Well, everyone said what fun it would be. “Doesn't matter what bike you take, can't go wrong. It’s the only way to travel abroad. Stop dreaming and just do it.” I wasn’t sure. I'd been invited to Madrid for Easter and always wanted to see the processions but I’d been unemployed for months and was running out of money. In the end, I could live with being destitute a month earlier but I couldn't live with the idea of not going and then getting a job immediately afterwards.
I had a choice of Yam XJ750 or RD350F2. Which would you take on a touring holiday? Quite right. No contest, really, it had to be the RD. It was more fun, cheaper to run and didn't fall into Brittany Ferries’ over five years old prohibition. The downside was that it'd seized 1000 miles earlier and not yet been repaired, whilst the clutch had started to slip. I ordered new clutch plates and engine components happy that I still had a week before I left to do the work.
Monday saw me at my local motorcycle store. They didn’t have the engine bits but handed over the clutch plates. Fitting them was quite easy, only requiring draining the oil and lubricant, and removing the clutch cover. The only difficult bit’s when tightening the six bolts with springs underneath them... and the head comes off one of the bolts. That sickening feeling as a bolt goes from tightening up to suddenly loose. I assumed I’d stripped the thread so tried to tighten it to just less than the previous torque and there was suddenly a bolt head in my socket.
Tuesday I bought a bolt-extractor, mild steel crap, but after drilling a hole through the bolt I was able to pull it out and replace it. Simple jobs sometimes turn nasty! All back together, I went for a run to bed the new clutch in. It seemed to slip at times but this didn’t surprise me given the newness of the plates. Back home, I was going to bed when I noticed a trail of oil drops glinting in the moonlight. Examination showed them coming from the clutch cover, which was hanging off by half an inch, all the retaining bolts having worked loose.
Wednesday saw me at the motorcycle store buying an Allen bolt set for the clutch side. I did them up nice and tight, went for a test tide. The clutch was definitely slipping. Thursday, I asked the motorcycle store how long a clutch should take to bed in - about five miles, apparently. They suggested Redline racing springs, roughening the plates with emery cloth and asked me why I'd bought EBC plates instead of Yamaha. I bought the springs and did the work, noticing that all the bolts holding the clutch plates in were necked at the head. Instead of tightening them evenly I'd simply been pulling their heads off. They were replaced.
On the road, I felt it was better not to open her up because, after all, if the clutch did slip, there was nothing I could do about it now, so I'd rather not know. I hoped the engine parts would be there first thing in the morning. Strangely, they weren't. They arrived last thing in the afternoon. I couldn't face spending all evening fitting them so went for a drink instead. I tried to convince myself that the slipping clutch wouldn't become any worse and the engine had probably recovered from its seizure. If the worst came to the worst, at least I had breakdown insurance to fall back upon. What I didn’t think about was that I was about to ask the bike to do 2500 miles; a tenth of its total mileage to date.
Saturday was the day, off to Plymouth to catch the ferry to Santander. A balmy spring day, everything was fine. On the A1, I managed to make a queue of six cars move from the right-hand lane to the left, one by one, to let me past. Near Farnborough I pulled off the M3 to have a piss. Trying to get back on the motorway, I noticed the rev counter wasn't working. I found that none of the electrics were operating. The bike still ran so I carried on. The powervalve didn’t work (it needs electricity), leaving the RD with an MZ power curve! I pulled off at the next junction for Farnborough, where I bought a new battery, which seemed to do the trick.
After a dubious B&B in Plymouth I headed for the ferry, which doesn't go from the main docks but another place to the west. The engine was running badly again, stopping and starting, before reaching the ferry. The electrics failed again. I couldn't see how a new battery could fail so quickly unless it wasn’t charging at all but there was nothing I could do about it at that point.
The ferry to Santander takes 24 hours, I had plenty of time to wonder what was wrong with the RD. Due to a fishermens' dispute there was a row of fishing boats stopping us docking at Santander! I managed to persuade the crew to let me down on to the car deck, where I cleaned the powervalves and checked out the ignition switch, which sorted the immediate problems. It was ten o'clock in the evening rather than the morning when we were finally allowed to dock.
I'd just arrived in a foreign land, had no idea what the roads or traffic were like, and had 300 miles to do before I could go to bed. No point in hanging around so I followed the signs to Burgos. I wasn't quite sure I was going the right way because I seemed to be on very small roads but I soon came to a motorway, felt reassured. Until the motorway carried on to Bilbao and there was a little turn off to Burgos. After about five miles it became obvious that the little B grade road was actually the main road to Burgos. It was becoming very cold. I put on some more tee-shirts and all my waterproof gear, and settled down to a long night.
South of Santander, the road wriggles up into the mountains in a series of hairpin bends of the type bikers’ dream of. Or would be if the corners didn’t have streams running over them plus the odd mud slick. Several slides but nothing serious since I’m very cautious with cornering. The traffic was mainly very slow moving lorries, the kind of thing you can’t even sit behind in first without the engine complaining. Since I was very sympathetic to the engine, I always listened to its requests to go faster.
