Yamaha XS850

I purchased my new Yamaha XS850 back in November 1980, because I needed a bigger bike for touring than the Honda CB400T that I was quite happy to thrash back and forth to work, although I was getting damn tired of adjusting the chain all the time. A friend took me to the dealers on the back of his Guzzi SP1000, an experience I shall never forget. A change of underwear later saw me board my brand new bike.

The gearbox was, not surprisingly, tight with a resounding clunk with every change. First gear is still like that. At first the engine also felt tight but this soon disappeared once the oil began to circulate. Deciding to fill the 5.2 gallon tank up, I was prepared from straining myself putting the CB400T on its centre stand to put a lot of extra effort into the Yam, very nearly flipping the bike right over, much to the amusement of onlookers.

With a full tank of fuel I set about putting some miles on the clock. The handling was a bit twitchy on some of the uneven bends and had a tendency to white-line now and then. These problems were sorted out after experimenting with suspension settings and tyre pressures (36psi rear, 32psi front). The first 500 mile service was done within a fortnight and cost around a fiver - the oil was changed and one of the valves adjusted.

Winter saw the chrome covered in WD40 and the enamel waxed, which kept the rust at bay. Despite the lack of a garage there were no starting problems and the grip on bad surfaces was good enough to avoid falling off (and I still haven’t). I was rather impressed.

My first long trip was a tour of Scotland. Loaded with luggage, we sped up the infamous M6 at 80 to 90mph into a strong wind that helped reduce fuel consumption to just 36mpg. Scotland’s twisting roads created no difficulties for the 850, considering it was fully laden it handled very well indeed. My first problem occurred when checking the oil sight glass it showed no oil, but after I topped it up and checked it later there was too much oil. Oil level varies depending on how the. bike feels. I change the GTX oil every 1500 miles and the filter at every other change.

Wet weather braking I can only describe as above average Jap, the twin front discs and single rear created no blue- brick moments. Pad life was around 5000 miles front, 10000 miles rear. I tried EBCs but was much happier with Ferodo or Brembo pads, although the latter do squeal a lot. The bike came with Avon Roadrunners which worked well, lasting for 9000 rear and 14000 miles front.

Two weeks out of warranty the ignition pick up coil went haywire, causing one cylinder to cut out and scare the hell out of me. Luckily, the dealer wrangled it so that it was repaired under guarantee. Just before the second winter I fitted a handlebar fairing - it took almost a whole day but kept most of the weather off and even improved the fuel consumption from 45 to 5Smpg.

Servicing the bike is pretty straightforward. The most frequent job is to strip and clean the brake calipers, especially during the winter as they soon become clogged up. Just changing the pads often means a complete strip down as the pad screws are seized and chewed up most times. The bolts securing the calipers also seize up, as does the rear brake pedal pivot.

Valve clearances are adjusted by shim, but on a three cylinder two valver, despite being a trifle fiddly, it’s quite straightforward - use of the special servicing tool is recommended. I never had to check or balance the CV carbs, although I did drain the float bowls before and after each winter. Although camchain adjustment is simple, I needed to replace mine after 29650 miles. Shaft drive maintenance was merely a question of topping up the oil level occasionally and greasing the splines where it attached to the rear wheel, the latter a real pain to remove because the silencers made removal of the wheel spindle impossible.

The original silencers lasted two winters, replaced by a used set purchased through MCN classifieds for £30. When I tried to remove the downpipes, I found the Allen bolts that secured the flanges into the head had corroded and it was impossible for the Allen key to grip. There was no room to wield a hacksaw and the dealer suggested that engine removal was necessary. As the bolt heads were slightly splined I bashed on a socket and prayed that there would be sufficient grip - it worked. The second exhaust system was wrecked after 18 months and I fitted a 3 into 1 Motad that was. easy to attach, didn’t affect performance and aided rear wheel removal.

The ignition coil packed up again at 39300 miles - seems to be a problem on the 850 - I replaced this one myself at the cost of £60. The rear shocks were thrown away at 18000 miles and replaced with stock items as the relative rarity of the 850 meant they were the only ones available. The steering head bearings were shot at 40000 miles, a relatively simply job becoming a nightmare when I decided to replace the leaking fork seals at the same time - they just wouldn’t budge and I had to take them to the dealer.

At 45000 miles the regulator/rectifier was replaced by a new item (£45), this incurred my wrath because the whole of the back end of the bike had to be stripped off to replace it and when I finally reached the elusive component all its mounting bolts were corroded. Apart from these little niggles the rest of the electrical system gave no trouble at all. The self cancelling indicators were excellent, only on motorways when they were needed on for a long time did you have to operate the switch again. Even the headlamp was above average for the Japs, the main beam was quite outstanding.

During the seven years I had the bike I can only recall replacing two (indicator) bulbs and not due to any electrical faults - once when a wind blew the bike over and once when a car driver reversed into the it. The starter button fell out of the right hand switch block, was impossible to repair, so I shoved a screwdriver into the hole when I wanted to start it - OK until you stall the bike in traffic. Just to even things out, the horn button fell out of the other switchgear cluster - the combination of a small screw and lots of insulation tape produced the perfect bodge.

The bike is now on its third battery, the regulator wrecked the second one. Starting problems were few and far between until recently, and the battery coped well with very cold conditions during the winter months. The horns were merely adequate and were eventually replaced with air horns. The rubber carb inlet mountings began to perish and recently water was being sucked into the engine in the rain, causing the middle pot to cut out. Used stubs and filter box (it was starting to fall apart) were fitted. All that was at 45000 miles.

Despite being left out in the rain for most of its life, the finish is surprisingly good. Most of the chrome and paint is still there, only the tatty cast alloy wheels let down the appearance of the bike. I had to replace the rear mudguard but the front is still serviceable.

For the past three years the bike’s been limited to short journeys back and forth to work which I think has gone a long way to explaining its recent decline. It became a bit of a beast in traffic, rattling and not pulling away like it used to. A compression test revealed the middle pot way down. It started very badly on occasion - sometimes it refused to start even with the extra power of a car battery connected up. Pushing an XS850 is not fun. Then there were thumping and knocking noises from the bottom end.

I decided to strip the engine before it blew up. Two engine mounting bolts had seized up and sheared off. The motor was, er, very heavy. Once on the bench the head nuts didn’t want to undo and slipped when attacked with a socket wrench. I had to drill one off. The cylinder block was stuck fast and took hours to remove, and suffered several broken fins by the time I’d finished levering it off. The bores seemed OK but the valvegear was a mess and will probably have to be renewed. I’m taking my time restoring the engine to its former glory, hoping to have it back on the road by the time the next summer comes around. It’s just a pity they couldn’t use better components to hold together what is basically quite a tough engine, it would have made my life so much easier.

All in all, the XS850 is a good tourer, it loves long distance journeys and will travel all day at high speeds. It is OK around town but not for too long. It also likes twisting roads and country lanes but, if you buy one, bear in mind that it won’t take the boy racer treatment (it weighs 520lbs dry for a start). My XS has served me well over the past seven years and if the rebuild is successful I hope for a few more years life out of it. I suppose I’ve become rather attached to it and just refuse to let it lay down and die - basically I love it.

Dave Wilson

Three ways not to buy a motorcycle

So there I was on a wintry February day headed towards Canterbury on my trusty Honda CD200. It was wet, cold and windy. Undaunted, I continued to make slow progress. Is there any other kind on a CD200?

The next minute there was the most amazing snowstorm. The sky became a lurid yellow and my visor instantly became as opaque as lumpy porridge. I made a heart stopping move into the slow line and paused for thought on the hard shoulder. Fate was not entirely against me as there was a Little Chef restaurant about 500 yards to the left. I decided to have a hot coffee and hope that the weather would improve. It could hardly get worse.

Once inside, I found myself in the company of two other bikers, who were all waiting in the queue to be seated. At least the place was warm, if very busy. We all felt like mariners sheltering from the storm. The waitress took a disdainful look at us. Were we not all members of the Great Unwashed? To be fair, we did look pretty bedraggled, as was inevitable under the circumstances.

We were ushered to the same table, well quarantined from the other punters. After some initial embarrassment at being thrown together in such fashion we got along famously. Obviously, we had much in common to talk about. One guy was a courier, another a psychiatric nurse and I’m a teacher. The courier suggested we each tell the tale of the most disastrous deal we’d ever made.

The courier’s story. So there it was in the dealer’s showroom - a gleaming new and heavily discounted Honda CB750. It had the house style, a vaguely chunky, streamlined look. Tastes vary, but I fell for it instantly. The paintwork was lustrous and the alloy was bright, if not gleaming. The bottom had really dropped out of the bike market and they were off-loading models at minimal mark-up. They wanted £1700, and that’s not a lot when compared with the price of a new 125.

We all know that the good old CB750 is long in the tooth, heavy and has dodgy camchains, etc. But it was new and a genuine superbike, a classic at that. I have poor circulation in the extremities, so I needed a fairing. I swallowed very hard as I paid for crash bars, top box, carrier and fairing - they were to be cost price and fitted free - how could I go wrong?

