do a full cycle part renovation, which cost about £250.

Back on the road I had a gay old time with all systems go - for three months! Then the engine seized up solid at 80mph, only a desperate snatch at the clutch lever saved me from rolling off the road. The pistons were so solidly welded to the barrels that it took me a week's worth of hammering to free the components. I had a perfect chassis with a ruined engine; rather like a beautiful woman with AIDS!

Still, I didn’t give up and went on a hunt for engine parts that took almost eight months as the seized oil pump had led to comprehensive damage. I still have the GT750 and, at the moment, it runs very nicely. I have something more modern for general use but it does nothing for my heart or soul. The Suzuki, inexplicably, remains at the centre of my life.

Geoff Davis

 

Triumph Tiger 900

There are any number of ways that you can go completely mad. Mine was to buy a six month old, top of the range, Triumph 900 Super 3 Daytona. Absolutely immaculate it was too, with just 2750 miles and not the slightest mark. The engines, even when sporting 115 horses, have a great reputation for strength, so I had no qualms about buying a used one even at £6000. A not inconsiderable bundle of used fifties.

The praises of Triumph’s three cylinder motor are often sung high; confirmed when a cursory tug on the throttle gave the game away - just the muted exhaust note, out of the carbon fibre clad silencers, had me all agog. I played with the throttle like some twelve year old kid might. The rather strange hydraulic clutch failed to intimidate me but I would've like less of an agricultural clunk when first gear was engaged on a cold motor (with the water cooling they do take a while to warm up).

I defy anyone, even race replica addicts, not to be impressed by the way the Triumph takes off. Smouldering the rear tyre, putting the front wheel up around cagers’ earlobes or just taking off fast and controlled, like a heat sinking missile at warp speed. Arms were torn out of sockets, my neck was nearly broken and anyone silly enough to sit on the marginal pillion perch was all but thrown right off the back.

Roll-on acceleration was, if anything, even more impressive because it was a touch easier to control, letting me really get down to the job in hand. The major problem came not from any component on the bike but from our silly speed limits. The Super 3 was so competent it made 75mph feel like 60 and 90mph feel like 70mph! Doing the ton was such a natural thing, just a matter of a mild amount of throttle, that it was almost impossible to run along at lower speeds.

The riding position wasn't as radical as a GSXR but it did push me towards using as much speed as conditions allowed. The relationship between bars and pegs was good, letting me do a couple of hours of high speed cruising without having to start cursing the bike. My wrists were the first to complain, the throttle and clutch turning rather heavy after 200 miles of madness. A quick stop for fuel was all that was needed to sort myself out.

It was only at low speeds that the 465lbs of metal (dry) made itself felt, doing a miraculous disappearing act from 50mph upwards. The Super 3 is a touch lighter than the standard Daytona, to the tune of 11lbs, although it'll probably take areal racer to pick up the differences. Half of that weight loss comes from using Cosworth manufactured crankcases, which are stiffer and yet thinner than stock. They look very nice, too. The rest of the weight loss comes from using carbon-fibre for some minor chassis components. A nice start in the weight reduction program but considering that Honda's four cylinder CBR900 weighs 420lbs there must be another 500lbs in there to lose eventually.

The weight does help the Triumph sit well on the road, completely absent are the twitchy and jittery feel of some race replicas. Tyres are fat Dunlop radials which grip so well that even in the wet I wasn’t frightened to use the throttle. If you want to see some progress in motorcycle design, ride a ZX-10 (my previous bike) alongside a Super 3 in the wet. The former bike is more likely to kill you than arrive safely at your destination. That’s one thing European bikes have going for them, they are tested and developed on the roads where they are used.

Right at the bottom of the rev range the three cylinder engine felt a bit gruff, was quite likely to take a moment to respond when in top gear. The engine preferred working hard on the throttle and smooth gearbox, to lolling along in the taller gears. It really went crazy with more than 6000 revs up, a result of much wilder cams and a higher compression ratio than the stock Trident engine. If you were only going to ride the bike as a poseur then the latter mill would be a better bet, thanks to its amazing low end and midrange punch.

Top speed was over 140mph, but I don’t know by how much as I chickened out by then, wanting to keep both my licence and my sanity (threatened by a dose of paranoia and plain fear from the effect of the velocity). The engine was still pulling strong so at least 150mph, maybe 160mph. The red zone starts at the point of maximum power output, 9500, which I thought rather strange but by keeping the power concentrated below 10000 revs the engine longevity for which these bikes became quickly famed remains intact. I spoke to one Trident owner who'd done 76000 miles with just regular maintenance, although by then there was a bit of clutch and valve rattle, whilst the finish was dull with most fasteners speckled with rust - it had been used through a couple of winters. Fit and finish on the Daytona was certainly better, as good as anything I've seen from Japan or Europe.

It had trouble, though, keeping up with my mate’s CBR600 in the curves. We were both working our six speed gearboxes hard in the series of country road lanes, but even though the Triumph would accelerate better, the Honda could take a more radical line through the curves and needed a lot less effort to twitch from side to side. On the plus side, a series of punishing bumps that hammered through the suspension did little to upset my bike but had the CBR’s wheels all over the place.

