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
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