I would make this bastard run for at least 50000 miles and get my money back. They can do double that if you don’t neglect them. I have had many bikes but not many new ones and certainly not such a celebrated 750.

After the usual firm handshake and wide grin from the dealer, I headed gingerly down the road. God, the bike did feel big. I’m what’s commonly known as a shortarse in the courier world. I’m quite strong, butch even, but have short cowboy like legs. At the first set of lights I was on the balls of both feet on a 520lb bike, most of the mass well above the centre of gravity.

After nearly having the brute over when I put my right foot in a pothole, I fitted a low, low profile seat, but this was little better as it was wider than stock. Well, I ran the bike in carefully and much enjoyed being able to put the bike through its paces. What a smoothie of an engine. If you revved her there was respectable power and the fairing kept me as dry as toast.

Then it happened. I was on the dreaded South Circular and doing no more than 5mph. I turned the wheel right to bypass the driver in front when he braked for no reason. I was unable to stop the bike toppling over on me. I was shaken, bruised and covered in petrol. My dignity was pretty dented too. I decided then and there to part with the sod. Haven’t the Japs got short legs too? Why couldn’t the designer... well, what the hell?

I sold it at considerable loss of cash and loss of face with my despatch mates, who pissed themselves when they heard about it. There is a postscript to this cautionary tale. About a month later I met a DR with a similar black and red CB750 with a huge fairing. I immediately pumped him for info on my old bike - the upper engine had needed a complete overhaul at 16000 miles!

The teacher's tale. I suppose I am relatively ancient. I have had all manner of wonderful bargains but I'll not bore you with my successes. Learn from this unhappy chapter of my two wheel life.

The year was 1962. I was a part time hospital porter in Reading. Yes, life was pretty exotic. I had to support my studies come what may. Now at this hospital was this nice, quiet, shy Austrailian guy, who was selling his scooter. I am not really a scooter fan. I don’t like dumpy wheels and wondering what is going to happen every time I brake in wet weather.

But this one was different. It was, you guessed it, immaculate, painted a lustrous metallic gold. I road tested the thing, found it much better than a Lambretta 150 I’d used previously. It was really quite snappy for a scooter, it even gave the impression of being quite fast.

The engine was tight and the compression excellent. There were very few miles on the clock. The doubts started to emerge: why sell such a genuine bike, or was it genuine? Had he paid for it, or nicked it? Also the asking price was almost too damn low to make sense. Our charming Commonwealth friend smiled reassuringly. Here were the service documents, here was the bill of sale - the only reason he was parting with it was that he was going back home.

As I handed over my hard earned dosh, I imagined I could detect just the faintest trace of a gleam in his Aussie eyes. Now, I should stress a very important fact here, the machine in question was called a Durcopp Diana (if I can recall how to spell it after all these years). It wasn’t exactly a household word, but had received good write-ups. It emanated from that land of fine engineering and motorcycling skills - Germany.

I was pleased as punch with it for about a week. The Aussie did indeed leave for Sydney, or Earls Court, or somewhere. I showed it (the bike) to the girl I was dating. She would not use it for love nor money. I was rather non-plussed. Eventually, I managed to persuade my younger brother to accompany me on a tour of North Wales on my fine mount.

On the way we broke down, fortunately, quite near to a large bike dealership. I can almost see the dealer’s face now. "What did you say the bloody thing’s called?" It was suffering from a broken piston ring. They couldn’t fix it, they couldn’t get the soddin’ parts and, worse still, they didn’t have any idea where to get them from and I couldn't leave the bike there. To cut a long story short, there was one, yes bloody one, dealer in the whole of the UK who could help, and they were the sole importers. They resided in Kingston-on- Thames.

We curtailed the holiday and put the bike on a train to Kingston. We had hassle with BR, paying what seemed a small fortune, and were as sick as a flock of parrots. It got worse. They didn’t have the parts and couldn’t get them. They were in deep trouble, attacked by Wop scooters on the one side and Jap scooterettes on the other. Luckily, I was reasonably able and managed to bodge the engine enough to get it running. I sold it off to a Scottish geezer I met in Casualty. I am a reasonable man, I didn’t ask him for a lot.

The Psychiatric Nurse’s Tale. My work can be pretty exacting and my one real escape and indulgence is to buy fast and thirsty motorcycles. That is as far as my modest salary allows. Hitherto I had to settle for knackered 250s and oldish middleweights. Yes, I am talking about motorbikes. Yet I yearned for something really fanciful. You know, a Beemer or Z1000. Yet I knew I could never find the spons for one.

Or could I? In the local rag there was a Gold Wing at a price I could just afford. It was massive, imposing and gloriously ridiculous. Would I need intensive weight training just to move it? There was little rust, the paintwork was fair, the exhausts in one piece and the engine sounded OK. There was a mere 34000 miles on the clock - hardly around the park for a Wing.

The owner took me for a run. It might not have been the quickest thing on the road by a long chalk, but to someone used to expiring Honda 400s it fairly flew along. I feared falling off the back when he accelerated. Out of the window went reason and out of my pocket came my wallet. It was going to be a lean couple of months, but what the hell! Now there is a state of being green, being naive and being an idiot. I managed all three.

The next day I realised what I had done. All the signs were there. The seat was worn, the forks pitted and the engine moulding had lost quite a bit of detail. The shocks were low and the engine sounded suddenly rattly. The awful truth became more and more apparent. The damn thing had done not 34000 but 134000 miles, right around the clock. Dickhead, twat.

Despite the fact that the bike never gave any trouble I was unable to live with it. I sold it to a farm labourer. Somehow, I couldn’t con him over the mileage, he was so goddamn trusting. The last I heard of the bike, it was still in use, as a commuter to and from London - it had done 158000 miles and was still going strong. I now kinda wish I’d kept the damn thing.

Mike Coleman

Velocette LE

This story began in a familiar fashion. There I was nattering with with someone at work whilst some guy, half hung off a ladder, overheard our conversation - he interjected that he’d owned and ridden a bike up to a few months ago and had now placed the bike under the care of a sheet in his garden, as his bike was knackered and he’d graduated to a Mini. He claimed that he wouldn’t sell it, adding that I was welcome to come to take a look; he would even charge the battery up in honour of my visit.

It turned out to be an ex Southend police LE Velocette. For those unfamiliar with the model, it’s a 200cc water-cooled, horizontally opposed flat twin, featuring shaft drive, box section frame enveloping the fuel tank, foot boards and built in legshields - Peter Bottomley would approve! The LE was famous for its silent running and not a lot else. This particular one had a screen fitted, had a four speed foot change and a kickstart - earlier models had hand starters and a hand gearchange.

As it didn’t take much effort to get the thing going, I agreed to take it. The owner, obviously anticipating my reaction once I’d used it, refused to accept payment until I’d ridden it for a couple of days, convinced that I’d soon want to throw the damn thing back at him. We agreed a sum, though - £7. Now even in 1970 £7 was not much. If I say it was a reasonable price, that should give you an idea of its condition. Riding it home, I was so pleased to be mobile again that I remember only joy on that 3 mile journey. What I didn’t appreciate was that at no point was I going up hill, the significance of which was apparent when I rode the opposite way to work some days later.

Once home I tried as best I could to clean it up. The battleship grey paintwork was in fair shape, which is more than could be said for the screen. It looked as if it had been cleaned with Ajax and a wire brush. On my way home I came up behind a car at a Zebra crossing, only at the last minute noticing two faintly glowing red blobs through the near opaque screen. The car was pulling a small trailer which, brake lights apart, was completely invisible through the screen. I tried a few concoctions to clean up the perspex to no avail, ending up sawing a peep hole. Shortly after I ditched it in the interests of safety and my macho image!

A couple of days later, during which I insisted on paying for it, the LE was ready for use. I don’t remember having to buy anything for it. In fact, during the few months and couple of thousand miles use, I managed to get away with spending nothing on it at all. On my first ride to work I realised why the owner had been so cagey about flogging it.

About a half mile from home I encountered my first incline. When I say incline it’s the sort where a cyclist might cog down two gears. On most bikes you wouldn't notice it, but on the LE the revs began to fall as soon as I hit the start of it and half way up I was forced to drop down to third gear. For the next hill I built up some speed, about 45mph. Up we went, speed dying all the time, back down to third, a little further and it’s down to second, just avoiding first as we struggled over the crest of the hill.

Unfortunately, there was a set of lights just before a steep hill that were red. There was enough space to get her up to third, but almost immediately I had to drop down a gear and then down to bottom, the bike just holding its own - still, it was quicker than the bus and saved a long walk. I used it as a ride to work hack, it was just fast enough to let me go home for dinner - one of the little luxuries I’ve long had to abandon since moving South.

The homeward journey downhill or flat was good fun, with a few bends to scrape the footrests on, with accompanying sparks and an attention grabbing graunching sound to add to the effect. One evening, the in-laws agreed to baby sit and we decided to go for a spin, two-up on a sunny spring evening. Anyone who knows the Blackburn area will realise that it’s particularly hilly and I didn’t take the time to plan my route carefully to avoid the worst of this.