At one point I tried to nudge inside the Honda, which tightened its line on me, causing me to twitch upwards and stomp on the front brake in complete panic mode. The bike gave an almighty lurch that almost tore my arms off, twitched once and then serenely continued on the new trajectory, taking us over to the wrong side of the road, much to the horror of a caged moron who braked harshly enough to let me edge by his front bumper. I didn’t stay around long enough to check if he had an heart attack, instead played a symphony on the exhaust, hollering after the disappearing Honda. It was a bit of a disappointment that in the real world I couldn't stomp on the CBR, it was such a well put together package that for ordinary riders it became almost unbeatable. It’s enough to make you cry!

The Triumph had upgraded disc brakes, calipers machined from solid aluminium alloy. These six piston calipers are hot stuff indeed, combining brilliant braking with a very sensitive feel, allowing me to take the front wheel right up to the point where it was about to lock up. Furthermore, that feedback doesn’t do a runner when they are used in anger during emergency stops. Couldn't fault them, the pads about two-thirds worn with 6500 miles on the clock.

The tyres were changed at 4500 miles when there was slightly more than 2mm of tread left, as the bike had become a tad sensitive to road markings in the wet. Well, I could only afford TPF&T insurance, so there was no way I was going to chance coming off due to old rubber. The new tyres took 200 miles before they were scrubbed in and settled down to responding properly. I didn't realise this, took off immediately with a dose of throttle and nearly had the back wheel slide right around. It was such a shock to the system that I nearly dropped a load.

Fuel was always poor even when the motor was used mildly, giving a best of 45mpg and worst of 25mpg. I could average 35mpg for most of the time but doing 40mpg required so much restraint that I might as well have been riding a 250cc twin. I thought maybe the carbs needed a balance but when checked at 4500 miles they turned out to be spot on. The three cylinder motor runs a balancer for smoothness which may not help economy but I think it’s more likely to be because the engine’s optimised for running in the 6000 to 10000rpm range. If I wanted economy I would’ve bought myself a C50!

In yellow and black the Super 3’s a stunning looker that turns more heads than your average Porsche. The engine sounds soul stirring and the acceleration is highly addictive. It’s not really that pleasant at town speeds due to heavy handling, awkward riding position and a slightly reluctant motor but I do use it for the daily commute through London, so it can't be that bad. Most people will find the bargain priced 900 Trident totally adequate, the Super 3's for those willing to spend a bit more dosh on something unique, that at the moment represents the best of British.

Liam O'Connell

 

MZ 150

Motorcycling is a bit like sex. There are lots of ways of doing it and to do it at its most basic level is much better than not doing it all. Sex is supposed to be free but in my experience there's always a heavy price to pay, even if it’s not immediately apparent, and devices like MZ 150s work out as an immensely cheaper form of fun in the long term. Fun, do I hear you scream? MZs fun? Well, I've been told I have a strange and perverse sense of humour.

It was stretched when on the second day of ownership of one of the few remaining pristine, low mileage 150s in the country we ground to a halt miles from nowhere, with only some vicious, probably psychotic, cows for company. The one with the horns looked with longing at the red MZ, I was thankful for the presence of a large ditch between us.

I'd been steaming along at a stimulating 65mph, adding to the ozone level with an intoxicating layer of pollutants and snapping the Iron Curtain hack through a series of bends under the impression that it was really a race replica, I was Barry Sheene (which gives away my age) and the lumbering Metro that had tried to run us off the road was an apparition sent to test my reflexes. In short, dears, I was a little wired and weird, in no fit mind to look into the intricacies of stroker engineering. Let it cool down, a wise voice counselled, which I did and which worked very nicely. Whew!

I presumed that the piston had momentarily seized, a not uncommon peccadillo on strokers. The answer seemed to lay in switching from recycled 20/50 to proper stroker oil; doing that I never had a repeat performance, although it still burnt off great clouds of oil and was cursed by most of my neighbours, not least because its vibratory, agonized screaming tickover would set off both car and burglar alarms. My refusal to take part in any of the community activities had already defined me as an anti-social bugger, ownership of the MZ just confirming their poor opinions of moi. Could I give a shit?

The next trick that the MZ revealed was night riding. The front lamp was so poor that eye strain set in after about five seconds, and blinded by oncoming traffic I had no clear idea where I was riding. At least not until we rode off the road, skidded along some grass and then tried to redefine some farmer's hedgerow. Say what you will about MZs, they are at least tough. I was bruised and bloodied but still able to pull the hack out of the hedge, drag it back on to the road and ride off into the night - at 5mph.

MZ electrics are the one weak spot in the otherwise robust design (well, OK, the drum front brakes aren't brilliant and...) Regular disintegration of electrical components is all too common, fitting Japanese stuff the best remedy, although even then the vibes can have an effect if care in rubber mounting them isn’t taken.

One of the more hilarious moments was the time when the battery split, soaking the chassis in potent acid. A bit of bodging of the wiring allowed the bike to continue running as long as a 3000rpm tick over was considered acceptable (it wasn’t by the general populace who were reduced to coughing fits). Flaking paint, corroded wiring and rotting alloy were the result of the acid spillage.

