Suzuki GP125S

I'd done the CBT and needed some wheels for the road. Good 100-125s at reasonable prices are rare. The golden scenario was to buy one from some ancient commuter, preferably one who'd just lost his job and was desperate for cash. Cash I had. Two paper rounds in the week, a Saturday job in the supermarket and the free enterprise hustle of doing up old bicycles. A few weeks later I had tracked down a likely candidate. A rusty GP125 Suzuki with only 9000 miles on the clock, abandoned in the front garden. I hammered on the front door.

“What you doing, kid, trying to knock the fucking house down?” I was tempted to do a runner, affronted by an unlikely excess of flab that must've been quite a sight on a tiny bike like the Suzuki. I muttered something about the motorcycle.

“You want to buy the motorcycle, sonny? A hundred quid and it’s yours.”

“Does it run?”

“Did last time I used it.”

“When was that?”

“About nine months ago.”

“Could be seized now... can I have a look at it?” I tried to kick her over. No go. I sat on the seat and grabbed the bars. A good fit!

“The engine’s seized, the chain’s rusted through... needs lots of work. I can give you fifty quid cash right now if you have the docs.”

His eyes lit up at the mention of hard cash and I was practically pulled inside the house. What a dump, everything neglected. Took him half an hour to find the docs, which looked like they were stained with semen. Not surprising given the pile of Whitehouse magazines which I'd been flicking through to fill in the time.

During the half hour push home five bikers pulled up to see if they could help. Nice. Back home, the engine kicked over once I put it into neutral! I took all the cycle parts off, cleaned the rust off and patched the paint. Oil down the spark plug hole, turn the motor over a few times. New transmission oil. New oil in the tank, new spark plug and time to pray to the gods for divine assistance. Could it be that easy?

Yes and no. The engine started but only after 24 kicks. All the time the motor made promising noises. A quick blast down the road revealed that I couldn't keep up with the kids on their bicycles. Consult book on two-strokes. De-coke silencer and top end, it suggested. Right on, why didn’t I think of that? A day’s work had cleaned the worst of the carbon out. The exhaust port was half its designed size!

The next day try again on the kickstart. Three kicks and we were in business. First blast up the road resulted in knocking off a cyclist. He thought the bike was going to be slow like last time, weaved in front of me. I wailed up the road, throttle to the stop, finding the brakes didn’t work when I needed them. The poor kid was thrown off and the bike trashed. He was crying his eyes out, causing our old men to go into a shouting match. I left them to their boxing bout, elated at the power of my first motorcycle and wondering what was wrong with the disc and drum brakes.

There followed a long list of bits needed - chain, brake shoes and pads, horn, stoplight, battery, indicators, guards, etc. Being a firm believer in the UMG ethos I headed for the nearest breaker in my oldest clothes, wearing my most pitiful expression. True to form, I nearly lost an arm to a Rottweiler and stepped in a huge dog turd. After these horrors I was relieved to find that the breaker was mild mannered and willing to listen to my desperate plea. A pile of bits were placed in my bag and a laughable twenty quid handed over. Nearing home the plod pulled over, demanding to know what I had in my bag. The smell of dog turd embedded in my shoes dissuaded them from throwing me in the back of their car.

I really enjoyed myself fitting all the good bits, it was like I was recreating the little Suzuki. Many will laugh, but I was beginning to fall in love with the stroker. MOT time came and went without hassle. Insurance by monthly instalments removed some of the pain, and road tax for a 125 was a mere pittance. Within the week I was cursing the bike, the world and anyone else I could think of. What had happened?

Somewhere in the depths of the electrical system there was something seriously amiss. I assumed it was a naff wire that was causing the engine to go dead and refuse to start for hours. After hours trying to trace it I consulted my book on strokers. The condenser. A tiny electrical component hidden in the depths of the generator. I replaced it and never had any problems again.

How many times did I fall off in the first month? Five, not counting the bicycle incident. I did knock off an adult cyclist who tried to cross me up. The idiot thought he was some kind of Superman, so I left him screaming on the pavement. He was bigger than me and I didn’t want to ruin my no-claims on the insurance.

The first time I came off was due to a rain shower turning the roads very greasy. I hit the brakes only to find both ends squirming around. I braked harder and placed both feet on the ground. A quick way to break both legs judging by the pains that shot through my body. The bike slid away, the back end hitting me between the legs. After I stopped crying, I found all I had to do was kick a few bits straight. I kicked the tyres but they seemed OK.

The second time was a perfect summer’s day. What a glorious world. What a beautiful feeling to be on two wheels. I was glowing with the joy of it all. Then Joe Cager braked, did a U-turn like he was in a cop movie, and was most surprised to find a bike and rider hitting the side of his car. Oooh, my leg! I thought something was broken but when I hobbled around I found I could move everything. I put it down to inexperience, and placed double discs on my wish list.

The third time I thought I was doing well. I'd braked and thrown the Suzuki around an errant car. I turned back to give him the v-sign. Big mistake, grinning like a chimp given a porno mag, I turned round in time to watch the front wheel smash into the gutter. A quick way to go over the bars but no serious damage.

The fourth accident was down to a sadistic cop who kept waving me down. When I saw him I did a quick U-turn, get out of there fast, boy. No chance, the front and back ends were caught by two different cages. The fairground twist wasn't much fun, neither was having Mr Plod breathing flames on me.

The fifth accident occurred the next day and was enough to put me off. It wasn't serious. I just rode into the back of a van in slow moving traffic. Had my brain already died from too much pollution in the air? I couldn't explain it to the driver who walked off muttering about biking nutters. I told myself to wake up.

The GP125 was such a sensible motorcycle, but with more than enough speed for town work, that it stopped me doing the usual mad manoeuvres of the plastic replica crowd. Its whole demeanour was one of sanity, so no wheelies for this boy. The big laugh, though, was that the GP was just as fast as the restricted replicas, with a top speed of nearly 80mph! Fuel was around 80mpg. Cheap to run and fun to ride just about sums it up. Its mild nature helped me pass the test first time. I borrowed one of old man’s square jackets to emphasize my harmless nature.

The greatest horror show was riding down country roads at night. The GP, like most of the breed, has crap electrics. Front light? A yellow glow that might just warn the more alert car driver that someone else was out there. I tried main beam only to find that it was already on main. Dip did a nice illumination job on the rust on the front mudguard. The rear light went out below 3000 revs! The horn croaked like a frog drinking out of a heavily polluted pond. The upshot was that I had to potter along at a pathetic 15mph or tailgate some cager, who must’ve wondered why I was trying to get on his back seat. Somehow, I never fell off.

What the hell. Teenagers can take minor irritants in their stride. The thing was (and still is) to get out on the road on your own wheels as soon as possible once you hit 17. Laugh at anyone who tries to cage you in some sensible car. It's just not the same. Even a 12hp learner's fun first time around and old ones needing work are dead cheap. Go for it.

H. L.