Off we went, up one particular hill that just became steeper and steeper. In no time at all we were down to bottom gear, just holding in there. By the time the summit approached the bike had had enough. My wife bailed out, the relief of the bike was sufficient to just get us over the crest. Once on the flat it picked up speed again, somehow managing to get us both back home in one piece.

A few days later I noticed a popping sound coming from one pot, a blown head gasket giving me a good excuse to have a look inside to see where all the power was going. I didn’t need to look too far. The piston was so slack in the bore that it was possible to visibly wiggle it up and down with my thumb.
I contemplated rebuilding it, but as I already had a project underway, and no funds, abandoned that idea before it could get a grip on my mind.

All seemed well - but wasn’t. A day or so later, it refused to run on one pot. I took the plug out and laid it on the cylinder to test the spark. When I spun the motor as fast as possible, in addition to a fat spark, there was a short squirt of water out of the plug hole. I put the plug back in and off we went! This was to become an essential pre-flight exercise, much to the amusement of onlookers, though, with careful positioning and a healthy kick, the water could be squirted with reasonable accuracy. A few days later, I thought it would be a good idea to check the water level in the radiator - it looked as if someone had stirred in a couple of dog turds.

One day, when I had nothing better to do, I decided to have a close look at the exhaust system to see if anything here was stifling performance. The LE exhaust has a collector box type arrangement with two pipes leading into a flat square silencer underneath the gearbox. It was detachable off came the box, leaving just open pipes. It sounded like a low flying plane, so for the next few weeks I buzzed around on it attracting a lot of attention - the gasping little LE completely at odds with the promising drone proceeding it. I must record that this modification affected performance not one jot.

As winter approached I decided to sell my LE to finance my project - a Norton 99 rebuild - advertising it in the local paper. One chap rang up, asking if it would be possible to ride it to his house as he hadn’t any transport. I arranged to see him in the evening, which turned out to be cold, clear and dry - the sort of late autumn evening when cigarette smoke hangs in the air for ages - cigarette smoke and steam! Just as I was about to leave, a mate turned up and insisted on accompanying me on the pillion, refusing to believe the tales of the LE’s performance.

Fortunately, I had found that keeping the sump topped up with oil helped the LE climb hills; it used about a pint every 40 miles, which, as this was the same as the sump capacity, meant it needed filling up pretty often. Anyway, by the time we’d got to this bloke’s house the LE was puffing and wheezing like a 60 a day man and had all but disappeared in clouds of steam. The prospective purchaser took one look and told us to piss off.

Two days later someone came to view the bike and agreed to buy it. I stood, watching as he rode off up the street and waited. I waited for two hours, expecting him to come back and demand his money. I knew from where he lived that it was uphill all the way - but he never returned and he paid £19 for it.

In the months I’d owned it, I spent nothing on it. Every bit that went on it was scrounged - even the oil came from a redundant drum of locomotive oil - and a 180% profit on the resale! In its day, the LE was ahead of its time but was too expensive as a ride to work mount and too under-powered for serious motorcycling. Weather protection was excellent with built in legshields and generous mudguards. It was also equipped with foot boards to keep spray off the rider and provide a more comfortable riding position.

The styling is not to everybody’s taste, not helped by the predominantly battleship grey paint - the colour reflects the build quality however. Given its knackered condition, the LE turned out to be one of those bikes that could be caned and caned without exploding. If I could find one that hadn’t been thrashed to within death I would be happy to buy it, if only for the oddity value, but it would have to be quite cheap; about £7 sounds like the sort of sum to tempt me.

Eddie Barnes

Honda XL250

When all’s said and done, a bike that can get you home missing most of its levers can’t be bad. One that can cruise at seventy, return 65mpg despite being thrashed and costs nearly nothing has to be good news. If you throw in an ability to provide as much fun as you're ever able to get with your clothes on, then you're really talking. My XL250 Honda was certainly such a beast.

It didn’t seem to promise much when I first saw it. Sherman took me to a back street dealer in Mutley Plain on his Montjuic, an interesting experience in itself. We inquired about cheap bikes, please. Dear old Tom took us into his garage and proudly displayed a pile of wrecks. In the corner lurked a Honda. It'll be great when it’s done up, said he, but you can have it, as seen, for two hundred.

After ritual guffaws, I gave him a ton and he invited me to take it elsewhere for its next MOT, due in a month. As seen was to be believed. Lights were present but emitted a glow just sufficient to attract only the most curious of passing moths. Handlebars were enormous cow horns. The tank was sprayed silver and Isopon. The seat was designer masking tape. Ugly she was.

The road test was the trip home. Tom’s only concession to business ethics was to get her going - by pushing. The controls fell easily to hand as it lurched off into the gathering gloom of a Plymouthian rush hour. It was just as well that speed was restricted by the traffic for the tyres were a combination of rear Pneumat and a slick version of a knobbly. Their combined effect on instability was only exceeded by the riding position. The cow horns forced the luckless pilot to sit on what laughingly passed as the pillion seat. Knees grasped the very back of the tank on a timeshare basis. A rum affair which allowed the singular experience of 50mph wheelies on a hopeless tyre later found to contain less than 10psi.

Safely back at Chateau Speedwell, various other delivery faults were noticed. There were no air or oil filters. The swinging arm didn’t and the fork gaiters were the sole form of front suspension. But apart from that I was laughing, if only because Sherman’s Italian masterpiece had to be towed home after one of its traditional fusebox festivals.

I replaced the tyres with used Michelin trials. The bars were swapped with those from next doors youngest’s push-bike and proved a resounding success for all concerned. The speedo was given a cable but I maintain that the only time it was accurate was when stopped. An air filter was constructed from a stocking (sorry dear) and as the motor seemed happy to recycle its own swarf no oil filter was added to avoid over-complication.

In this form the XL passed 3 MOTs, survived four years of abuse and pushed its recorded mileage up from 17500 to nearly 32000. Its engine required no routine servicing. Only when overcome by guilt would this mechanical rock-ape peer into its bowels. I adjusted the tappets once following instructions culled from an old Motorcycle Mechanics (remember them?). It appeared to make no difference to the power band or character of the plot, which can best be described as basic.

Firing about every third lamp-post in top, the engine would pull strongly from low revs through a predictably bland torque curve which reached its peak after five minutes. Precise figures are unavailable due to operational defectiveness of the tachometer. This proved ideal for commuting, scrambling and the snowy days that Dartmoor is famous for. It also provided life saving engine braking to supplement the notoriously bad drums which seemed to believe they had a primary purpose as water tanks. Cruising was a pleasant experience up to the legal limit but an impossibility beyond it because of vibration and upright riding position. When really tested, the Honda could edge its way up to a hopelessly optimistic indicated ninety given a clear run, a tailwind and a demented rider.

Running costs? Oil was changed annually (whether it needed it or not). Parts were either bodged or used. The most expensive by far were the tyres which were replaced all too often because of the demonic riding style employed. The front needed three used covers, the rear five. Insurance and tax were cheap necessities and the only other recurring expense was the MOT. I got this down to a fine art, Step one, locate a dealer away from home with the blue sign. Next, enter his emporium fawning interest in the most obvious rip-off bike he’s got on show. Third, tell him you want to buy it but must sell yours first. Fourth, show him the rat to dissuade him from offering trade-in. Fifth, say that you think you know a friend who wants it to ride mainly on a farm but has asked you to get it MOT ’d first. Sixth, if the dealer hesitates in granting you an MOT (which some of the less dishonest ones will) quickly ask him if he can do finance on the deal - that carrot is invariably irresistible. Seventh, pay your test fee and ride into the wild blue yonder clutching the certificate. Eighth, never, ever, break down near that dealers shop.

The XL never did break down. Anywhere. It was most in its element out running along vast tracts of Dartmoor’s heritage. Not because it was a good off road bike - with knackered suspension and a top heavy frame it was pretty average - but because of its rugged expendability. I treated it with a contempt that changed to total respect. Even when I inadvertently sent it tumbling down a cliff and it shed brake, clutch and gear levers in the process, it started first push (the kickstart departed very early in its career). Truly, it was an amazing machine.

But even old soldiers peg out in the end. This one did too. Last summer may have been a cool one but Devon’s beaches were not a bad place to be. Owing to diversions the description of which would be better found in Forum, I quite forgot about the time - and the tide. We emerged from the cove to find the XL tank deep in briny. As I plunged in to rescue it a wave swamped the bike. It drowned a horrible death and I suppose, for a moment, I wish I had used something more substantial in the inlet (of the motorcycle, you horrible person).

Would I buy another. Bloody oath I would. It proved the UMG philosophy that ace biking can be had for nearly nothing given a little flair for haggle, hustle and bodge. Now, does anyone have an XT500 they'd swap a hundred notes for?

Harry Speedwell

Suzuki GS550

As the biking scene once again reluctantly emerged from the winter it became clear that my faithful old CD175 was seriously lacking in both power and credibility - a new steed was needed. After a careful browse through the used bike press and chats to friends, a GS550 seemed the best candidate as a replacement. So I set about trying to find one. After several unsuccessful weeks looking through the local press, a mate from Yorkshire suggested that I take a look around there.