Finish was generally quite reasonable, a lot better than Japanese commuters and quite susceptible to a good going over with polish and elbow grease. Chrome on the magnificently large silencer did soon start to do a runner and there were patches of rust where the acid had spilt.

Cheap running was ensured by a back yard filled full of dead MZs, a good half of them given to me free, the others ranging in price from a fiver to twenty quid. All it took was a bit of cheek in knocking on doors when a dead MZ was spied in gardens and a willingness to keep writing in adverts to the local Free Advertiser newspaper.

Quite a few of these bikes had been crashed due to retention, I'd guess, of the OE Pneumant tyres, early examples of which were bad enough to reduce MZ owners to gibbering wrecks and to becoming large statistics in the NHS budget. Tyres hardly wear at all on the 150, which makes it a hard task for the owner to tear off Pneumants in favour of Pirellis or Michelins, but the utter transformation of the handling makes this heart breaking process more than worthwhile.

I get at least 20000 miles out of a set of tyres, a similar mileage for the enclosed final drive chain and even longer for the brake shoes. The latter, especially out front, can be a little lacking in stopping power, whilst the front end seizes up under braking making it nigh on impossible to throw the communist tackle around erring cagers. After a while I took to adding notches to the brake lever in celebration of the number of cages I successfully damaged, helped along by the largest set of crash bars in the known universe which dug up huge holes in the tarmac and could take off the side of a car in the twinkle of an eye. What did I tell you? Fun, fun, fun!

The only problem with the MZ in traffic was that it didn’t run very cleanly at low revs, often oiling up the spark plug, which then needed a dose of throttle and swearing, in first gear, to clear up. Cagers actually sounded their horns in alarm at the dense fog of pollutants that resulted, thinking the old corker had caught fire.

They became even more alarmed when I became bored, deciding that the High Street had the ideal ambience for wheelie testing. The ultra conservative steering geometry, that often insisted on going straight across roundabouts rather than leaning into them, made wheelies a rather desperate affair. Rev the engine until it threatened to bounce out of the frame, drop the clutch dead and pull back on the bars viciously. Fitting large ape hangers allowed more than six inches and I actually scraped the number plate once, the MZ ignoring my ‘Whoa, boy’ scream and looping the loop. I ended up with what felt like a broken spine and 250lbs of MZ on my groin.

Despite compulsive throttle abuse the MZ turned in 70 to 80mpg with tiresome regularity. Comfort more or less matched the range after I replaced the stock concrete-like seat with one of those cute King & Queen types, the non-standard bars being a good match for the maximum top speed of 70mph - the MZ was like a boxer BMW in that top speed usually equated to maximum cruising speed.

The gearbox was every bit as nasty as a boxer but needed to be worked much more if there was a pillion, head wind or steep incline. The vibes never bothered me when the bike was thrashed into the red but then I'm used to basic hacks where it’s a good day if there isn’t a catastrophic engine failure. And on the MZ I've had many a good day, doing 18000 miles in two years of fun filled madness.

Regular decokes are the only real maintenance chore as both the cylinder head and silencer become choked up with carbon, turning performance so pathetic I have trouble staying with hard ridden FS1Es. I do a decoke every 1500 miles.

MZ 150s are cheaper than the 125s because of the learner laws (although it’s possible to fit a 125 engine in the bigger bike's frame) A genuinely excellent one might fetch £250 but it’s really not on to pay more than a hundred notes for a runner, and spare bikes are usually free. As I said before, this is fun on a minimal budget.

M.H.W.

Suzuki B120

The mangey old rat still ran. For years it'd been passed from youth to youth as the ideal device on which to pass the test. Despite the new MOT certificate, the mileometer had long ago failed. A hundred quid and it was mine. I’m not some spotty youth and have owned many a large motorcycle, but circumstances had forced me radically down-market.

The youth who'd sold me the bike had proudly told me he’d fitted a new final drive chain. I’d quickly taken the bung out of the full chain case to check, so was a bit perturbed by the gear change and transmission which were full of grinding noises. I lurched home far from happy with my twenty year old purchase. I began to think I should’ve bought an MZ.

The gearbox sprocket had two teeth missing, the others were hooked. The back sprocket looked on the way out as well. I took the old ones down to the breaker and found a set that would fit. They were a different size, ending up with gearing approximately 20% taller but at a quid each I could hardly complain. The lurches disappeared.

The gear change worked the wrong way around and needed a good stamp. First gear was quite tall with the modified gearing and I often didn’t bother changing gear in heavy traffic. Top gear became almost unusable as the bike wouldn't put more than 50mph on the clock in the lower gears. The suspension gave a rather strange ride as it was original fare with shot springing and damping. The frame was a strong hunk of pressed steel which didn’t let the 200lb bike get too far out of line.

The rear mudguard section had begun to rust through but it wasn’t, luckily, part of the heavily stressed frame. The seat was newish, very well made, taking out the worst of the road shocks, leaving me in a quite comfortable sit up and pray riding position. The bike felt tiny, a long way below me but the tall, wide bars made it easy to hustle.

All the controls were very basic but light in action and functional. It was an easy bike to leap on to and ride off into the distance. Slowly! Acceleration was adequate to 40mph but then it was big snooze time, the worn bore and piston reluctant to allow any more power out of the aged engine. I did the timing (fiddly with the points hidden in the magneto) and cleaned the carbon out of the silencer but it made absolutely no difference, 40mph was easy enough, 50mph was the top speed. Take it or leave it.

