The starter still worked, the exhaust bellow was glorious, just like an old British twin, and the thing pulled off so fast I was thrown into a fit. Took me a few moments to recall that backing off the throttle would slow it down. A more moderate bumble around the housing estate reassured that there wasn't much wrong with the 24000 mile engine.
The clip-ons were a real pain. Swollen wrists, wrecked neck and weird shoulder pains - all from a mere 35 mile ride home! The lugs were still there to take serious handlebars and a set of replica Norton bars were persuaded on. The glossy comics really make me want to throw up. They lie by omission about the terrors of the race replica riding position. The bikes inevitably tested by nutters who should only be allowed to ride on the race track, where they can kill themselves with minimum inconvenience to the rest of us. A whole industry of fraud and illusion has been created by these writers that feeds the Jap and Italian factories and the great public until we're all supposed to buy the crap. Race replica riding positions simply don’t work on British roads, so you can stick your 916s up your arse, mates!
I was in pain for a whole day after just 35 miles, sufficient justification for the above moan. Now, I don’t know about the previous owner but I kept catching my marital tackle on the sharp edges of the GRP petrol tank. Braking with the single disc was as frightening as starting a Ducati single. Howling in disbelief after an emergency stop to avoid slicing an Escort in half, I staggered off the bike and gave the car driver a back handed slap to rid myself of some of the angst. I then hunched over and spewed up my breakfast. The cager had a handful of broken nose and blood which I explained to the pigs must've come from hitting his head on the car.
Within a month the Z400 was back to stock cycle parts apart from the rear-sets which went well with the flat bars, much better than the forward mounted pegs the Japs inflicted on most bikes of that era. The forks had already been improved with heavier springs and oil, the shocks replaced with still taut Konis, so overall I had a compact bike that could be hustled quite adequately for most of the time.
Some evil young hoodlum tried to get past me on what I at first thought was a Ducati, but the tinny wail of the exhaust gave it away as a 125 Mito. If you have a mental age of about ten these look very trick but to me it was the kind of race replica nonsense that made me want to throw up. Thank God for the UMG! The young clown tried to cut inside me as the Z400 bounced over the rough country lane. The stands digging in limited my angle of lean rather than the tyres' grip but I wasn’t going to let him get away with that. I cut in towards the kerb causing him to brake when he was already banked over as far as he could go.
I saw the wobble in my mirrors but he didn’t come off. We raced along the straight, the Z hitting 105mph until I remembered the hump-back bridge. You went airborne over that only to find a sharp right-hander a few yards away. I stomped on both brakes, the kid screaming past, giving me a V-sign and going airborne at about the ton-ten. There wasn't even a hole in the hedge, the mad bugger had gone so fast that he’d flown over the hedge to land in the field.
I pulled up, peered through the hedge to see a Cagiva in about five hundred pieces (so much for hi-tech engineering, I’m sure the Z would've just dug a big hole for itself in the ground) and the rider 500 yards away, staggering about in one piece. Silly bugger, I left him there to ponder the error of his ways. After that little adventure I decided lo saw off the stand's prongs so that my cornering wouldn't be limited in the future.
The Z has plenty of mid-range grunt, pulled extremely well between 2000 and 6000 revs (even with the 2-1), but people in town insisted on writing the bike off and went berserk when their manhood was insulted by the way I roared off into the distance in no uncertain terms. I just laughed at their pathetic attempts at keeping up but just occasionally some complete wally in a GTi would go into suicide mode, desperate to knock me off. He'd obviously never read the Highway Code and probably bribed his way through the driving test. I don't know about you, but having some master of the universe whack his bumper into my back end, almost breaking my spine with the savage lurch, was not my a of fair play. I somehow stayed abroad but it only gave him a second shot.
This time | was spat off but my days in the army paid off as | did a perfect roll along the pavement and leapt up ready to kill someone. The Z had half disappeared under the cage but that at least stopped the bastard doing a runner. He was a huge animal in a track suit but that didn't faze me. I kicked his kneecap before he could get his hands on me, the crack of it breaking making me smile. The huge crowds of peds meant I couldn't finish him off.
Once the GTi was hauled off the Kawasaki the damage was revealed as dented tank, bust indicators and flattened engine bars. A bit of kicking and straightening allowed me to ride the tough old bugger home, which is more than can be said for the car which looked like a write-off. A week later a crack developed in the petrol tank where it'd been bashed, leaving me riding around with a groin full of petrol. A nasty rash resulted, the various young girls I kept on a string caught between lust and horror. The former usually won out but everyone was well relieved when I found someone to repair the tank. To cause maximum grief I’d forgotten to report the accident to the insurance company, most of the repairs to the bike being cheap and easy courtesy of the breakers.
Motorway work took a bit of effort, mainly because above 80mph the bike vibrated like it'd shed half its engine bolts. The chain balancer became worse than useless at high revs because the pistons moving up and down together put out so much primary vibes that they threatened to tear everything apart. This was tolerable accelerating down country lanes but trying to maintain a constant 90mph led to the whole bike falling apart, not to mention myself, left with shaking hands, dead feet and vision so blurred I couldn't read the road signs. One time I ended up on the M5 instead of the M4 and didn't realise what I was doing for the first sixty miles.
The trouble with a relatively smooth and stable 75 to 80mph on the motorway, was that every clown in the universe, including some carting caravans, would loom ever larger in my mirrors until I was forced to either wreck the motor by accelerating or head for the hard shoulder in disgrace. Even an extra large stop lamp meant for a bus, with a sixty watt light, didn’t damp down the enthusiasm for making me part of the tarmac. In the end I gave in, used the minor roads, and made up in enjoyment what I lost out in time.
Another bundle of time was wasted servicing the Kawasaki every month - points, ignition timing, four valves, camchain tensioner, balancer tensioner, carbs, oils and tightening down all the bolts. A full day's work! In this area alone I envy modern bikes, for the most part all they need are carb balances and oil changes. Still, the Z is as easy to repair by the roadside as any old British horror.
After a while I became a bit notorious in my particular area for handing out massive retributive violence to cagers who tried to cross me up and I’m mostly left alone. I got one guy in the parts department so frightened after he sold me the wrong sprockets and didn’t have any replacements, that he hides in the toilet whenever he hears the righteous rumble of the Kawasaki. You can't let anyone put you down, or everyone will walk all over you.
The same goes for the Z400, it's a perfectly adequate motorcycle with more than its fair share of character. Virtues include cheapness, easy running, neutral handling and classic looks. If I was a serious tourer it'd have to go because it’s just not fast enough for motorway work. I've had it a year without serious complaint and my posture is just as good as when I started which the hunch-backs on the replicas certainly can’t boast. Anyone tries to put the Z400 down they get a lecture on its virtues and if that ain't enough, a knee between the legs.
Archie