So that’s how I found myself looking at a nice, shiny, red, T reg, GS550 with 26000 on the clock, outside a Barnsley dealer. OK, the seat was a rather tatty kitchen-knife cut down, the engine had a suspicious coat of silver paint and the exhaust was a sawn off 4 into 1- but it did sound rorty. Despite my lingering suspicion of dealers, I did want the bike very badly, and, after all, it was in such ‘good condition,’ the previous owner was a ‘good friend’ and it did have a ‘guarantee’ - ah well, I suppose we all have to learn one way or another.

So the deal was struck, the piggy bank emptied of £495 and I became the owner of a real motorcycle. It ran beautifully, such power, such smoothness. Just wait ‘till I get out with my mates, no more pillion for me, I’d be up at the front with the best of them.

After a few exhilarating days zooming around the countryside, terrifying both myself and the local rabbit population, a few problems started to become apparent. The seat, though providing good support and riding position, felt as if it was made of wood (with obvious consequences for my backside and internal organs).

My left boot always seemed to be covered in oil and the engine wouldn’t rev beyond eight grand - there just wasn’t any power there. I put the latter problem down to the home-made silencer and I vowed to replaced it as soon as possible, but I knew I’d miss that lovely crackling sound when the power came in.

After only one blissful week of ownership, whilst travelling 20 miles to a friend’s house to show off the new steed, there was a loud bang followed by a marked loss of power. Inspection of the engine soon revealed the absence of one of the spark plugs. I resigned myself to the long push home, finally arriving at my friend’s house in a Fiat 126, much to my shame. Fortunately, the dealer agreed to helicoil the head and supply the gasket if I did the stripdown and rebuild myself. In fact, he was very concerned that his ‘friend’ should have hidden this defect from him.

However, as I was soon to find out, that was the very least of the problems. I carefully stripped the engine down, revealing that the cam timing was out by two teeth on the exhaust and one on the inlet cam. One of the cylinder nuts was missing and the state of the stud explained exactly why. There were a selection of different nuts holding on the exhaust flanges. If I’d curbed my enthusiasm and looked carefully at the engine nuts and bolts I could have ascertained that the motor had been stripped - and on a GS550 with such low mileage that ain’t a good sign.

Due to the cam timing the exhaust valves were burnt and one of the valve guides in the inlet side had snapped in two. What a game! The GS must be one of the most popular middleweights around and it took three weeks for the new guide to arrive. The dealer who supplied it refused to fit it, the dealer who had a go snapped it in two. I had to buy another one and find an engineering firm who knew what they were doing. Owners of cars would have had the problem fixed in a day for half the cost. Because of this ridiculous farce, though Suzukis are good bikes, I shall be very reluctant to buy another.

Even when I got the bike back together I knew it would never be as good as it should because the master bodger who’d owned it previously had got his grubby ideas in all over the bike. The inside of the rear drum had been painted, the shocks were impossible to adjust because of an excess of the same paint, the nut on the engine sprocket was missing, some gaskets appeared to be made of chewing gum, oil leaked from a badly bodged crack in the alternator casing, the contact breakers were in a laughable state (if I hadn’t felt like crying), there wasn’t a horn and even the chain split link was fitted the wrong way round. The list seemed endless.

I knew the bike wasn’t up to much when the GS couldn't keep up with a CX500 ridden two-up. The shame of it. But despite that, the GS was still a jolly nice bike to ride. Indeed, I think it’s a credit to the machine to say just how well it ran with so much wrong with it. It pulled smoothly and quite adequately from 1500rpm, had superb twin front discs and the handling was delightful. It’s probably the best handling bike I’ve ever ridden, always accurate, stable and predictable - accelerating, braking or shutting off in a bend made no difference and I never detected any trace of a wobble.

I used the bike as general purpose transport and for a few long weekends. Once, I went to visit some friends in Wales, who, for some obscure reason, were staying in a derelict caravan about two miles from the nearest road. When I arrived I was faced, with the choice of abandoning the bike in a sleazy looking town, hoping that no-one nicked or vandalized the GS, and carrying all my bags for two miles, or I could try my luck riding along the beach.

At the time, the latter seemed the lesser of the two evils. At first there were some helpful firm tracks that I rode over at walking pace, stopping occasionally to pick up a bit of luggage that had decided to fall off. Soon these tracks disappeared, replaced by a flat expanse of sand, with the sea on one side and sand dunes on the other. Unfortunately, these two eventually converged, leaving me with the choice of turning back or riding up some hillocks.

Foolishly, I pressed on. Soon I began to sink as the sand became softer. Eventually, I came to a complete halt, my back wheel spinning furiously. Not to be deterred I tried another approach and eventually (more through luck than judgement) managed to get over the hill. I was faced with a landscape of grassy dunes stretching out ahead.

Bravely, I struck out in what I supposed to be the right direction - up and down sandy slopes, wheel spinning, opposite lock, sliding out of control until I was soon lost and exhausted. The joys of riding with the salt air in my hair on a vast, empty beach almost made up for it. I eventually found the caravan, but its hard life was only just beginning for in the night there was a heavy storm. In the morning I feared for the condition of the bike - I eventually found it hidden under a pile of sand - poor old bike.

In the year I owned this bike I never had any breakdown, save for the spark plug. Apart from the routine servicing, I didn’t have to do another engine rebuild and only had to fit a tyre and a chain. However, as the next winter all too soon began to get its icy fingers into the engine, cold starting became a problem, until it was 15 minutes every morning jumping up and down on the kickstart. After eliminating just about every other possibility, I purchased a compression tester - new tings and maybe even a rebore were indicated. These motors have a reputation for doing 60000 miles before they even need a new camchain, so I felt pretty peeved contemplating all this work at only 32000 miles.

I remembered that I had an old tube of Holts ring-bodge stuff lying around at the back of some old shelves in my workshop. After a lot of sticky mess, blue smoke and a tow start from a car the deed was done. Maybe a slight improvement in starting, but nothing else, questionable if it was worth the trouble. Hints to anyone contemplating this - be very careful when removing hot plugs (very easy to strip threads), and don’t try to do all four pots at once (like I did).

So the Suzi and I rumbled along to the start of another biking season but I knew she was beginning to go off tune and would need lots of dosh expended to bring the bike back to its prime. When what should happen but that I spied a nice shiny Kawasaki Z650 in the window of a local dealer. A couple of days later all my worries were traded in luckily, the dealer only wanted to hear the motor running and didn’t give it a test ride - the reputation of the motor for toughness probably blinded him to its imminent demise.

In conclusion, I’ve got to say that as a bike, the GS550 is a damn good bet, not particularly fast nor exciting, but strong, good handling and very reliable, a really accomplished middleweight. If you can find one that’s been well maintained you won't go far wrong.

J.J. Chamberlain

Kawasaki Z1000ST

It was March 1982, my trusty Suzuki GSX400ET (the twin model) had covered 20000 miles in just over a year and was still going strong. My mate, who owned a GS5S0, felt it was time to move up engine capacity, but I was quite content.

Trips around various dealers showed lots of big bikes of different makes which all had potential, with the exception of Yamaha who only had the gargantuan XS1100. This had an excess of everything bar style, my mate absolutely abhorred the thing. Nothing stopped either of us in our tracks, so we went home.

For the next couple of weeks there was no mention of getting a larger bike, then on Saturday there was a knock at the door. My mate stood there with an inane grin from ear to ear. Fancy going for a spin, he asked. There on the pavement was a sparkling T registered Honda CB900F. We went to Bradford for the afternoon and on the return journey I was offered a go. This was an opportunity not to miss. The bike was big and heavy, but it was bloody fast and powerful, I really enjoyed the experience.

Not many weeks passed (about 2) before I became really cheesed off with cog swapping, thrashing my 400 to within an inch of its life every time we went out anywhere, only to arrive at our predetermined destination half an hour after the Honda, so I decided to sell the Suzi. After much searching of various bike shops in Leeds, the field was narrowed down to three machines - two GS1000s and a Z1000ST.

The two GSs were in one shop and the Kwack was in another, all three were the same year and price - £1350 and V reg, but the part exchange deal against the Kawa was £100 better - my bike plus £700. I waited a week, then got another £50 off the price - the deal was settled a week later when I returned with the cash.

The ST was parked on the sidestand, nose in the gutter. To my embarrassment, I couldn’t budge the thing and had to get the salesman to help drag the bike out. I started the beast and cautiously departed. Riding home through town I felt like a king. Pulling up at a set of lights I spied a bloke looking at me in awe, mouthing the words, Bloody Hell. Being only 5’ 8" and weighing only 10 stone (dripping wet) I guess I looked like a pea on a drum.

After leaving town I decided the engine was well warmed up, deciding to open her up. At 3000rpm the motor began backfiring and wouldn’t rev any higher, no matter which gear I was in. I soldiered on home, went around to see my mate, who after having a go, couldn’t overcome the problem. In a rather distraught state, I rang the dealer - bring it around on Monday, he said.