It was OK for the daily trudge into work, 10 miles each way through an almost constant traffic jam. Going any faster than the B120 could manage would've been dangerous. Because of its age and sorry appearance I could take some quite large risks, not worried about the odd scrap with a car and assured that the two stroke fog that followed us around would obscure the numberplate. Not that it would matter, the last time someone put their name in the logbook was some nine years previously!

After a couple of weeks I soon settled into the gentle, mild life with the B120. Faded blue and rusty, the bike looked so far gone that I never locked it and often left it running outside shops. The only thing that happened was some young infant decided it'd be fun to fully open the throttle, absolutely entranced by the mushroom cloud of pollution and the wailing engine which was vibrating so fiercely that the bike was bouncing on its centre stand.

Like anyone would, I slapped the kid about the head. All hell broke loose. He burst into tears. His parents came out of nowhere, screaming abuse at me and the police were summoned. I was lucky to et off with a caution! The Suzuki didn’t suffer any permanent damage, although it took about twenty kicks to start. The engine continued to turn in near on 100mpg. Nothing seemed to wear, my only worry the back section of the frame and the chrome mudguard rusting rough as the winter set over our great country. Some people hate the cold but I like the changing seasons, never knowing what each day’s going to be like.

There’s no protection on a B120 as standard but had an old perspex windscreen that fitted on the bars with a minimum of hassle and kept the worst of the. weather off my upper body - it’s the kind of huge wedge of plastic that throws even the most stable bike into massive wobbles above 50mph. so the lack of speed was all to the good.

The tyres were Japanese rubbish that didn’t really like wet roads but the slides were never so violent that I felt inclined to change them. The drum brakes were reassuring in the rain but lacked power for modern traffic conditions in the dry. Some of the cage antics were unbelievable, like reversing out of side streets, foot flat on the throttle. I did a speedway type slide, ruining the side of the car but otherwise surviving without any-serious damage. The B120 always seemed to get the better of any accident I was involved in, leaving me impressed with its general toughness.

Over one weekend I knocked the rust out of the back part of the frame, leaving lots of large holes which were filled with steel plate and welded up. The front guard was replaced with a two quid special from the breaker; just in time as it disintegrated as I knocked it off. Whilst doing the back end I noticed that some of the wiring was shedding its insulation. The 6V electrics were marginal and I tried to avoid riding out of town in the dark. The back light flickered at tickover and the front light was safe for about 10mph down country lanes. Once I started fiddling with the wiring I found great swathes of the stuff falling apart in my hands and had a very trying Sunday rewiring the bike. It made absolutely no difference to the efficiency of the lights!

The next problem was a front wheel puncture at about 30mph. This event was announced by a large bang and an even larger wobble. The front tyre bounced into the kerb, spinning the wheel at a right angle, causing me to cartwheel over the bars. Coming down to earth I bounced off the side of a car, rolled into the gutter and then had the Suzuki come crashing down on top of me, taking a hot exhaust in the marital tackle. Scream? Not half, mate!

The peds were in hysterics at the sight of me hopping around clutching my burnt groin, making strange desperate noises.Luckily, the damage was only temporary and after an hour or so the pain began to fade away. The Suzuki, puncture apart, was undamaged, the failure caused by the old inner-tube perishing away. I put a new tube in the back as well, as it wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat.

Such adventures could have put me right off the old commuter but the way it kept running and running, costing next to nothing and getting me to work just as quick as my old 550 had managed, continued to impress, nay, amaze!

The two stroke engine, with its separate oil supply, didn’t even have to be decoked, and once I set up the points, in 14000 miles of further abuse, I never had to touch them again - the thing was as slow as ever but never became any slower. The bike’s one step up from a C90 and for town work more than adequate. I’ve owned much better motorcycles, and hopefully will again, but for a while longer the B120 will keep me on the road.

Garreth Evans

Yamaha FJ1200

I ran the FJ at the too small gap between the cars. I figured I was completely within my rights as one of the oncoming cages was overtaking on my side of the road. There wasn't any room to run off the road on either side. I held the bars firm, revved hard in third, determined, if necessary, to go out in a blaze of glory and excess of speed.

The curvaceous front end of the FJ1200 must’ve been quite impressive, bearing down on the drivers at warp speed, heading for a gap that would take the front wheel but tear the sides off either the fairing or the cars. I notched the intimidation stakes upwards by hitting the air-horns which played a fearsome rhythm at sufficient decibels to set off car alarms and blow up hearing aids.

A few yards away I added my screams to the chaos, a miraculous parting of the cages occurring but not before both mirrors were torn out of the fairing. They went with a bang that made me think death was about to descend but the impressive stability of the FJ1200 remained intact, complemented by the kind of steering accuracy usually found on the race track.

Another time I was equally impressed by the bike’s ability to be stretched to the limit. Cresting a hill at 125mph we took off through the air like an Exocet missile that had been programmed wrongly. The art, when coming back to the ground, is to come down on the back wheel first. Somehow the bike went way out of line and crashed down on the front end. Whilst airborne my mind had thrown itself into a panic which resulted in an iron grip on the wide open throttle, the back wheel screaming around at about a million revs with the inertia and momentum of an out of control water-mill.

