The white Suzuki had been bought by my neighbour. I stood in the drive, tongue hanging out, panting like a Basset hound, until the wife nagged me back inside. Only another bloody motorcycle, I was told. Six months later the neighbour wanted to sell, something to do with heavy traffic and mad car drivers. He seemed to have lost a lot of hair and had hands that shook enough to spill wine out of its glass. I said yes without thinking about it and wrote out the cheque before the wife returned from the shopping chores.
Women! You should have seen her face when she saw the GS in the drive. It was as if she lost a layer of skin, revealing a frightening mixture of steel and ugliness. I couldn't imagine a worse visage if she’d found out I was a child rapist or mass murderer. She dragged me around the whole house, pointing at various bits of furniture that were in desperate need of replacement. I tried to explain that the level of excitement involved in furniture buying was on a par with playing dominoes, that motorcycles were essential for a real man to keep him from going mad from the boredom of modem life. This was rather like telling a religious zealot that God came to earth in an UFO and was really from Mars.
Time is the only thing that makes women calm down. It was pretty obvious that I should take the GS450E on tour for a month. I left the old sow a note, loaded up the GS with my camping gear and wobbled out of the driveway. A few earlier sorties had revealed the GS as a very easy bike to ride. Each time I went out I came back feeling high at my own prowess, although as I hadn't ridden for ten years it was mostly down to the bike. I’d even managed to brake and dive around the back of a car that had skidded across the road totally out of control. The driver rushed out, pumped my hand and said, “Well done, sir, good reactions.” Strange people.
With all the mass on the back the bars felt light and the GS top heavy. This was pushing my skills and muscles to the limit but once on the motorway, with the bike settled at 85mph, I began to relax. Or relax as far as I could with cars cutting me up, bowling past at 120mph. For some reason I didn't feel any sour grapes at the cagers, just felt sorry for them. The GS has moderate geometry and feels really secure in a straight line. Birmingham to Dover was my game plan for the day but I was diverted by the potential of London. Sin city where anything could happen.
We all make mistakes, a fully loaded GS over greasy London roads packed out with August traffic ain’t an ideal training ground. I slid and slithered into Paddington where a cheap if not cheerful B&B was found. Looking out into the street at about eleven o’clock I saw two youths trying to lift the GS into a van. I rushed down three flights of steps, leaving the landlady under the impression that she'd let a madman into her house. I flew out of the door, leaping over four steps just as the louts were lifting the bike into the back of the van. They threw it at me and did a disappearing act.
I ended up spread-eagled on the ground, with 400lbs of Suzuki on top of me. My screams alerted everyone to my plight, I was only thankful that the exhaust wasn't hot. The landlady and assorted tenants pulled it off and helped me up. I was told that they'd steal anything around here and I'd better put it in the hallway. After a struggle up the steps the bike was secure for the night and I could sleep sound. Damage was not discernible.
London didn't impress, so an early morning run down to Dover, motorway hustling all the way. Get going before the place was drowned in cars. It wasn’t fun as such but it was a fast way of eating up distance. The GS450 was doing 55 to 60mpg. The ferry wasn’t very encouraging as the bike was left to wobble between two Beemers. Calais was a welcome sight after throwing up three times. Rough? It felt like the ship was being attacked by whales. The GS had dented both BMW’s so I got out of there before the owners turned up.
For the first three days I didn’t see much of France, heavy rains kept my attention on the few hundred yards in front of my wheel. The Dunlop tyres provided superb and the brakes, although rudimentary by modern standards, re fine by me, as in the wet y were precise and sensitive. No hidden horrors there. My waterproofs were not really up to the job, but wearing leathers underneath provided another layer of protection; the air was hot and muggy rather than cold and nasty. Despite the downpour it was sometimes possible to arrive at destination with a smile her than a grimace. It too wet to erect a tent I sought out backstreet hotels (about 100 francs a night).
France has some cute mores, two of the hotels having basement brothels having couple of girls available. Seemed like a good idea all round, what with all the thunder and lighting outside. Not that I indulged, course, but the French seem much easier going about everything. I was actively encouraged to keep the bike inside the hotel for security reasons and was never turned away even when resembling a drowned rat.
Finally, the sun came out and I could really begin to enjoy riding through the countryside of the South of France. I was soon down my tee-shirt, so hot that the engine was overheating below 50mph, clicking and tapping away to Itself. The oil was going off in less than 500 miles. Sad that as oil is about 50% more expensive than in the UK.
I phoned the wife every week until the ice went out of her voice and it was time to head back. Once the tent was set up I found the GS perfect for throwing around French roads, which are generally wider, smoother and emptier than ours. Its a huge country with something for everyone and I could’ve spent six months exploring the place. The easy going nature of the Suzuki, which could thump at low revs or scream flat out, meant the only annoyance was a seat that went hard after 150 miles.
I meandered back to the UK, taking about a week to roll up to my home. The bike and I looked road weary, as if we'd done an across Sahara trek, but the greeting was lukewarm at best. At least the GS was accepted into the family and the rigid scowl was a thing of the past. I even agreed to buy a new bed!
After France the UK was a bit of a downer, with loads of rain and too many cars. After a week or so the depression lifted. No sooner had that happened than the battery went dead. I fitted a new one, as the white plates in the original didn't inspire any trust. After three days this went dead as well. The bike was only two years and 13000 miles old but that didn’t stop the rectifier/regulator going. Once this was replaced all was well again. The front light was adequate rather than startling but my eyesight in the dark isn’t brilliant at the best of times, so other riders might find themselves less restrained.
I finally persuaded the wife on the back, which had my neighbour in hysterics. I think it was the breath of her backside that did it, two huge flesh panniers hanging out over the back. The GS was down on its stops and up on its back wheel, which had the wife quivering with fear. I stopped, made us both sit further forward. I rode as mildly as possible, but every time I went over 30mph I was enveloped in a desperate bear hug. After an hour we were back at the house, she accusing me of being a tearaway. Never again!
Someone was kind enough to give me a job for a few months. My boss wasn't overjoyed to have a “Hell's Angel” on the staff but I didn’t have any other way of travelling. The GS made the work, the whole day, tolerable, by inspiring all kinds of fantasies in my head as I roared along the highway. I suppose this could be dangerous for a middle-aged chap way past his prime but I soon found I couldn't live without my daily dose of motorcycle kicks.
As to the Suzuki GS450E, I think it's a fine motorcycle. Not outrageous or wild but, well, sensible without being boring. It’s much better than any of those old Brit twins. There are probably some other Jap middleweights that better it in every way, but so what, I like this one and aim to hang on to it until something serious goes amiss.
John Argent