Damn. I was sick. Riding the bike back on Monday I called in on a mechanic I knew who raced a Z1000J. He had a go on the bike, came back, lifted the seat and said he could put it right for a fiver. He proceeded to lift up the seat again, took out the air filter, turned it around before replacing it. Try it now, he said. It revved like crazy and scared the pants off me. On my return he gave me the fiver back, explaining that some clown had put the air filter in with the tin end blocking off the air supply. I rang the shop to tell them I wouldn’t be bringing the bike in after all - the salesman sounded well relieved.

The bike ran fine until I went along to the Birmingham Bike Show, along with my mate on the CB900. Half way there we stopped at a service station when my friend reckoned that the engine was smoking a lot. Checking the oil level revealed that oil was being burnt off at a great rate, it took a litre then and nearly another litre when we arrived at Birmingham, and just over yet another litre back at home. Something was seriously wrong with the motor. The bike went back to the shop where new rings were diagnosed. It took 3 weeks to repair. The shop kindly gave me my 400 twin back for the duration but I wouldn’t ride it for fear of writing it off. The bike was soon back on the road and all went well for the next month when...

One Sunday afternoon I was returning from a ride in the Dales when, Bang, I ran into the side of a Toyota Celica not five minutes from home. The bloke pulled out in front of me on a roundabout. I saw him clear as day, trouble was he saw me and stopped, totally blocking my exit. By the time I hit him I had just about stopped, but the damage still came to over £280 (£221 of which was merely the exhaust). It was his fault and I had two witnesses to prove it. Upshot of it all was that the guy got out of his car and claimed he hadn’t seen me what a joke - the size of the ST, I don’t see how he could miss it. I’m still not sure how I picked up that 600lb motorcycle on my own.

Anyway, this turkey wouldn’t play ball with his insurance until I threatened him with court action, amazing what a bit of friendly persuasion can do. His insurers then offered me £250 if I did the work myself. This I accepted, proceeding to straighten out the number plate, fit used indicators off a Z250, file and polish the alternator cover with Solvol, put on a 2:4 seat to lower the seat height and fit an Alpha 4-1(£89) - good as new, but loud is not the word.

Over the next few months the clutch cables kept fraying due to the bars being bent from the crash. I tried the breakers but couldn’t find any bars so had to keep replacing the cables. The third one snapped in the middle of Leeds - I managed to get through all six sets of traffic lights without stopping, making clutchless changes, but it’s something I wouldn't like to repeat. The bike was laid up for five days until new cable and bars were obtained.

Two weeks later the camchain and tensioner went. The Kwack went into one of the local bike shops where the mechanic suggested the machine might have been clocked. The bike was off the road for seven weeks because someone had read the part number for the chain wrong - one digit out and there was one in the stores all the time. Despite all this hassle I rather liked the ST.

It did 25mph, 42mpg and ate tyres at both ends. It was a handful to pilot and physically very tiring. I recall a trip to Cadwell Park in the company of a CX500 and LC350. On a twisty back road a 350LC began buzzing us. When the pace picked up, I was left for dead, wallowing miles behind all three, somewhat on the ragged edge. The ST felt somewhat akin to trying to navigate the QE2 up the Leeds and Liverpool canal.

The return journey was even worse. The lights on the Yam packed up on the A1, the CX and I had to sandwich the LC. Ahead, I saw a police car - the two lads on the Yamaha didn’t have a full licence between them. I flashed the CX to slow down, he overtook the cops and disappeared. The LC and me pulled up for twenty minutes before continuing. We then got to Crossgates in Leeds when some cops in an Escort saw us and swiftly did an U turn. The LC bombed off and I continued normally.

When the law stopped me to ask about the LC I denied all knowledge of them. The cop said he didn’t believe me, threatening to commandeer the Kwak to chase after them. Fortunately, he didn’t pursue the matter any further (the LC would have killed the ST anywhere other than a straight motorway). The following day I had a tussle with a Honda CBX550 on one of my favourite bits of road, the Honda made the ST look like a restricted Tomos.

By now my mate had sold his CB900 and bought a CBX1000, so I decided to get a ZX1100. A deposit was put down for a brand new ’un, delivery August 1st. The last couple of months on the ST were great fun, burning everywhere, not doing any kind of major work on the bike. I picked up a nice surprise in the form of being nicked for a bald rear tyre - £25 fine and three penalty points.

The ST had all the attributes and faults of a seventies DOHC four, with shaft drive causing even worse handling problems than the more common chain driven model. I was a little unlucky in my choice of machine, as it had evidently suffered a hard life before I acquired it. I had more than my fair share of mechanical problems, but they are basically tough old beasts and I expect my nice new bike to last for a very long time indeed.

The last week in July I steam cleaned the bike, taking off a nice chunk of paint from the petrol tank. This was speedily repaired (read bodged) for a fiver by a mate. On August 1st I went to trade in my ST for a new ZX1100, only to return home on the ST as the ZX hadn’t been taxed. Finally, on August 2nd the ST went but definitely won’t be forgotten.

Andy Wood

Matchless G12

At 5pm the mill hooter went and I would walk up the road to wait for the mill bus. A few seconds later, Don came roaring past on his black Matchless 650, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I was most impressed and envious that he had a newish bike (five years old) and it was always on the road. This went on for about a year until one day Don let go that he might be persuaded to sell it - £60 worth of persuasion.

When the news was out, I faced a barrage of warnings, along the lines that I would certainly kill myself on such a big bike, that it was too powerful (for you, lad), etc. I bought it anyway, I was a little apprehensive at the time but I assumed that Don had looked after it properly.

He’d raised the seat to suit his 6’ 4" frame which meant I persuaded a pal to ride it home for me. The next morning I couldn’t face the bus, decided to take the bike before I had a chance to lower the seat. Petrol on, tickle till wet, couple of prods, ignition on swing - nothing. Kick, kick - nothing. Tickle again, kick, kick, kick, gasp, kick, kick, cough - it’s trying - kick, kick... balls, right, bump start ‘er. I pushed it a couple of hundred yards to a nice slope. Ignition on, into second, run, run, bump, push - nothing.

A passing stranger offered a push (just imagine that happening down - south). Nothing. I unclipped the distributor (about the only thing I could check without tools) - it was full of water. Came to life first kick after that. It ran the first 100 yards on one pot, I can still remember the surge of power when the other one chimed in. I managed the 5 miles to work without incident, save that I almost took a convoy of cars at 80mph in a 30mph limit until I saw it was headed by a police car.

Finishing work, I stopped to speak with a mate, putting the bike into neutral and my gear foot down on a slope. Up came my right leg and as I squirmed across the seat my right foot caught the kickstarter and over we went in full view of the mill... oh, the shame of it. As soon as I got home the seat was altered to fit more snugly on the mudguard.

For the next few months the bike lived up to my expectations, proving to be reliable, giving fair performance and the handling seemed to be OK (until I rode a Norton 99). I did have the habit of running out of petrol. I always used to buy a gallon at a time, which would take it between 70 to 80 miles. Reserve varied between 3 and 15 miles, more often than not it was the former. Inexcusable, really, with a four gallon tank.

By the time I clocked up 5000 miles the motor began to become 4 more and more noisy, and other owners advised that the cam followers were on the way out. Eventually it became so bad that I had to strip the engine down. I had already served my apprenticeship with 3 or 4 previous bikes which I had managed to maim during the learning curve and carefully dismantled the motor in my mother’s wash house.

Both camshafts and followers were well worn. By the time I’d added the cost of gaskets, oil and the like, I’d run up a bill equal to a couple of weeks wages. Rebuilt, the engine was quiet until after ten miles it blew one of the head gaskets, an occurrence that was to become so frequent that I soon became adept at roadside strips, helped by the fact that there were two sets of heads and cylinders.

A few weeks later the ignition system packed up. I threw the distributor away and fitted a Lucas magneto. Shortly after that a major disaster occurred when, with my mates on the motorway, flirting with 80mph out of boredom, there was an almighty clatter from the bowels of the engine. After stopping, the motor would still turn but it sounded like someone was wielding a hammer inside. I was towed up to Lancaster services on the end of a borrowed length of fencing wire, where the stripped motor revealed a dislodged gudgeon pin circlip, a wrecked big-end and scarred rod. Rebuilt, with used pistons, barrels and con-rods, I was soon on the road again - I was horrified to see that the cam followers were already worn badly after only a few hundred miles.

After reading an article about an AJS 650 twin (basically the same engine as the G12) that could rev to 6000rpm in third whilst endurance racing, I decided to try that out on the Matchless. On my favourite bit of road I wound her up to 75mph when there was an almighty clang from down below. I pulled up to find the motor still chugging on one pot, popping and banging on the other, all the while a most amazing graunching racket from inside. I stopped the motor, gently turned it over to deduce that I was suffering from the dreaded Matchless 650 bogey. I was right, the three bearing crank had snapped in half.