The noise, vibes and sense of impending doom were rather like taking a cheap long haul flight on an Iron Curtain aeroplane that suddenly loses a couple of engines. When the front end slapped down with almost enough force to snap off my arms I thought I was a goner, ready for a somersault straight into hell, but somehow the forks bounced back into control and the extreme wobble started to die out. Then the back wheel, still spinning furiously, whacked on to the tarmac, a series of yard wide flipping and flopping threatened to pull the swinging arm right out of the frame whilst the front end joined in with its own permutations.

I just sort of sat there for a while frightened out of my mind, until suddenly realising I could knock on the brakes and knock off the throttle. The chassis was already way out of line and these extra forces did nothing for its composure. I surely thought I was going to die, be thrown right off the bucking brute onto the tarmac at about 80mph but as speed lessened and the chassis had time to sort itself out composure regained the upper hand, allowing me to pull over.

The following car pulled up next to me, the driver absolutely agog, shaking even more than myself and looking at us in awe. To him, the way the Yamaha had tried to tear itself to pieces had convinced him my end was nigh. We looked the machine over for signs of terminal damage but once again the old monster had just shrugged off the effects of my incompetence.

There were, also, more subtle ways that the Yamaha impressed. The time, for instance, I’d spent too long lounging on the Italian coast and it became necessary to do a 1000 miles flat out in less than 12 hours. I'd worked out that the only way to avoid the attention of the cops was to use all 130 horses to pound along at 150mph whenever possible! The French and Italians don’t have access to the Swansea computer so couldn't track me down, although I suppose it's only a matter of time until all European vehicle details are linked up.

Anyway, I did the distance in the time allowed and found the FJ to be impressively comfortable for such excesses - i.e. I could still walk! The big air-cooled engine, as always, remained unperturbed by the nature of the thrashing even if the normal 45mpg economy was replaced by a mere 35mpg. The general stability and natural riding position meant that despite the 500lbs of mass it was an easy bike to come to grips with. I’d previously owned a CBX550 and had no trouble adapting to the big Yamaha, taking a matter of minutes to feel right at home. Even hard bend slinging was easier than the specs would indicate, so well had Yamaha sorted out the steering geometry and weight distribution.

The lovely grunt of the motor meant madness on the gearbox wasn't really necessary which was probably just as well because by the time 25000 miles were done there was a rather loose and imprecise feel to the change, making correct tensioning of the big O-ring chain critical - after 9000 miles it was only useful as an adornment or weapon for motorcycle outlaws. Changing chains is very tedious as the swinging arm has to come out!

Other faults that turned up included rear suspension bearings that wore out at 15000 miles, or two years, although they had never been greased, with the shock losing a lot of damping control a little later. These had a discernible though by no means disastrous effect on the stability, making the Yamaha feel wanton above 80mph. The White Power shock I bought as a replacement (slightly used) proved even better than the original, with the same tautness but the added ability to iron out minor bumps much more effectively. I'd added gaiters to the front forks and never had much of a complaint from that end of the bike.

More serious was the major expense at 30000 miles with the simultaneous demise of the exhaust and electronic igniter unit. The former went when rust seeped through in several different spots at the same time and waving a welding torch at it just resulted in big holes as the paper thin metal dissolved. A four into one system designed for the race track needed major mods from the hammer to retain the stands and fitment of an FZR1000 can before the carbs would work with it. There’s still a bit of a hole at 3000 to 3500rpm but as it only cost thirty quid I can’t complain.

The demise of the igniter unit occurred about ninety miles from home and resulted in a totally dead engine. No way I was going to push the FJ any distance so it was dumped in the drive of an old codger who came out to see what the swearing fit was about. A used one got me all of fifty miles closer to home until it did the same trick. I phoned the breaker up to complain and he, luckily, believed my sob story and agreed to give me another unit. The cause of the failure was two wires which had rubbed off their insulation and would intermittently short out against each other.

FJ brakes are a bit infamous for discs that go thin and calipers that rot but I didn’t have any problems. Pads even lasted for more than 10000 miles. Admittedly, I didn't ride over the worst months of the winter and with the good handling and useful engine braking days could go by during which I didn't have to use the brakes in real anger. They needed a firm hand or foot to get the best out of them, but that was OK with me as I knew how much input they would take before squealing the tyres.

They worked alright in the wet for most of the time, although a bit of mysterious brake lag showed up once or twice a month. I suspected some air getting into the ancient brake fluid that I couldn't bleed because the nipples had snapped off, leaving half the screws inaccessibly corroded into the calipers.

In the wet the fairing gave reasonable protection, the tyres gripped predictably and the great reams of torque came in controllably. I was always aware of how much weight there was waiting to let loose, though, and maintained both a moderate right wrist and velocity. I would not even think about riding the FJ on iced up roads!

I've owned the Yam from new for eight years and done all of 52000 miles with no signs that the motor’s going to fall apart. The overall ruggedness is as impressive as the rock solid stability. It's the kind of bike that engenders total faith in its ability to get you out of terminal situations when the going gets desperate. In short, I can't think of any reason to sell it.