The road flattened out and I started to see large outcrops of pale rock sticking out of the ground by the side of the road. Then with shock and some disbelief I realised this was snow. It was very dark and cold but there was a full moon. I could see the mountains on either side out of the corner of my eyes.
I was supposed to be in Spain which is hotter than England perhaps I'd somehow been transported to Norway. The road started to become misty and a vast blackness opened up to my right. The mirror calm of the lake that fed the river Ebro stretched away further than I could see or wanted to look. My spirits fell lower since I thought I should already have passed this some time ago - I was going slower than I had thought.
I started thinking about petrol. I hadn't filled up when I left England and I probably couldn't make it to Burgos without fuel but so far I hadn't seen anywhere to buy any. Still that crisis was sixty miles in the future so I settled down to make some more progress. Some time later I saw a sign for some fuel, 5km away. This turned out to be a deserted pump in someone’s yard. The place was very dead. Still, there had to be other places, after all this was the main road.
The road winds down off the mountains in another series of hairpins, goes through a small village where there wasn't a single light on and certainly no garages. Then the road turns into a dirt track. At first I thought it was just some roadworks, then I thought I must've taken a wrong turning. The cars overtaking me, throwing up dust and stones into my face, convinced me this must actually be the main road. This went on for miles and miles before going back to smooth, black tarmac again. A nice bit of road, long straight bits with easy corners and no nasty surprises. The only problem was due to sensory deprivation, I began to believe I was actually in some kind of video game where I had to eat up the white lines in the middle of the road. I was still very worried about fuel.
In the last eighty miles I had seen nowhere to buy fuel and nowhere to sleep if I couldn't find fuel. Go down a major road in England and there’ll probably be a village every ten miles or so. Here there was nothing, no signs of life, not even farms. The critical point would be when the tank went on to reserve - after that there was thirty miles. Cursing the lack of civilisation, I cruised as gently as I could without loss of speed hoping I'd make it the 48km to Burgos before reaching reserve. I'd been going so slowly that I didn’t hit reserve until 135 miles as opposed to the more usual 110, and would make it with miles to spares.
Burgos is a large and beautiful city, once the capital of Spain, but unfortunately it lacks a certain something - a 24 hour filling station. I toured around the main roads until I was on the way out to Madrid but there was nothing doing. Realising that I was incredibly tired anyway, I gave up and headed back for the centre, which is where the cheap hotels should be. Except there weren't any. The centre was full of tiny streets with complicated traffic restrictions and prohibitions but since there was no-one around l ignored them. I ended up parked in front of the cathedral, going to the only hotel I’d found, the El Cid, which looked far too expensive. l asked for the cheapest room, which at £45 I couldn't afford. I was directed to a another hotel, at £25.
I dragged myself out of bed after too little sleep but at least I was in the right country rather than the wilderness of the night before. It was warm, the petrol stations were open and the countryside was brown. Just outside Burgos the two-stroke oil warning light came on, which was far too early but it was too much fun riding to worry about. I just put another litre in.
The road to Madrid was smooth, not too busy and the only worrying things were the contraflows. In England they are marked by hundreds of cones and mile long tailbacks. In Spain they’re not. The only sign is a dirty road surface that turns out to be no surface at all! The powervalve madness handled it every time! Apart from that, and the amazingly slow lorries, it was just cruising, resting my elbows on my knees so that I can relax everything except my neck, putting 7000rpm (90mph on the clock). When all the resonances in the engine work together, eliminating noise and vibration.
l arrived in Madrid in time for lunch, a traditional Spanish dish of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I'd had nothing to eat since leaving the ferry so I didn’t really care. The road down to Cordoba’s dual carriageway most of the way. The only problem with the bike was the powervalves that stuck open giving the RD a normal two-stroke power delivery with the usual power above 7000 and bugger all below. This was quite enjoyable really, especially in the twisty section in the Sierra Morena, lovely smooth knee scraping bends that I didn’t scrape my knees on because I don’t do that kind of thing. Part way through the journey the oil warning came on and I had to fill up. I assumed the oil pump cable had been displaced during the manic clutch job.
In Cordoba, at last, I could get the dusty leathers off and start the holiday. A wonderful meal and a lot to drink for next to nothing with my friends. The streets were packed with people, making it hard to get around and even harder to find the procession. When we finally found it, it was underwhelming to say the least; I'd seen village fetes that were more spectacular. Next day, I serviced the bike, fixing the oil pump cable and wrenching the powervalves around to clean them. Two stroke oil wasn’t cheap in Spain! Then we walked around the city, took in the cathedral and the Royal Palace before heading off to Seville.
Seville is a beautiful city but if you're in Cordoba you don't want to go there in the late afternoon. The road goes west, smooth and straight, but the sun is blinding. I had to close my eyes on the straight stretches and blink the tears away at other times. The accumulated aches and pains of four days riding were contorting my shoulders and I kept on having vicious stabbing pains in my neck. Not stopping at Seville, I went straight down the motorway to Jerez, one of the few toll roads in Spain. I was disgusted that bikes cost as much as cars! The destination was a town on the coast, Chipiona. It was dark but there was enough traffic about to guarantee something in front. Normally, changing down to third and whacking open the throttle would see off such obstructions but I had to stay behind my friend’s car. The powervalves hated going so slowly, as did my shoulders.