I pushed the bike 3 miles home, which included some particularly steep hills. I turned up with steam coming out of my Belstaff and a vest wringing wet with sweat. I had the motor dismantled within 2 hours to find little internal damage, but had to buy a used crank and have it reground, not easy to find someone willing to do the work because of the centre web. I bought an old 150 Bantam to keep me mobile - but that’s another story.

Once rebuilt, the bike entered its second phase of comparative reliability. I had moved further away from work and relied upon it even more to do a 36 mile round trip. I used it in all weather - rain, ice, snow. On one occasion I remember riding over Darwen moor in a blizzard. On the drop downhill into Bolton I came across a line of cars slithering and skidding, trying to climb the hill. As I emerged from the darkness and snow drops, myself and bike thick with snow, drivers simply stopped and stared in wonder that a bike could actually get through. These days, I wouldn't even dream of such a trick.

One day an apprentice rolled up on a new Honda 175. An argument about Jap crap and British is best ensued. We agreed to a drag race after work to prove the point. As we both roared off, the little Honda had the edge. I thrashed off after him, as I snicked up into second and. wound on the revs there was a sickening crunch and the motor revved its head off - the primary chain had snapped. The lad on his Honda pissed himself laughing and I never lived it down.

During my ownership I had alternatively pondered turning the bike into a cafe racer and a tourer. The former was difficult as few people were making go-faster bits, perhaps because of the way the motor blew up when tuned. I rather fancied the Matchless 750 street scrambler with braced handlebars, small tank, aluminium guards et al, but I forgot all about that when I acquired a Norton 99.

My lasting impression of Matchless ownership is a period in my life when I was forever mending rather than riding. Every journey was an adventure into the unknown. A sixty mile round trip to Oulton Park would almost certainly see one or other of our bikes broken down at some point. That it actually took my then fiancee plus luggage and me all the way to Cornwall and back without incident, and survived a week in the Isle of Man, is a mystery.

In fairness to it, it was 6 years old when I bought it and once a bike had 20000 miles on the clock you just assumed something would go wrong at some stage. I never fitted new points, timing was carried out with a screwdriver down the plug hole and a fag paper in the points. Whilst I frequently washed and fried the chain in Linklife, I never even thought about buying new sprockets. The general finish was good and it’d polish up well, the chrome was still there and the alloy buffed up like new.

It is not, however, a machine I would like to own again and the prices asked for them now are totally ludicrous. I recently came across a G12, its owner was starting her up - what a bloody din, rattling and banging, oil pissing out everywhere. A nice enough ornament, but not even much use as a practical classic, these days.

Eddie Barnes

Wholemeal Biking

I had to laugh when I read Bill Fowler’s suggestion for a ten year life in any used bike... that alters the whole game. What machine would make 100000 miles? (A CBX1000, to my surprise!) If long term ownership is considered we are forced to question the value of hi-tech, including the cost of spares and the necessity of replacing tyres every 5000 miles.

The real cost of a vehicle purchased from new, for example, is not usually realised by the original purchaser, it’s spread over several owners, the total cost never really becoming apparent. Just how much in terms of money and total energy resources is expended is lost in the midst of time, and all we’re left with are yet more biking myths.

Purchase with a ten year life scale in mind drastically alters the ground work. Most of us change bikes with frequency, becoming bored or finding the bike unsuitable. Part of the fun is trying different bikes a haphazard and usually costly business.

An answer is to build ones own motorcycle, or modify existing machinery. To see Pete Lawrence’s beautifully engineered feet forward, hub centre steered, Talbot/Guzzi (the mind boggles - Ed), is a lesson to anyone dissatisfied with contemporary design and engineering. Bill Fowler’s call for the cheap, economical, all round roadster (albeit with drum brakes, silly old codger) will require much ingenuity.

But where, for instance, both these ideas or ideals will have their problems, the solution arrived at will have produced a vehicle with a completely different life from that anything a major manufacturer could or want to produce, because few, if any, manufacturers are interested in selling reliable, comfortable, cheap, powerful, fine handling machines.

The reason is simply political. We are all inexorably involved in the conspicuous consumption of crap (for want of a better word). We must try to extract some sense and useful components from this morass of madness. We tend to forget that we all contribute to the terrible pollution that is destroying our world, but wooden bicycles are not much of a turn on, so our mode of transport will continue to pollute and exhaust finite resources, we can at least consider reducing it to a minimum.

Although those big behemoths have passed, shedding several hundred pounds, they still cost the earth to buy and run. Perhaps ten years isn’t sufficient - maybe we should think 25 or 50 years? Anyone want to buy a 1947 BSA B33, rigid framed, in boxes for £1500, last you a lifetime, can’t go wrong...

Robert Garnham

Dealers: Dodgy and Otherwise...

We are led to understand, and accurately so I believe, that dealers are under more pressure now than at any previous time, with showrooms full of unsold bikes and bank accounts written in red. I’m informed from reliable sources in the trade that the reason for the depressed market and its effect on bike shops is a complex one which I shall try to briefly explain.

That bike sales have plummeted is a fact we must accept. The contributing factors are as diverse as they are plentiful. The recent and past repressive legislation encourages few to start motorcycling, especially true of the 125 restriction and two part test. Throw in the lack of long summers over the past few years, add a lack of interesting bikes at reasonable prices and it’s not all that surprising.

Despite falling bike sales, the number of riders remains fairly consistent - bikes are being kept longer, creating a buoyant, if not thriving, used market. In an attempt to boost sales the major manufacturers encouraged their dealers to open bigger and brighter showrooms which merely moved unsold bikes from the warehouse to the High Street. To survive, many dealers had to discount drastically, relying on part exchanges, finance commission and parts sales to make a buck or two.

Naturally, we’re all sobbing our hearts out over the plight of dealers. But are they really as bad as they are portrayed? Some dealers are in it ’cos they love bikes, others for the money and some are really dodgy figures masquerading as genuine dealers, but many shops are having such a hard time that they dare not risk their reputation by cheating.

Not only dealers cheat, of course, these days it’s quite the done thing for Joe public to try to rip off dealers. Draining the forks of oil to hide leaks, transporting bikes in vans most of the way as the engine is about to expire, disguising cracks in frames, little tweaks to stop cams and camchains rattling, are a few among many. Unfortunately, you tend to get what you pay for. Spend the least money for a particular machine from a dodgy geezer, don’t expect the same service as if you’d spent a lot more from a reputable dealer.

Things get nasty when the former pretend to be the latter. A sharp deal, defined as trading in a near wreck (that doesn’t look it) for a pristine bike, eventually has to backfire on everyone because the dealer has to get rid of the bike and if he finds that it’s knackered and he’s going to lose money, then the temptation to hustle must be great. A lot of this must be down to knowledge and experience on both sides.

There is one other major problem. For many, myself included, buying a bike usually means buying from the lower end of the market, ’cos we're broke. This is the most vulnerable position to be in and the most disadvantaged. Whatever we buy is likely to be high mileage, abused, neglected and requiring work. Buying the kind of bike no-one else would touch with a barge pole can be entertaining, to say the least, requiring not only experience but luck. The dividing line between a bargain and a useless piece of junk hardly fit to be used for spares is a very thin one. Still, it’s a lot of fun.

Alik Wickford

Moto Guzzi V50

I’ve always loved motorcycles and like many a romantic fool before me have often been heavily and blindly seduced by the looks of the particular object of mechanical passion, regardless of its real virtues. That was how come one evening a Triumph mad (or should that be the other way around?) friend and I went to look at a Moto Guzzi V50 in the south of England, a 1981 model advertised in MCN for £500. That evening ended up in a round journey of about 240 miles. I’d taken care to read plenty of write-ups in old, much thumbed, issues of Berk magazine, where, if I remember rightly, it was described as being a much better buy than the more expensive Honda CX. I bet they're embarrassed about that statement now - especially considering how many CXs we still see zooming around from the ’80s.

When we finally reached the vendor’s semi it was getting dark. In the torchlight the little blue 500 looked so balanced. As elegant as a Maja by Goya or a nude by Modigliani. It didn’t actually have a MOT but we were assured it had one until recently since when it’d been standing at the side of the house after an initial holiday tour of Europe the previous summer.

What had happened on that holiday is anyone’s guess, but if it was as unreliable as the bike became under my ownership then it would have put someone off biking for life. It certainly seemed to have had that effect on his wife - a dark, pretty, heavily pregnant young lady who sat watching TV in the lounge, desperately trying to ignore the existence of the lowlifes slapping hands outside.

The starter motor banged and crunched the bike into life and we took it in-turns to ride around, its owner hanging on as pillion. I gave it a few handfuls of throttle - a perfectly normal method of riding to my way of thinking but according to the vendor, thrashing the thing. I ask you. On the short run I couldn't detect any faults. It was far too dark to notice the broken shaft drive housings, snapped back brake caliper (resulting in a fully floating caliper which like the front one was seized), broken horn and flasher unit and a headlamp that only had the parking light left operative.

