I thought I had finally made it when I acquired a Kawasaki ZXR750. Whilst this is the kind of machine to bring the editor out in a rash of verbal diarrhoea, I must admit to purchasing it more or less on a whim - it looked quite butch and the price, for a prime, just run in bike, was commendably low - yet another jerk with desires above his station biting the dust. How sad!
I bought the ZXR despite the fact that the bike is a bit of a con act. Only a trifle more powerful that the GPz750 it goes on to insult ones intelligence by actually weighing more. But I’ve always been a sucker for race track looks and my body has long since adapted to the ergonomics of the cafe racer. After a few months on a CBR1000 I had begun to positively hate its appearance and the Kawasaki looked remarkably beautiful alongside it.
I must also admit to reaching that state of cynicism and old age when I don’t give a toss about looking after bikes properly. Despite spending nearly four grand on the ZXR I had no intention of taking it anywhere near a dealers, intent only on thrashing the poor thing into the ground. After all, this was the tail end of 1989 when the Japs had perfected the design of the highly tuned engine. I saw absolutely no need to enrich a bunch of crooked dealers or, worse still, actually get my own fingers dirty.
I must say that the first 700 miles of slouching around on this bike was all good fun. Young ladies swooned conveniently onto the minimal back seat, silly buggers in Porsches were left for dead even on deserted motorways, and the handling was so terrific that all I had to do to lose the police was find a bit of swervery. Admittedly, acceleration was a bit on the slow side after the CBR1000, which, incidentally, I‘d got shot of after bodging the camchain tensioner (to a dealer, I hasten to add). What I really needed was a racing kit.
In the murky world of high speed riding, which sensibly takes place in the UK at very early hours of the morning when most of the police on duty are either humping the local tarts or strip searching young punks, the ZXR had some hefty competition from the likes of Harris framed GPz1100s, race tuned FZRs and the very odd refuge from the past.
Although I know but few of these riders personally, the same machines keep on cropping up whenever I go out for an early morning ride - it’s a bit easier on the head if you extent the late night madness to the early hours of the morning and miss the sleep bit out altogether.
There was one real mad nutter (and if that was an expression you thought aptly definitive of these scribblings I'm afraid you live in a very sheltered world) who had the audacity to hurtle past me on the M4 when I was straining the speedo past 150mph! Intrigued by the fleeting glimpse of antique twin shocks I stuck my head right down on the tank, the wind blast hurtling over the top of the madly vibrating fairing still trying to lop off my head and narrowing my vision to a degree that would make only a Norton Navigator fanatic happy.
At such speeds vibes would not do shame to a Commando (at say half the speed) and taking time out to blink is likely to lead to suicidal missing of essential input. By the time you’ve worked out that it’s necessary to brake it’s too damn late. Riding that fast requires finely developed instincts and more than a jot of intuition. I know people so addicted to both speed and staying alive that they work out a couple of hours each day just to stay in trim. Not that I could endorse such a waste of labour.
I eventually caught up with the maverick rider when we were both forced into hurried braking by the presence of a police Rover on the hard shoulder. We motored past at 90mph figuring that anything less would be highly suspicious on such a deserted motorway. The bike turned out to be none less than a Rickman framed Z1000 with a huge turbocharger bolted on.
The police car pulled off the hard shoulder and accelerated after us, so we had to drop speed to a walking pace 75mph. I could hear the Z1000 engine growling and spitting with discontent at such an unnatural pace. The rider gestured with his hand to indicate we could maybe whack open our throttles and shoot clear off into the horizon.
But I shook my head. These days, the police were quite likely to liven up their day with road blocks and calling out a crack hit squad to squash offending riders. Not so long ago, the plod would quite enjoy a high speed chase so long as you showed you knew what you were doing and didn’t endanger any civilians. I know people who have got away with 130mph on early morning rides - but only on near deserted roads. The plod eventually gave up after ten mites of following us.
As soon as we were clear of the police we raced off. The Rickman took off at a disgusting rate as soon as it hit the ton and even whacking the Kawa down two gears failed to imitate the rate of acceleration achieved by the older bike. He didn’t get far enough ahead, though, for me not to note the vicious weaves and wobbles that occurred at about 125mph. Not that it slowed him down any, we were both reaching for maximum revs and damning the consequences.
We sped past a couple of BMW K100s like they were standing still, although they were probably buzzing along at 120mph judging by the way their back wheels were hopping around. My helmet was pressed back so far by the wind blast that the visor was touching my nose. Distortion of the visor meant that gusts of wind swirled fiercely inside the lid, making my eyes run with tears. If I’d tried to turn my head to glance backwards my neck would’ve been snapped off. Just as well the ZXR’s mirrors were reasonably placed and vibration free.
With 145mph up, and the road turning into a long curve I managed to draw even with him, thanks to the immaculate stability of the hefty aluminium frame and taut suspension (luckily, the motorway was smooth enough not to upset the stiff spring rates). We grinned at each other, although I kept a lane between us as his bike was bouncing across one and a half lanes.
The scenery whizzed by at a terrific rate and my body was awash with adrenalin, a mixture of fear and excitement that demanded I take the Kawasaki deep into the red to see what would happen next. The exact feeling of freedom and speed that came with 160mph on the clock can’t be adequately expressed on paper. The worst aspect of it is that it’s addictive and feeds upon itself - somewhere deep within myself, the animal shouted more, more, more...
The Rickman rider seemed perched imperially above me, a large figure hunched over a huge petrol tank with his hands down close to the wheel axle. The bike itself a mass of big wheels and classic DOHC engine, wobbling away like a Z1 or, worse still, a H1 at 80mph on a bumpy road. He wore a leather jacket so tatty that it was even worse than the editor’s fifteen year old item, flared jeans and an ancient full face lid. He obviously spent all his money keeping the bike running.
Then the road straightened out, he took his left hand off the bar (talk about suicidal actions), waved goodbye and whacked open his throttle once more. I don’t know what kind of speed he could eventually get his old tug up to, but by the way he shot off I had the distinct impression that he’d just been playing with myself and the ZXR. In the good old days of Brit bikes, one merely bunged in a couple of high lift cams, high compression pistons, huge valves and added some open megaphones. The result was a noisy, vibratory mess, but at least 130mph felt adventurous and there was enough fear in every trip to get the adrenalin running high.
On modern bikes that fear comes in at 150 to 160mph when the handling‘s just starting to degenerate, the engine's getting a little rough and everything is happening so fast that there’s little time to note anything other than the road. To get something like a ZXR to go much faster you need to indulge in a race kit that needs to be fitted by an expert mechanic. Or, if you’re a devotee of the race track, hang around until some rich bugger crashes his race tuned masterpiece and do a quick engine swap whilst he’s too dazed to notice. Not that a man of my upstanding nature would ever indulge in such dubious pursuits. Anyone got a FZR1000 EXUP going cheap?
Johnny Malone
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