The next day we went out to the beach. I was hoping the sun would ease away the strain in my back but all I could do was think about the return journey in a couple of days. I came off the beach red as a berry, not from the sun since I was wearing factor 30 anti-nuclear blast sun cream, but from the fine sand which was sucked up by the strong Atlantic wind and blasted into my delicate skin. Stripping old paint off a frame - there’s no better place to do it.
The minor road into Seville was some of the best fun I’ve ever had on a bike. Twisty and grippy, no hint of a loose surface anywhere. Long straights punctuated by sharp series of bends. The tight corners had advisory speed limits posted up. Read as km/h they were the maximum speed for Spaniards; read as mph, they were the minimum speed for powervalves. It’s a lovely feeling going into a sharp blind corner knowing I’m not going to run out of road. The roads were really bumpy, too, not pot-holed just lumpy surfaced, which added to the fun. By the time I reached Seville all the hassles seemed worthwhile.
Next day I rode the roads again but my enjoyment was marred by an incident in one of the villages. Coming up to a crossing followed by a red light there was a family waiting. I decided to be polite by pulling up before the crossing, but when I braked the front wheel locked up. I didn’t come off but scattered the family off the crossing and went straight over the deserted junction. I went back to where I'd skidded but there was no obvious sign of oil or diesel. The surface must've had less grip than I'd assumed.
In the evening there was a real procession. Rows and rows of people in pointy hats carrying candies. Enormous gilded floats with Jesus or Mary on them. This was what I'd come to see. Pretty grand, but once you've seen two virgins you've seen them all. By the time I'd seen three of each I was ready to leave because the whole thing goes very slowly. Then the procession twitched like a writhing snake and a group came straight towards me. I could see people's eyes under their hoods - they were supposed to be doing penance for their sins and I couldn't help but wonder what dark secrets lay behind those masks. They all looked guilty as hell to me.
After food and a nightclub, it was time to ride back to the beach. The night was cool, there wasn't any traffic and I was gonna blitz those roads to hell... actually I was exhausted and my reactions were crap at that time in the morning. I was only doing about 70mph when the engine went Brrrrrupupuppph. I tried to work out whether or not to pull in the clutch, or whether braking would cause an accident, or whether I could save further damage to the engine. But I was too tired.
I coasted to a halt in the absolute silence that only comes after a seizure. Seizures on this bike had never been that much of a problem before. It had a history of them but had never left me stranded. Twice I'd carried on with just the remaining cylinder, without even stopping. The other two times I'd stopped to let it cool down and then carried on as normal. The last time it'd seized I hadn't even bothered to rebuild it. It'd sounded like a diesel for about 500 miles as the rings wore the melted piston off the bore, then it'd gone as before for several thousand miles.
Until now, that is. I let it cool down and tried to kick it over. The engine moved slightly then seized solid. I wasn’t going to make it home this time. I pushed the bike towards some lights which turned out to be a factory. After a lot of shouting at the guard (my Spanish was minimal) I was allowed to telephone the breakdown people. The breakdown people were in France but spoke English. It took two hours to unravel Spain’s international codes and derive a phone number on which they could phone me. Further fun was had trying to work out where I was, the middle of fucking nowhere not being much help.
Morning came, and so did the breakdown truck. Naturally, it was a car transporter and there was no way to carry a bike. After much chin scratching and gabbling, they leaned the bike against the cab and started securing it with chains. I wanted to say that the fairing wasn't really strong enough to do this but I didn’t know any of the words.
When the fairing started to crack, I pushed them off and removed it myself. The chosen method of fastening the bike was to put a steel hawser from the winch over the fuel tank and attach it to the side stand on the other side. Attached to the bed of the truck this would've been OK. Attached to the side stand it was going to flip the bike over. I could see this clearly but couldn't explain. I sat in the cab as we went back to Seville, watching my bike slowly slipping down until it was almost lying on its side with all the oil leaking out - I didn't care.
It was decided the Yam would be trailered back to Santander, which meant the end of my holiday as I'd have to accompany it. I was pissed off, ended up in a bar. When I went back to the garage they had changed their minds as no-one would work on the Easter weekend. They would pay for me to make my own way to Santander and send the bike back later. I took the train to Madrid and the day after took the coach to Santander, cheaper than paying petrol for the RD. Back in the UK a car hire was provided. I later found that the clutch problem was due to grooves in the clutch drum rather than plates or springs.
Rather traumatic but I still think that powervalve Yamahas are the business, even if all the bikers on the ferry laughed at my tale of woe. I should've fixed the top end before the trip (or at least taken the bits with me) but that’s just the way I am. Breakdown recovery is a pretty good idea under these circumstances.
M. Welbank
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