Its ignition switch was an old style un-shrouded item which the rain had dissolved. The exhaust had been repaired with welded on plates, the seat was ripped and held as much water as a leaking Wellington boot. Its wiring too had been cut about and stuck back together with bits of insulation tape (one thing I could do well after owning this bike was solder). On finding all those problems in one machine, I was convinced a real monster had once owned this frail machine and that it had been thrashed, abused and neglected during its short 18000 mile life.

Needless to say, I really took to the thing and bought it, with cash, with all the above and several other faults undetected until I got it home. They would have been surmountable problems had the bike been well designed and constructed from proper materials. When I took the brake plate into Kent Aerospace for welding they thought it must be made out of magnesium because it was so white, but their tests revealed it was made out of the lowest quality alloy.

With a V50 any kind of neglect results in tons of trouble. Going over the machine later revealed the aforementioned problems plus the airbox split in two and shot front wheel bearings. The latter were a real laugh, the Guzzi dealer demanding £26 for a pair, but I tracked down a set for just £10 from a bearing shop SKF6303-2881, if you’re desperate enough to want to keep one of these machines on the road.

Everything on the bike was made in an incredibly shoddy way - switches were nasty ill fitting bits of plastic. Why they worked at all was a constant mystery to me. Side panels were so thin and frail they snapped when I tried to remove them. I managed to buy by post a Brembo caliper from a breaker - it arrived covered in mud and grass but when cleaned up did actually work.

I spent about three months and £200 on that bike. All winter it lurked around in my dining room while I waited for new bits to arrive or discovered something else wrong with it. I was really lucky to have the advice and help of a brilliant marine engineer who lived nearby. He quite happily showed me how to take the shaft drive apart, drift out bearings and set up the front forks. In my previous four years of biking, all using nearly new Jap machinery and being heavily cosseted by five star dealer servicing, I realised I’d been denied all this involvement.

There were hours of fun to be had, cleaning, repairing and losing bits of V50 which seemed to be all over the house. I re-wired most things, replaced countless broken bits, recovered the seat and resprayed large areas of paintwork. I had to drill out and re-tap quite a few snapped off bolts where previous owners had got pissed off and over-tightened parts just to exact some kind of revenge - there were stumps of bolts holding on things like engine casings.

When it was back on the road, I found that every time I attempted to go even a short distance something would go wrong. The ignition switch kept shorting out almost every journey I made, the machine just stopping with no warning. This could be quite frightening in heavy traffic. Once, in a wild mood of optimism I decided to ride to London, about 40 miles away, and treat the bike to a brand new ignition switch (about £25). On the way the speedo drive broke, it was a tacky, flimsy sealed unit which had to be replaced (another £25). While I was running along the busy A2 the oil light came on. I stopped, checked the oil, revved the bike up to 80mph for the rest of the journey on the assumption that if the oil wasn’t circulating because the oil pump was broken then it’d blow bits of hot metal shrapnel all over the fast lane. Quite frankly, I wouldn’t have been at all upset.

Next, the ignition switch ceased functioning fixed by tearing out the wires and taping them together. The V50 was going quite well, it could be thrown through traffic with great ease. Happiness rapidly evaporated when I stopped at a crossing and there was a loud bang - the V50 was dead and smelling horrible, smoke was everywhere. The shoppers on the crossing looked on quite unmoved, as if Guzzis expired there every other day. Dejected, I wheeled the smouldering wreck into a side Street. I felt a bit annoyed but it was my own fault - the ignition wires had worn through, touched a rusty patch on the tacho drive cable which had burst into flames, burning off the outer skin. A bit more rewiring had it running, gingerly I rode to Moto Mecca, buying tons of new bits, including a tacho cable (£7).

The next few weeks were full of such incidents, I go dewy eyed with nostalgia as I remember the exhaust balance pipe blowing in half going uphill past a bus stop full of deafened observers. The bike nearly always went dead in the rain. Quite simply, I found it a disaster as a method of transport. I can’t remember one journey when something on the bike didn’t break. It just never ceased to amaze me how often something went wrong. I rode it with fascination, always waiting for the next thing to break and it never let me down in this respect.

In a way I’m really grateful to the Guzzi, as I learnt a great deal about repairing and maintaining motorcycles, but I also liked riding them rather a lot and the balance between the two was sadly lacking in the V50. After a few months of riding I managed to sell the bike through MCN, even making a few pounds profit on the deal. Its purchaser was a furniture design student from London, which figured somehow. I could just imagine the sleek design standing in the corner of some trendy burger bar or penthouse covered in light bulbs. This fellow actually owned several V50s so he knew the problems and rode happily down my road towards the smoke. I tried to pull a sad face as I waved him goodbye and pocketed the cash, somehow I don’t think it was very convincing.

My next bike was an old, red, drum braked SF750 Laverda, circa 1971. This has proved a much better machine in every way. Had it not been for the Great Guzzi Experience I’d never have been brave enough to embrace happily the ownership of such a user-involving sort of motorcycle.

Nick Shires

Norton Commando 850 Mk.IIa

I seem to have spent my life teetering from financial crisis to financial crisis with breaks for conspicuous over-consumption before the next wave hits me. So it was in autumn 1985, with a large mortgage and no prospect of work locally, I took a job in London which involved commuting a round trip of about 80 miles a day on my treasured Norton Commando 850.

I’d already had it a couple of years and had got it cheap because it was burning a lot of oil, despite the fact the previous owner had re-bored it. He’d taken it apart again but was stumped as to why it was still burning oil - which is where I came in. Apart from the oil burning it was immaculate and he’d done all the right mods to it. 180 watt alternator, Rita electronic ignition, Mk 3 vernier isolastic adjusters - he’d also polished it regularly!

He thought that this meant he could ask £850 for it and conveniently forgot to mention the oil burning over the phone. I was so annoyed at being dragged a long distance to look at a problem bike that I only offered him six hundred notes - with hindsight that was a pretty good deal.

Anyone who’s used to a British parallel twin will find a well set-up Commando a revelation. The way the engine vibration smooths out above 2000rpm is uncanny. You can still hear the engine working away under you, but progress is almost turbine smooth.

The engine, like practically everything else on the bike, is rubber mounted. Isolating vibration with rubber is a well recognized solution in the car world, but it was indeed revolutionary back in the late sixties when Norton designed the Commando, Unfortunately, Norton didn’t quite get it right - shimming the bushes was complex and difficult until the Mark 3 vernier adjustment system. The latter was originally planned when the bike was introduced but was dropped because of excessive production costs.

They didn’t quite use the correct rubber in the oil tank mountings, either, as the brackets tend to fracture, allowing oil to piss out all over the floor. How do I know this? Well, my newly acquired pride and joy emptied about a pint of straight 50 all over my newly laid concrete path when parked up overnight. No wonder he wanted rid of it! In truth, though, it was pretty easy to solve - unlike the vibration related hole in the petrol tank which developed some years later (my heart goes out to all those proficient welders, but I digress).

On careful examination of the head and barrels, back at my luxuriously equipped workshop (the garden shed) I noticed how the piston rings on the newly fitted pistons were worn, which meant he’d fitted the rings the wrong-way up, causing the piston to pump oil rather than scrape It.

It should have been just a case of fitting some new rings, for the bores were good, but I’d forgotten rule number one of building British bikes - always check the valves and guides for wear. I can excuse my ineptitude slightly by saying that the previous owner had claimed he’d fitted new valves - he had, but he hadn’t replaced the guides, which brings us to rule number 2 of repairing British bikes - assume nothing, always check it yourself. He’d also forgotten to replace the valve guide seals.

Having stripped down the engine, I decided to have the head gas flowed. Whereupon, I fell foul of yet another golden rule of repairing British bikes (or any other bike for that matter), don’t believe all that the dealer adverts claim. When my once good cylinder head was returned, newly machined with new guides installed, they’d made such a bodge-up of re-cutting the seats that I contemplated taking them to court. In the end I didn’t but that’s the last thing they'll see from me.

Anyway, there followed two virtually trouble free years with the bike. It came with quite high gearing but once on the move the Commando felt rather comfortable, making 110mph at around 5500rpm a nice relaxed and stressless romp. The other advantage of high gearing was that I very rarely achieved less than 45mpg.

I changed the oil (SAE30 in winter, SAE50 in summer) every 1000 miles and the cartridge filter every other oil change. Tyre wear on TT100s worked out at around 7000 rear and 12000 miles front. Chain wear, no matter what I did, was rather high, caused by the fact that the whole engine unit is jumping around from side to side.

When my money ran out, I was forced to commute from sunny Grays in Essex to Richmond in Surrey. A journey across the most disgusting, depressing parts of the East End, through the centre of London and thence into the expensive suburbs of the South West. I’d be the first to admit that the Commando does not spring to mind as an ideal commuting hack but yet again I was pleasantly surprised. It seemed to cope quite well. I can’t really say it liked the traffic light GP and it did run hot on occasion, but it only let me down two times.