M.R.T.

Suzuki GS750

In February of 1991 I was living in Amsterdam and anxious to get back on two wheels. I had about 3500 Dutch gilders (about £1100), which was not going to purchase me any spectacular hardware. After some shopping around I found the GS750 in a dealer's back yard. A late '77 vintage with nearly 60000km on the clock.
Though no Joan Collins, it did not look half bad for its age. There were a few spots of rust on the racing style handlebars and a large rip in the seat cover. Otherwise, it appeared reasonably healthy.

Apart from the bars, the only other non-standard items were a set of Koni shocks and a N-Eta four into one that emitted a lovely, aggressive growl. I parted with my full allowance and made her mine. The mildly sporty riding position felt good and, to one unaccustomed to big four power, it responded well to the throttle. As the Suzuki had come at a bargain price, the dealer stressed that I was getting it zonder garantie. In other words, if it fell apart half a mile down the road, it was my problem. Live dangerously, I reasoned, trusting the sixth sense that told me nothing could go wrong.

I loved the classic lines of the old Suzuki. There was no plastic covering the fat four cylinder engine, or anything else for that matter. I also found the wire spoke wheels extremely sexy. Yep, this looked like a real bike. And before the cries of old fogey become deafening, I should point out that I am all of 30 years old.

This was my first experience of a big four and performance was more or less up to my expectations. The best speed I saw on the clock was 200km/h, about 120mph. Not bad for such an aged beast. On good straight roads the handling was fine, but in fast bends, the plot shook like a drunk with a hangover. Without actually threatening to send me to the hospital, it quickly taught me to respect its limitations.

Whilst on the subject of speed, I had one sobering experience at the hands of the Dutch police. Blasting along a clear stretch of motorway, on a pleasant summer evening, I fell foul of a speed trap. The speed limit’s 100km/h. I was zapped at 148km/h. In Holland, speed freaks are fined by the km/h. My bill came to the equivalent of £120. Go too far over the top and they can take your wheels away. Permanently. It’s the boot in the bollocks approach to road safety becoming ever more popular throughout the United States of Europe, or whatever they’re calling it this week.

I'd heard tales of these old DOHC engines being unburstable, even when thrashed. There were traces of oil around the head gasket on mine, but no rattles to make me suspect it would give anything other than many miles of trouble free riding.

On the braking side, the twin front discs were more than adequate in the dry. In the rain it was a different story. I came close to grief on several occasions, when trying to stop suddenly and having nothing at all happen for a second or two. Then, the brakes grabbed viciously enough to lock the front wheel. I was lucky to fall off only once, when braking at about 30mph, for a cage that looked like it was about to pull out in front of me. Before I could utter even a small curse, the bike slid away, depositing me on the road. It suffered only a bent indicator and a cracked alternator casing. I grazed a knee and tore a lump out of my right glove. Only my pride suffered serious injury.

The single disc at the rear was worse than useless. Either it didn’t work at all, in any conditions, or it locked the wheel. The disc was badly pitted and the piston seized. Dismantling and cleaning it made little difference. A wiser man would've replaced it, in the interests of life and limb, but I chose to rely almost completely on the front brake, only using the rear pedal to activate the brake light, which did not work with the front. If I believed in some higher power, I would probably be thanking it that I’m still around to write this. The headlamp was another bad joke, scattering its beam every which way but where it was most needed. Not bad for nocturnal bird watching but on unlit roads slow was the only way to go.

Six months of fairly happy biking later, I packed my bags for a three week trip to Ireland. It was the beginning of August, which heralded the monsoon season in the Emerald Isle. The planned tour, consisting of many high speed miles and many more at a civilised pace, through some of the most breathtaking scenery in the land, turned into a miserable slog through heavy drizzle and driving rain. Arriving at our destination wet and pissed off became the norm for my passenger and I.

Instead of looking forward to putting many glorious miles under my wheels, I found myself merely enduring the journey to the next B&B, followed by a hot shower, a change of clothes and a refreshing bellyful of pints. The Suzuki slogged patiently on, pausing only to blow an exhaust gasket, on a Saturday afternoon in Galway. That provided a good enough excuse to go no further that day. We abandoned the bike in a local workshop and ourselves in a welcoming hostelry.

Two up and laden with a tank bag plus saddlebags, the handling was never better than twitchy. The Konis were set on the soft side. Jacking them up fully would probably have improved matters greatly. But I didn’t have the special tool and couldn't find one for neither love nor money. One dealer had informed me, quite seriously, that the only thing to do was buy a new set of shocks. I tried a variety of bodges, none of which worked. In the end, I told myself the handling wasn’t that bad and decided to live with it.

Holiday over, back in windmill land, the ignition switch packed in. No amount of hot-wiring, hammering or cursing could fix it, so | ended up pushing the beast about three miles. In the rain, naturally. Better for my arms than a month of weightlifting, but more damaging to my sanity than a cocktail of dodgy drugs. I was lucky enough to pick up a new switch from a dealer, for the equivalent of £35.