The clutch plates took a heavy burden and really only lasted about 8000 miles of commuting wear. Life could be extended by ripping the clutch apart and filing down the tags until they were smooth, but it only lasted for a couple of weeks. The Lockheed front caliper was good for a laugh just so long as there weren’t any psycho car or cab drivers around. It wasn’t much use under mild use, in heavy traffic it became worse and worse, whilst all the crud tended to seize up the pistons. It eventually went beyond repair and was replaced with a Lockheed racing caliper for £35, for which I had to make up an alloy holder. The transformation was amazing, progressive, powerful braking at a touch of your fingers.

There was also an intermittent electrical fault - the worst kind to try to find. The ignition circuit would suddenly cut out, but a few minutes later the bike roared into life. At first I suspected crud in the petrol tank and dismissed it from my mind because it occurred so infrequently. Eventually, however, the bike stopped altogether and I was forced to try to sort out the problem. I became fed up after checking the spark and fuel in the wet and cold of the Embankment, so went for a cup of tea. Half an hour later I went back and she roared into life.

I should have checked the bike over when I arrived home, but it was too late and cold. Next morning it broke down at the same place. I was late for work, so phoned. a friend to pick up the bike and continued on public transport, arriving in such a foul temper that I told them to stuff their job. It never rains... still, I'd have plenty of time to fix the Norton.

The problem turned out to be the previous owner, again, who had located the energy discharge capacitor behind the toolbox so that it self destructed. Whilst in the mood, I stripped the head as the engine was smoking a little all that was needed were some new valves and guides, not at all bad for nearly 35000 miles.

Unfortunately, unemployment brought economic crisis on my head and I was forced to sell the Commando to some lucky sod who gave me just over 50% more than what I originally paid for it. In a lot of ways I wish I’d never had to sell the Commando. It was a very reliable machine and a better general purpose bike than any of the BSAs or Triumphs that I’d owned before.

I think the secret of tuning any British bike reliably is to run it within its design limitations, which in the case of a 360° parallel twin means that you either have to run them gently to avoid self destruction or you isolate the engine vibration from the rest of the chassis - ergo the Commando.

The isolastic mountings still allowed decent handling in the British tradition (taut suspension, slow steering geometry and low mass) despite the swinging arm being effectively rubber mounted. With the vernier adjusters it’s easy to keep the clearances under control to maintain good stability.

The feel of the bike is excellent, it’s one of those bikes that feel as good on bumpy wet roads as they do on dry smooth roads - if you’ve never ridden an European bike then you just don’t know what you're missing.

Engine reliability can be good if the bike is moderately tuned, put together properly and given a regular dose of love and care (relatively easy, especially with electronic ignition - which is the first thing to fit if it hasn’t been done already). I’d definitely like to buy another, but it would have to be cheap because I’d want to make all the good mods to improve reliability and longevity - just like my last bike had. Finding one at that sort of price will, I fear, be hard going.

Nick Williams

Honda CB450K

The editorial policy of the esteemed UMG would seem to be rearing a hard core of zealots who have household shrines dedicated to the Honda CB450. As one of the few who have, within living memory, ridden the aforementioned machine, I feel it is incumbent upon me to register a contrary opinion on the alleged merits of this particular model. What follows is my story - read on, at the peril of discovering the 450 is only a motorcycle, like any other.

Hemmed in betwixt a veritable seething mass of commuter cars and delivery vans on Battersea Bridge on a dark, cold, drizzly night, hacking between my pen pushing job and my diminutive suburban pied-a-terre, my mind wanders back to headier days, five years ago as an exchange student in Los Angeles, cruising down Santa Monica Boulevard on my Honda CB450.

I had sold the 67 V8 Ford convertible (that’s a car) and decided I would buy a Harley Davidson. That was before I found out that the only sort of Harley you could procure for $600 would only be recognisable as an H-D from the registration document (like British bikes, if they are rideable, Harleys always retain some sort of premium). My last motorcycle in the UK had been a '73 oil-in-the-frame Bonnie, not the product of one of Meriden’s finest hours but pleasing nonetheless. I never saw a British machine in California the whole year I was there: I imagine they are just too temperamental for those mellow laid back West Coast dudes.

Then I saw this CB450 advertised on campus, alongside ,the usual ads for jacuzzi repairs and counselling services for the recently reincarnated. Anyway, it was $550 with 4000 miles on the clock - the low mileage caught my eye. The owner had got it from his brother-in-law who had bought it while he was a marine serving in Japan, then brought it home where it stayed in his garage for a decade or so. The vendor was disposing of the 450 to make way for some sort of hotshot water-cooled Yamaha V4 affair (with hindsight it was probably an RD500LC), it went better with his Pontiac Firebird in the driveway; I suppose.

Bright metallic red it was, pristine condition, like a gigantic Honda CD175 (where’s the shotgun - Ed). As a domestic version intended for the Japanese market, I don’t know if it was the same as the US model of that time; I doubt it it had slightly valanced chrome mudguards (no sign of a pelmet, however), narrow handlebars and a big twin leading shoe front brake. In short, a thoroughly square looking machine - for my tastes this was its charm.

As far as I know (I think I was just starting to wear long trousers to school then), the 450 was not available in the UK in 1973. Educated sources, and old Berk magazines, tell me that was because wayward 450 owners used to enjoy humiliating Bonneville riders by showing them the proverbial clean pair of heels. Unfortunately, redlining the engine to 10500rpm necessary for this feat tended to rapidly superannuate the valve assembly, causing them to encounter the piston crown and seize the engine (surely not Ed). The model disappeared for a few years until a stroked version appeared in the form of the CB500T, about which the less said the better,

Anyway, to return to the story, it was love at first sight, unease at second sight and a kind of irksome loathing with firmer acquaintance, like the girl you meet when you’re drunk and then arrange to meet again when you're sober, my fondness for the 450 diminished rapidly. Like the Suzuki T500 and the Kawasaki 500, this original, first full-size, Honda was just a smaller design blown up in scale, as if they had taken the blue-prints for the 350 and just altered the scale on them (save that the bigger bike came before the 350 - Ed).

Handling deficiencies, which might be excusable on a quarter litre machine, were not a whole bundle of laughs on a much heavier, ton-up, vehicle. To say the 450 under-steered or over-steered would be to imply, wrongly, that it had any such definable handling characteristics at all. For the six months I owned it, I never got a handle on the machine - was it under-damped, was it over-damped? Too much preload, too little? I suppose I will never really know.

Maybe I should have binned the original Bridgestone tyres (antique status would have been more appropriate - Ed). Quite seriously, they seemed to have a rectangular cross-section, like a car tyre, particularly those knobbly crossplies you see on the back wheel of Morris Travellers out in the country.

Ah, but I hear the readers say, what about the revolutionary engine, with the unique torsion bar valve springs? Well yes, the redline did appear to be a damn sight far round the rev counter. However, having heard the scare stories about valves dropping, I was wary of taking it much over 8000rpm, after which the engine started to sound terminally busy.

Like the old Triumph twins, and unlike the Jap fours, you felt you really had to baby the motor and treat it with kid gloves. The 450 had neither the gusty torque and wide power band of the Bonneville, nor had it the nervy, cammy peakiness and narrow power band found in the CB400/4, for example.

I remember once fondly imagining that I could blow off a Yam XS400 twin, a device that had always been laughed at by the motorcycle press for its lack of go - not so, I’m. afraid, the XS killed the Honda. The 450 never seemed to be in the right gear, the engine was invariably labouring or longing to change up, in whatever gear, including top. To this day I’m not sure why this was. Narrow powerband? Badly spaced ratios? Wrong size of back sprocket? None of these seemed conclusive, maybe it was a combination of all of them.

One thing I do know was it bugged the hell out of me after owning a Bonnie which could be left in fourth for most of the day, whilst the Honda was reminiscent of riding a twenty speed racing pushbike, incessantly jockeying between ratios. It makes you wonder just what the design of the short stroke, DOHC, 180° crankshaft, twin was trying to achieve.

To cap it all, the bike was amazingly uncomfortable. I had never really thought there were much to motorcycle ergonomics, but the 6’ 3" of my body that had managed to disport itself on Honda stepthru, CD175 and other such ignominious steeds was totally cramped on the 450.

I toyed briefly with the idea of riding the 450 to New York to have it shipped back to Britain, but I dismissed such notions after half a second’s deliberation. A turkey is a turkey regardless of whether it’s unique or ubiquitous. The 450 was certainly very rare but it had to have something more for me than just that - it had, at least, to be good, which I don’t think it was.

I had looked after it well, changing the oil every 1000 miles with good quality oil and so forth. I flogged it for $100 more than I paid for it to some dupe on a horrible custom Suzuki GS550 who wanted a bike for his girlfriend. When he went off up the road on his new purchase he took the cold engine straight up to maximum revs - I don’t think the guy was strong on machine empathy, so much for all my careful maintenance. Still, I suppose, if I had really cared I would have waited till a suitably caring owner came along. I wonder how much longer it lasted? It’s probably lying mangled now in some scrapyard on the edge of a dusty freeway.

Yes, despite all I’ve said so far, you do detect a hint of sadness - I loved that bike in some ways, that ridiculous styling got to me. Back to the present - some merchant banker trying to broadside me and my Honda runabout over the parapet of Battersea Bridge.

Patrick Latimer