At the end of my first year with the GS, I was still reasonably content. Starting was never a problem, even on the coldest and wettest of mornings, one prod of the button usually sufficient. Fuel consumption in town was on the thirsty side at around 30mpg, but much better on the open road. A rear tyre was good for nearly 3000 miles and I only once had to replace the front. Metzelers were fine. Even with ritual harsh treatment, the chain and sprockets seemed destined to live forever.

The motor was beginning to drink rather a lot of oil, but I only started to worry when I noticed I was leaving a haze of blue smoke in my wake whenever the engine wasn't fully warmed up. A service helped, but the dealer put paid to my illusions of setting new records for the durability of a GS750 engine. The valves, pistons and barrels were not in the best of shape whilst the camchain was nearing the end of its useful life. Fine, I thought, best to get it done. Sometime!

In March ’92 I packed in my job in Holland to return to Ireland. Had I known then what was to befall the GS over the next six months, I would never have considered taking it with me. But hindsight, as they say, is 20/20 vision. Or something like that.

Bike and I reached Eire in one piece. A week later, on the way to a job interview, the thing spluttered to a halt by the roadside and refused to start again. An urgent phone call to friends got me to my interview. A call to a dealer, who was to become family doctor to my two, wheeled friend over the ensuing months, got that picked up and taken into surgery. A new set of points and spark plugs got me back on the road, but I had a foreboding of worse to come.

Next to inspire a fit of cursing was the exhaust, which split from its rear mounting, leaving a gaping hole. A large metal clamp from a plumber’s merchants, wrapped around the pipe and frame tube, stopped it from rattling off. The extra hole raised the decibel level but not to the extent of shattering any windows.

Trying not to think about the wad of cash I was going to inevitably lose putting the engine right, I continued to take a modest pride in my mount. Until the throttle cable snapped, leaving me with another back breaking push home. Curses were snarled and bloody revenge sworn, but I settled for replacing the cable. The indicator switch was next to go, closely followed by the second tacho cable in a year. I didn't bother replacing the latter.

I forked out over eighty quid for a new chain and sprocket set, only to have the front sprocket retaining nut fly off, stripping itself of all traces of thread. Admittedly, this was probably due to my not having tightened it properly rather than another of the Suzuki's nasty tricks. Luckily, the shaft was undamaged, So a replacement nut (which was not as easy to find as it sounds) resolved that problem.

Summer came and went, it wasn't all tears. On the rare occasions when the sun shone, I quite enjoyed hustling the old beast around the highways and back roads (ie dirt tracks) of Ireland. But there was no ignoring the deteriorating state of the motor. The rattles were getting worse, oil was seeping from the head gasket and the performance was becoming noticeably lethargic.

At the beginning of October, I decided to ride it back to Holland. There was a certain twisted logic to my decision. To have the engine rebuilt in Ireland would cost me a packet and I had lost interest in keeping the machine. Selling or trading it in would also prove costly, due to the bureaucracy involved in off-loading a foreign registered machine. The idea was to get it back to Holland and get rid of it while it was still running.

The GS had other ideas. Two days before I was due to leave, it wheezed into silence in a cloud of smoke. Like a terminally ill patient who finally succumbs to the inevitable, it rejected any attempts at resuscitation. Despondently, I abandoned it to the local dealer and took an alternative route to Holland. When he finally got around to stripping down the engine, he found a list of horrors too awful to repeat - basically, it was shot to bits. As far as I know, it’s still languishing in his workshop and may never see the light of day again. A sad state for a machine that probably deserved better.

Michael O’Connor

Suzuki GS750

I like simple motorcycles. Classic looks, conventional suspension and an engine that I can see. There are plenty of new bikes available in that category but not for the kind of spare money I have available. Of all the middleweight Japanese fours on offer in the used market I much prefer the Suzuki GS550/750 range, although I’m usually biased towards Hondas. The GS engines are as tough as the frames are strong. Even the well documented electrical failures are no big thing if you know what to look for.

The only problem with the GS range is that their toughness makes them very popular, with few low mileage ones left on the market. I was willing to spend up to a grand and take my chances with an engine that had up to 50000 miles on the clock. After several false calls and a couple of near misses I finally tracked down a '79 GS750 that'd done a mere 29000 miles under the gentle hands of an elderly owner. This was three years ago and at a cost of £700 it seemed like a dream buy.

The bike had some sensible mods. Roadrunner tyres, Goodridge hose, Ferodo pads, Motad four into one exhaust, K&N filters, Koni shocks, fork brace, full chain enclosure, O-ring chain conversion, stainless steel mudguards and a 2:4 seat. The owner happily admitted to having a generator burn out but having no more problems with the rewound alternator and Superdream rectifier/regulator.

The powerful Cibie headlamp conversion blasted a path through the dark country roads as I rode home, thrilled by the drone from the exhaust and the surge of power from 6000 revs onwards. There was a tight, purposeful feel to the chassis, an instant communion with the bike possible thanks to low bars and rear-sets. The linkage set-up for the gearbox rendered the change rather vague but I thought it was something that I could soon grow used to.

The next morning I looked the machine over again. The paint was a little faded, the engine alloy scarred with corrosion and the back disc a bit corrugated with wear. There was no sign of oil leaks, not even from the cylinder head gasket, and the engine ticked over at 1000 revs without even the hint of clutch rattle. With an engine that developed only 70 horses, four carbs were a bit over the top but I found they would stay in balance for a minimum of 5000 miles.

A new machine always takes a bit of time to understand, to find its limits and the things that you definitely shouldn't do. The GS was a breeze, with its neutral steering and broad range of power anyone used to a 250 would soon adapt. It does weigh 500Ibs but feels a lot lighter once under way. The only time the GS was a pig was when backing out of the garage or a parking spot, a combination of the dreaded dragging discs and its mass. One pleasant side effect of all the, mass was that the secondary vibes were, to a large degree, absorbed.

I've ridden 550 fours that had more of abuzz to them, the overall effect of the GS750 being one of pure civilisation, the motor giving off an overwhelming impression of good build quality. OK, I will admit that once beyond 9500rpm the footpegs did shake a little but only took the motor to those revs for the briefest of intervals when road and traffic conditions demanded I make the best use of the available acceleration. Only a fool would continuously cane a motor of this vintage at those kind of revs.

I tended to cruise along motorways at 85 to 95mph, which was smooth and stable. Just by whacking open the throttle I had a useful burst of acceleration to 125mph in hand when one of the cagers got ideas above his station in life (which was to eat my exhaust fumes). The suspension was much stiffer than stock but the riding position so natural that I wasn't upset by either bumps or 150 mile jaunts in one sitting. A sure sign of a good riding position on a naked bike is the ability to take a couple of hours at 90mph; BMW defined such ergonomics in the seventies and the past owner copied them on to my bike.

Only when the tyres, after about 8000 miles, wore down to 2mm was there any hint of instability or undue sensitivity to road surface markings. The bike was heavy going through fast bends but steering accuracy was profoundly good on worn tyres there was both a vagueness and a jumpiness when the wheels were assaulted by bumps. It was just frightening enough to make sure that I never ran the big Suzuki on bald tyres.

Such was the feeling of oneness that I had few worries about pushing hard in the wet, turning in some of the best times that I’ve ever managed during our atrocious winter. A good set of waterproofs kept the worst of the weather at bay, although on sub-zero days I did sometimes wish for the protection of a large fairing. The bad weather ruined the finish in short order, even if the mudguards were larger than stock and the grime from the chain was contained within its enclosure. There were too many nooks and crannies for the dirt to hide.

The O-ring chain and full enclosure were good news, extending chain life from a paltry 5-6000 miles stock to around 15000 miles on a good quality O-ring chain. It only needed oiling at every 1500 mile service interval, which was usually just an oil change as I soon gave up checking the valves (they never changed their settings). Oil changes are critical on this era of engine, especially if a lot of town riding is done as the oil emulsifies.

Weak spots in the GS engine are, the already mentioned, electrics and the clutch, (rattling at tickover is quite normal). The electrics can be checked by test riding with all the lights on to see if the battery drains, looking over the rectifier to see if it’s been modded and pulling out the fuses to see if they are the correct rating (I found one bike with a charred nail instead of a fuse). The clutch is fairly obvious as it'll usually slip or chatter furiously.

Around 40000 miles a new camchain and/or tensioner might be necessary, but some bikes go to 60000 miles without incident? The crankshaft and gear primary drive are difficult to break even when abused and neglected. Infrequent oil changes or failing to jet the carbs for non-standard exhausts (the OE silencers only last for three years) can lead to top end demise.

The chassis is mostly affected by rot which can reach epidemic proportions over the years. A lapful of fuel from a rusted out petrol tank is not uncommon. If it's made out of steel it'll eventually rust through. That’s not a big disaster as most long term owners will want to customize their machines to a minor extent. As well as a respray | even went to the trouble of taking the engine cases off and having them bead-blasted. Made all the difference to the overall appearance.

The GS750's a bit infamous for caliper rot but | found that if they were rebuilt every time | changed the pads (9000 miles front, 11000 miles rear) then | had no seizures whilst on the road. The brakes were a bit remote in action but after the first few howling wheels | soon learnt to adapt.

My bike has now done 58000 miles with just a set of clutch plates and camchain tensioner fitted to the engine. I’ve ridden through ridiculous weather, commuted day in and day out, cruised for hundreds of miles in a day and had many a memorable jaunt down the back roads without finding the machine’s limits.

I've come off twice. The first time due to diesel on the road, at about 20mph. Minor damage to the bike that was saved by the engine bars and panniers. No damage to myself. The second accident was when a car shot out of nowhere, making me jam on all the brakes and slide off. The bike went into the side of the car, tyres first, and I went into the gutter, head first.

Again, minimal damage to bike and rider but a creased car that looked like a write-off. The cager wouldn't believe it was entirely his fault, not even when he was booked for dangerous driving and was led off swearing and brandishing his fist at me. Some people!

Any way you want to look at it, the GS comes across as a very tough machine that’s highly competent in almost all circumstances. I know that some adrenaline junkies will find it somewhat boring but I don’t think Suzuki were aiming the bike at them, although it’s still possible to buy a big bore kit and hot cams. Surprisingly, there are still quite a large number of bikes floating around that are in good condition despite being over fifteen years old. Surely, a testament to the inherent quality of the engineering and to the loyalty that the GS750 inspires in its owner.

Paul Baker